XP, that is. Seventy five grand or so. Right out of Hudson into shabby little Boston. We admired and speculated. Perhaps he’s going to ---. Maybe he’s on vacation. But we turned onto our street and it kept on going. Just passing through.
This morning we registered Laura for seventh grade. She stood in the biometrics line and I turned in paperwork. “How did you get roped into this?” the registrar asked me. I smiled, we shuffled the papers and I signed right under my 2013 signature that I was turning the kid in for another year. “Oh, you own them!” she smiled. “Well, have a good year.”
At the high school all this registration business seems to happen off stage. I filled out all the same paper work for Emily (name of student, medical issues, internet policy, bla, bla, bla) and gave her the packet to deal with on day one. Including the change in biometrics.
I rejoined Laura in the biometrics line, almost behind my skippy young band mother and her Liam, the other seventh grade trumpet player. We exchanged notes for the killer week upcoming—practice tomorrow, high school band show Saturday, concert on the Green on Sunday, and (from the ridiculous to the sublime), performing at the new teacher orientation at 7:45 Monday. A.M., that is. Leave here at seven A.M. I don’t have an alarm clock for six o’clock! No nap between, I must bring everyone home. My young band mother teaches in another school district.
In spite of being fingerprinted, the biometric system did not work for any of my three students over the last two years. Like most everyone else, the “read” failed, they keyed their student number and took their lunch tray to the tables. My self that despises stupidity will not even comment.
When we reached the scanning station Laura put down her writing hand fingers on the pad. “Ooo, lovely; don’t rob a bank,” said the lunch lady. I’m going to guess there are one thousand students in this school. There were exactly two blue refusal envelopes on the table, half way through day one of two registration days.
I've tried to help these children reason for themselves, and this biometric business has been a topic. From Hamilton on down, they simply do not have the same view of privacy as I do. Being fingerprinted for lunch and all eternity is of little concern. I suppose Google already has measured their eyeballs; what’s my problem.
In case you have not been in a middle school of late, registering a child, here’s what it looks like. Without the noise (I would be mad before lunch!).
The biometrics line. It could be any line.
Just joining the picture line. Laura in a blue shirt.
Please do not miss the pink tutu over grey gym shorts. And her doll.
What boys do.
The ball in the disembodied hands at left is about to be tossed to the fellow on top.
(Please don't let it be for the red shirted kid.)