wine and cheap perfume

Last Thursday was my first day training to teach at the school in Queens. I showed up knowing nothing about the school or what they intended to do with me, aside from some vague instruction to "teach writing."
When I went to get dressed in the morning, I realized that I didn't know if the school had a dress code. I knew that if I wore a dress I'd probably get beat up or knocked up cause the neighborhood is mildly shady (all I have are slutty bartender dresses and, like, a prom dress) and I didn't want to wear jeans, so I packed my ass into my only clean, un-wrinkled pair of pants: buck-tight black corduroys so tight I can't breathe or walk in them. Details. At least they weren't jeans. So I stuffed myself into them with, like, a shoehorn, put on a weird little sweater that seemed teacherly to me, and hobbled out the door. When I arrived, I met the dean, who, after looking me up and down in horror, casually suggested that I not wear clothing "quite as tight" because the kids are highly hormonal and would be staring at me for extensive periods of time. Then she brought me to an English class to observe. The kids were having a heated discussion about whether or not it was okay to make fun of disabled people.
"It is not nice to make fun of people who is disabled because what if that was your mother," argued a girl in a pale pink J-Lo sweatshirt and large gold hoops.
"Yeah," agreed a skinny Indian boy sitting to her left. "Or your sister or brother!"
"I don't care," countered an enormous Webster-lookalike (facially, of course) who appeared to be about 36 years old. "It's funny! If that was my mother or my brother, then I'd make fun of them too!" He batted a plump, limp-wristed hand against his chest, made that typical retard sound and then crossed his arms, satisfied with his act of idiotic defiance.
"Daniel, you just tryin' to say the opposite of what everyone else say because you want attention!" accused Sasha, a tiny Dominican girl in an over-sized red parka who sat in the back of the room.
"Shut up Sasha!" he retorted, angrily jutting out his lower jaw.
"YOU shut up," Sasha answered, and then the teacher intervened.
"That's enough," she mumbled wearily.
I looked around the room and listed to the way they spoke to each other, I remembered how awful 9th grade is. It is so awkward and cruel and honest; like the real world, only void of social grace and independence.
Afterwards I was introduced to another class, one for which I am designing a curriculum. "Get to know them!" prompted the dean, as she hurried out the door, leaving me in the classroom to fend for myself. I spoke with them individually about their interests and hobbies, to get a sense of what sort of assignments would interest them. One boy told me that his dream was to save up enough money to buy a Honda Civic. Another girl told me that she liked listening to Filipino R&B, because it's "more truthful than American R&B when it talks about love"; a sullen boy with a bunch of blingy chains told me that he preferred Denver to Queens because the people there were "more friendly." Then an impish kid drowing in a floor-length hoodie gave me a Dorito, and I bonded with the class snob about our affinity for nice sneakers.
As I spoke with each kid, I was reminded for the first time in a long time of how interesting and vast this world is. So what if I'm being played by a dog groomer? So what if my dye job makes me look like a back-alley hooker? So what if my gynecologist is evasive and and I live with my cousin and dog in an apartment the size of a utility closet? There are so many fascinating things happening around us all the time. It's silly how caught up we become in our vapid little bubbles. Mine burst last Thursday, and it was much appreciated.
P.S. I noticed that whenever I turned around, or walked away, I would hear kids laughing throughout the day. It wasn't until I was on my way out of the building that I realized why: an ENORMOUS piece of gum was clinging to the center of my ass. I am not being hyperbolic when I say "ENORMOUS." Like, envision a package of that shredded Big League gum. That, chewed. Three cheers for stellar first impressions!