The beginning of eighth grade, in all of its horror and glory. Students in hordes piling up at the front doors, a jumble of frenzied emotions. New people, new clothes, new supplies, new teachers, new schools, new locker, new classes, new, new, new. I could feel the anticipation in the young sixth graders eyes, the excitement in the seventh graders expressions. Then, there was my grade. Lifeless, emotionless, perhaps too much coffee for some of us, nothing new. It had been two years of middle school, and it was nothing we hadn’t seen before. For us, it wasn’t the chant of new, but more instead. More homework, more classes, more friends, more problems, more effort, one more year, more work.
And more work there was. Piles, masses, seas of work.
And more work there was. Piles, masses, seas of work.