Now that I’m back to working in a school, I’m back to experiencing all of the perks that come with that environment. One of those perks is the field trip.
I say perk. I might actually mean punishment.
I’m the new guy. I’ve only been in my current position for a few weeks. This week, one of the grades took a trip to the local art museum. I was asked to go.
Now that I’ve survived the trip, I’m fairly certain it was some kind of hazing ritual that the other counselors decided to put me through.
Look, I like museums as much as the next guy. Maybe more in some cases. But I am not a fan of the museum tour that’s led by someone’s grandmother who doesn’t actually know what they’re talking about. Because if you’re just going to read the plaque on the wall next to the piece of art, I can do that myself. Faster. And I’ll be more likely to read the correct plaque. Yeah, the lady doing our tour read the wrong plaque to us. More than once.
Maybe my enjoyment of this trip to the museum was less than because I was playing the role of glorified babysitter. It also didn’t help that the heat was on in the museum. We were really only there for two hours. But it felt much longer than two hours.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the little old ladies who volunteer (?) their time to teach school groups about art and culture. I just know that, when I go to the museum, I’d much rather rely on myself to discover all there is to learn. I’ll stop at the exhibits that I find interesting. I’ll read what makes them cool on the correct plaque.
Next time I’m asked to go on a field trip, I may politely decline. Unless it’s a field trip to Chuck E. Cheese. I’ll go to there.