Glendale Branch, The City Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

Horace Mann Middle School wasn't all bad. If I were to make a pie chart of my experiences there from 1984-1986, it would look like this:

Of course the spectrum of the largest part of the pie is broader than the rest--there were days when class proceeded without incident. Those are the parts where the "little" was learned. It was an ugly, hateful place. The constant delinquency and supercharged hormonal hysteria made it a hotbed of bad memories and terrible lessons, few having anything to do with reading, writing, or arithmetic.

I was no angel, either--while I didn't maliciously tease or torture other students, I cheated on exams, passed in fraudulent homework, and got away with academic murder because the teachers' expectations were so low. They were dealing with misbehavior beyond their training--it was obvious, pathetic, and sad.

From a student's viewpoint, however, the teachers' and administrations' failures only served to promote two things: A complete lack of trust in the system, and that taking advantage of broken environment was acceptable not only in order to survive but "thrive." A few of my HM teachers, if they remembered me at all, would describe me as a lazy but bright student who did well in most of her classes. The rest (save one*) would say I was a great student, lots of potential. That one* was my art teacher, who made a promise to me early in the semester then welshed on it. My very first "F"...and another lesson learned.

But only the high and low percentages are relevant here, when we talk about the Glendale Branch Library, a beautiful, new building that is part of the greater City Library system. When I drove up to Glendale after leaving Magna, I was still hopeful, though guarded. This is a newer building, by 5 or so years, but the ravaged state of Magna taught me to not expect too much.

There was one class at Horace Mann Middle School that I remember fondly. Beyond fondly. When I think of it, I get a glow, the light goes soft, and I start to smile. Sometimes I even get teary eyed if I think of it in the right moment (for example, now). What was this magical Safe Space? I've mentioned it in this blog before: Shop class. Our teacher--we'll call him Mr. T--neither suffered nor pitied any variety of fools. It was the only class that was 100% under control, calm, and productive. I loved drafting, sitting in all that silence, the only sounds were the whisper of pencils gliding across paper and soft murmurs of students quietly asking Mr. T questions. Everything I made in that class turned out right, and I never stabbed, cut, or burned myself (or anyone else) using the elderly equipment to create napkin holders, peg games, etc.

How was this miracle achieved? How was this class so different from all the rest? Were the students so terrified of maiming themselves that they behaved without question? That was part of it. The rest was just Mr. T. He simply did not allow monkey business of any kind. Not even for a second. Kids respected and feared him. Most said they hated him. Mr. T was "mean." I never got the impression he particularly liked any of us, either. But I liked him. He made an otherwise blistering hellhole into a quiet oasis of creation and meditation.

Shockingly enough, an environment like Horace Mann, where even fake work gets an "A" because you "tried" is incredibly destructive to a person's sense of self worth. Nothing you do actually matters. So creating something real, something tactile, that truly is "A" worthy work in the midst of such a shitstorm of mediocrity meant the world. The whole freaking world.

A similarly quiet, warm environment can be found at the Glendale Branch Library. When I walked in the doors I was refreshed to see the wide open space, humming with the soft sounds of computers running, light conversation, and the muffled sounds from the streets outside. As I wandered through the library, taking pictures and checking out the scene, I saw no obvious signs of abuse above and beyond what one could expect of a two year old library with trendy furniture.

As I passed by, staff members smiled greetings, friendly and ready to help. The library was bright but comfortable, vast but homey--it was, and I say this with all sincerity, Library Perfect.

There were tons of perfect places to set up my laptop and write to my heart's content. They even had those fun pop up outlets in the tables to make the whole writing endeavor easier. I settled in and worked on my blog for hours.

The worst classes at Horace Mann Middle School were gym and mathematics. Gym was a big joke, where kids participated in the sports they were interested in and goofed off, ran rampant, and otherwise acted a fool until the hour was over. This was also the clearest example of disconnect between admin/teachers and students. Aside from the obvious insults, threats, and aggression most kids experienced in gym class (not to mention the humiliations of the less athletic kids being forced to catch the sportsball with their faces), our gym class had two additional, superfun aspects, both extremely sexual. Which is what you want in a middle school gym class, right? Right?

The first was administration's insistence that all children wear exactly the same uniform for class. I remember it well: for the girls, navy blue jogging shorts and navy blue and white striped t-shirt. For the boys, khaki shorts and a white t-shirt. Before the school year started, and after moving from our beloved house and to a school district we knew nothing about, my mom even embroidered my name onto the right breast of my new gym shirt, in lovely cursive, which I took unbridled shit for from day one onward. Every time I think of that hopeful act, I want to scream. All the other kids just wrote them names across the front in magic marker.

The problem wasn't that we had to change for gym, or even fancy, embroidered names, it was the fact that the wide-legged shorts we were required to wear by admin and the school district--all sold at the same uniform store--dropped open and exposed our underwear for all to see whenever we did sit ups or push ups, a required part of the calisthenics routine we had to complete every godforsaken day. And since we were a forward thinking school, gym was mixed, so all the boys would stare, gape, and make nasty, vile comments through the entire ordeal.

Any appeals to administration fell on deaf ears. Both the principal and vice principal were out of touch and didn't much care, anyway. Boys will be boys.

