A Time for Everything

"There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven." Ecclesiastes 3:1

Our school is waging war on cell phones. I honestly find it a little precious, really, the earnest indignation that my older colleagues have against "those kids who answer their phones in class." I laugh because the cell phones are merely the latest iteration of a common elder phrase about those who will come next:

"Those kids, with their damn _____________!"

Ten years ago it was skateboards. Before that it was MTV. Before that it was lava lamps, probably. All the way back, every decade or so, until the point where Abraham, who waited for about a hundred years to become a father, looked at his promised son, scowled, shoved his hands in his pockets, and said to his wife, "That Isaac. When will he ever lace up his sandals all the way? He looks just so sloppy!" Cell phones, I suspect, are just this year's malady. They won't go away, of course, but they also won't forever be the dire plague that they seem to be now.

I also laugh because I can count on one hand the number of times that students have actually answered a phone in my class. Call it fear or courtesy if you like; I think they're just smarter than that. The real evil of cell phones lies, I suppose, in the busyness of fingers under the tabletop, the busyness of minds behind seemingly docile faces. But I've yet to control either the tapping pencils or the wondering minds, so I don't quite see the need for a special holy war against cell phones, essentially just another distraction in a distracting world. Kids let their minds wander. I would rather they didn't. It's nothing to get all fired up about.

(Nothing, for me, in comparison to the open check-out that is the Kid with Headphones. Against that piece of discourtesy, I will fight for the rest of my career.)

Still, if I can help them focus I will, so I have spent a ridiculous amount of time calmly placing cell phones in a tin labeled "PHONES," crossing names off of a list of first-time offenders, and eventually delivering them to the anti-phone task force. Just one less thing for them to do other than class, I justify.

Now, we are sitting in the auditorium on a Friday morning. The whole school has gathered for one of our thrice-yearly formal assemblies. This is my favorite of the three, the Multicultural Assembly, so I carefully sit between a few chatty students, carefully ensure that hats are off and phones are closed before the performances begin. I don't want them to miss this, and I certainly don't want to be bothered with noisy kids during my favorite event of the year. After my hair is blown out by the tempests of teenage sighs--which always seem to say, "Oh, you're just such a bother!"--the assembly begins with the fanfare of an Eritrean dance.

For an hour or so we are treated to a parade of nations, to acts in various degrees of quality and coherence, to the interesting kaleidoscope that makes my school more interesting than most. I always feel that my students' eyes are on me during such events, judging from my reactions what is appropriate behavior, so I set my jaw on missed notes, laugh at jokes, and clapp when everyone else does. My students, fidgety and intrigued, follow suit.

Halfway through the assembly, a lone student with braids arrives on the stage. She is a student with special needs, seldom seen in the halls, whom I remember from last year's assembly. The program bills her act as "Already There," which I vaguely remember as the name of a country song I knew in college, with "ASL" in parenthesis after it. The other parenthetical explanations are the names of nationalities, and I doubt that many of my ninth graders will understand that ASL means sign language. Filled with a sense of dread that must come from the cruelest moments of high school movies, I watch as the young lady takes the stage.

The music begins, but it is not the bland and pleasant melody of the country song. Immediately, she shakes her head. No, this is not the song. The sound technicians screech the CD to a halt. Again the music plays, a jumpy reggaeton beat with no words. The long braids are flying now, as she vehemently expresses her irritation with their mistakes. The correct song begins on the third try. She nods, reassured, and begins to sign.

I am tense as the song unfolds. Country music is not appreciated by my students, and I fear that they will not be able to "get over it" for the sake of courtesy. I look around at them, but they seem passively engrossed in the signer's broad movements. She is graceful and deep in concentration, her face a picture of skill and thought.

I don't know who starts it. I see the first cell phones at the first chorus, floating in the semi-darkness of the auditorium. A few students flip them open, and are waving the blue screens over their heads, in the same way that another generation might have waved lighters at Woodstock. Soon enough, hundreds of cell phones are on and waving, turning the floor full of seats into an ocean of phosphorescence, swirling blue squares all around.

The girl on stage pauses, arrested at the sight. She laughs and claps her hands together, delighted, before returning to the song. When she does, her movements are less precise and more expansive. There is a bounce at her knees. And on her face, the widest, most glowing smile I have ever seen.

I love my school in the moment, love them for so infinitely exceeding my expectations in generosity and acceptance. But, oddly, I love cell phones, too, for we have discovered, at last, the time for cell phones.