Assembly Line

One of the many small pleasures I enjoy as a substitute teacher in elementary school is the opportunity to attend with the children the holiday and spring concerts as well as the various assemblies orchestrated by the PTA throughout the year. The organization’s members do a marvelous job of searching out and inviting provocative and entertaining guests who supplement and sometimes reinforce the educational curriculum with relevant instructional lessons of their own.

I have seen the Story Pirates, a small theater troupe based in New York City whose brilliant conception is to dramatize (with minimum scenery, costumes, and props) the children’s brief fictional tales. The look of wonderment on the faces of the children when their efforts are recognized and staged is priceless. What a smart way to encourage young writers!

Likewise I was happy to be there the day “The Brain Show” came to school. That was a lively game-show type of entertainment with participatory rounds by energetic students and teachers.

The “Penguin Assembly,” which featured an appearance by a real, live penguin, was another memorable highlight of the year for all.

Late last spring there was an assembly hosted by Professor Science, an extravagantly over-the-top mad scientist in a lab coat, who brought science lessons spectacularly to life. His requests for volunteers to aid him in his experiments were fulfilled enthusiastically by students if not by teachers.

For his final act, an experiment in force, the professor advised the audience that the experiment could be demonstrated only with the collaboration of a man wearing a tie. I shot a quick glance at sixth-grade teacher Eric Pilaar, the only other adult male spectator in the room. To my chagrin I noticed that he was wearing an open-necked golf shirt. “Thanks for wearing a tie today,” Eric said rather too agreeably.  

As I made my way fearfully to the stage the children cheered, I thought, a mite lustily. What kind of degradation exactly were they expecting? Once I joined Professor Science on the stage, he asked me a few preliminary questions.

What was my favorite sport?

Basketball, I told him.

During my playing days, he wondered, had I ever found myself directly in the path of a speeding, oversized opponent on his way to the basket?

Yes.

Was I run over, trampled, and left for dead on the court?

In a manner of speaking, yes.

            
This will be much worse, Professor Science said.

The bloodthirsty groundlings roared. The school had turned into the Roman Coliseum.  I was alone in the center of the arena and the lion cage was about to be opened.

And as Professor Science had me put on safety goggles, a helmet, and chest protector, I thought, O.K., this is over embellishing just for dramatic effect, but I’ll play along. The professor laced on a pair of roller skates and then advanced on me with what he called “a decommissioned fire extinguisher.” That meant that the carbon dioxide had been replaced by compressed air. 

The next thing I knew, the nozzle that pointed at me released a powerful jet of air that drove me backward forcefully while the professor glided smoothly away in the opposite direction. There was no blood spilled, but the bloodlust of the audience had been appeased.

“We don’t pay you enough,” said the school principal as I wobbled off the stage and exchanged high fives with audience members.