Where were the teachers, you ask? Well, they had their own problems. That was part two of the Sexual Politics of Horace Mann's gym class. After warm ups, the boys' libidos were also warmed up, and the harassment went on for the remainder of the hour. We ignored the disgusting comments, threats, and promises, and deflected the wandering hands as best we could. You'd think a gaggle of teen aged girls would be enough, but some of the boys liked to test the limits and would also harass the female gym teacher. Mostly it was innuendo, as fumbling and stupid as little teen boys whose nuts haven't dropped can manage, but it got physical on more than one occasion. Administration did nothing, and we cycled through four female gym teachers in 8th grade alone.

Mathematics was less about sexual harassment and more about chaos incarnate. It was almost completely unproductive every single day for an entire year. The kids went wild from the minute they hit the door to the minute they left. They screamed, shouted, threw things, talked with friends, ran around the class, and generally acted like, well, junior high kids at their worst. It would be rude to compare an out of control middle school classroom to zoo animals. We're all well aware that zoo animals are better behaved.

I don't remember our elderly teacher spending much time at the board, writing formulas or lecturing us on the fine points of pre-algebra. He spent most of his time at the intercom button, threatening to call the principal. He would just stand there, shaking, his lips quivering, his finger positioned over the button, making repeated appeals for us to quiet down, be quiet, settle down, I will call the principal, I will. All hour long. Sometimes he'd give up, sometimes he'd call the principal, who would show up, give a speech (to a group of now-quiet, little asshole fakers), and then leave with no consequences, no follow up, and certainly no change to the format of the class.

Eventually I gave up, too. I'd hand in homework and do fairly well on quizzes and tests, but I spent most of my time writing poems and songs in my journal, and enlisting the fellow metal-heads in my class to help make a definitive list of Bitchenest Rock Bands. I would look at our teacher (whose name I remember but will not write here, not even by initial), standing there paralyzed in terror, and knew that I hated him, too. Not because I thought he was a bad person, a bad teacher, or deserved it, but because it was too awful and sad a sight to bear. I hated him for making me see it.

At 3:10 every weekday during the school year, the Glendale Branch turns into my 7th grade math class, with elements of my sexed-up gym class, but with a 21st century twist. The kids start streaming in, in singles and groups, and begin to occupy every open table and seating area as close to the back of the library as they can get. All told, on the day I witnessed the transformation of the Glendale Branch from a library to a juvenile detention center, there were about 40 kids in all, possibly more. I didn't sit there and count them, but there were a lot. And you know how kids become so much more when they aren't supervised? Every kid becomes like three kids, with the volume dialed all the way up and the self control turned completely off. It got loud and rowdy fast.

In they came, screaming, shouting, tearing through the aisles and finding their friends or favorite places. They knocked over books as they invaded, not stopping to even acknowledge it in the first place, let alone pick the books up. As the crowd grew, the noise rose to a cacophonous roar, pitted with mind bending shrieks of the demented and damned.

I could hear some of their conversations, though it was difficult to follow much more than snippets in the din. They talked about the dick pics they sent to each other, and dropped the f-bomb generously throughout every conversation. There was a lot of Big Talk in squeaky voices. It was painful to hear, not just because the volume was really up there (we're not talking library loud, we are talking cafeteria loud), but because it was beyond embarrassing to witness. So much puffery and strutting, so little to back it up.

My educator sister and I have discussed the phenomena of middle schoolers, and how their age and hormonal changes basically make them temporarily insane. To add insult to injury, not only are they unbalanced maniacs with no impulse control, they also smell. As I sat there, thankfully nearly done with my Arches entry and only needing to add the photos, I couldn't help but notice the rising stench of bubblegum, hair gel, and pit sweat. I was transported back to Horace Mann Middle School, 1985, and it was both hysterical and horrifying.

I felt bad for the library staff, who wandered through to pick up the books knocked over in the stampede and stood silent and sheepish at the edge of the sea of screaming meemies. The most anyone did to try to wrangle the hoard was a weak, "Guys. A little loud, guys." I guess they don't have an intercom button to push. In a sense, I would bet that really is the problem. I doubt the staff has the administrative support to keep the kids in line. And clearly the kids have nowhere else to go after school, so this is where they are, unsupervised, unaware, and unhinged. From opening until 3:10, Glendale is a library. From 3:10 to who knows when, Glendale is a cockfighting pen full of stinky, bubblegum chewing chickens, squabbling, pecking, and twisting in a tarantella of teen angst. I didn't stick around long enough to find out when the chaos abates--my post was done and so was I.

As I walked out I noticed some of the single kids that had streamed in with the boistrous groups. They sat quietly at tables nearer the front, homework out, pencils up, heads down and studious. For a moment I was back in Mr. T.'s beautiful shop class, and my heart hurt so hard for them it almost took my breath away. Stay strong, kiddos. It really does get better.

It was also a Big Lesson learned about Google reviews: Sometimes people are just whining and behaving like brats who would complain about anything to anyone, but sometimes they are right on the money. I am a big believer in not using Google reviews abusively--try to spread as much positivity as negativity--but when a business or public space needs a big warning sign placed in front of it, you have to say something. I should have heeded their warnings, and would have felt 1000% better about the Glendale Library if I had only just packed up and left at three, but I didn't. And I got a genuine flashback some wisdom in exchange.