(With apologies to those who have seen actual combat, because what I got ain’t that.)

I was going to write about Biden today.

I started the post and everything — jotted some thoughts down this morning, came up with a title (which I will probably change because unless the title is reeeeaaallll simple, I almost never like the ones I come up with. “The Adventures of Damnation Kane,” about a man named Damnation Kane having adventures. Good. “Brute,” about a brute. Nice. “Lesson,” about a teacher. Cool. “The Dreamer Wakes?” Mmmm, feels off somehow.), thought off and on today about what I wanted to write about. I feel bad, because I’ve been putting this one off, but I know that it’s important; and then also because I had the last week off, and I never got around to writing it. Of course, that’s partly because the week of Spring Break is when teachers get all of their life stuff done — I went to the dentist, the hair salon, and the tax accountant, in addition to donating blood, seeing friends I haven’t seen in a while, and doing hours of yard/housework — and partly because I spent part of the last three days grading student work. I could have spent those hours writing about politics instead, but — well, it’s my job, right?

It’s fine, I thought: I’ll write it Monday evening.

And now it is Monday evening. And I am too tired to write.

I’m so freaking tired.

Why, though? It was only ONE DAY. One day of classes — and Monday is my easiest day in some ways, because I have one extra prep period, because one of my classes only meets four days a week. One day, with one less class, after a whole week off?!? Why the heck am I so tired???

And then my wife, in recounting a conversation she had with one of her students today, put it into words.

“Miss,” one of her students asked her after she had snapped at some loud talking, “why are you so mad?”

“I’m not mad,” she replied, “I’m just annoyed.” (I wasn’t there, so I won’t argue with her characterization of her mood, but in my experience, every single time someone says “I’m not mad,” they’re actually mad. And “Annoyed,” for me, is “I’m mad but trying to control it.” So, respect to my wife for fighting back the rage.) And then she explained to the student why she was annoyed. “This? Teaching? It’s just a job. I didn’t get into it because it was some calling, it’s just a job. I should be able to show up and do my job and that’s it, no big deal.

“But you guys — you make everything so hard. Everything about this job is more difficult because of the students, and how you all act. Imagine,” she said, “if you had to go to work at a fast food restaurant, or whatever — and every customer was a problem. Every. One.”

The student nodded in understanding. My wife went about the rest of her day, and then when I came home she told me this brief story,

It spoke to me. Because that’s it: that’s why I’m so tired. That’s why this job, this teaching, is so damned exhausting all the time. Because every customer I have (Or nearly every customer, and I will also say that every one of them has good days when they are easy and even fun and rewarding to work with [when they order the food]) makes every damn thing so bloody difficult.

So picture this. Most people have worked in fast food; I actually never have, but I have sold concessions at a concert hall, and I have worked a register in a retail store, so I get the idea of this.

Imagine you’re behind the counter at a Popeye’s Chicken or a Five Guys or whatever. Someone comes in, bell on the door dings, you say, “Welcome to Five Eyes!” in your bright customer service voice.

They don’t say anything.

They walk slowly up to the counter — they do not look at the menu — and they stand directly in front of the register. They have a hoodie on, and the hood up, and Airpods in their ears. Phone in hand, they stand there, at the counter, in front of the register, and look at their phone.

“Hi, can I take your order?” you say.

They don’t say anything. They don’t look at you or acknowledge your existence. They keep scrolling through Instagram or Snapchat or whatever on their phone.

“Would you like some of our delicious Chickburgers? Or some fried ham?” you ask, naming two of your favorite items from the menu, two of the most popular orders, which you know all about how to make just right, and people have told you in the past you prepare perfectly.

No answer. Still scrolling. And now there is a line forming behind them.

“If you’d like some more time to look at the menu, maybe you could step to one side and consider, and I can help the people behind you. Whenever you’re ready I can take your order.”

They glance behind them, see the line of people waiting, and then go back to looking at their phone. They still have not looked at the menu, nor responded to you in any direct way. They have not yet acknowledged your existence.

Now you’re getting annoyed. “Sirma’am, I need to help the other customers. If you know what you want, I’d be happy to take your order right now.”

Now they laugh at something on the phone. They do not respond to you.

“Ma’amsir, if you could just look up at the menu and let me know what you want — or even just give me some idea of what you feel like eating, and I can help you pick something. Do you want biscuit fries? Maybe some gravy nuggets?”

Their phone rings. They answer it, and begin a conversation. They do not step away from the counter. They do not look at you, or at the menu. They are talking loudly and laughing, though what they are saying is mostly inane: “No, yeah, I know, yeah, right? I mean, for real, like for real for real. Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Now you lean over the counter and stare into their eyes from six inches away. They look back at you when you do it, but their eyes are blank. “Ma’sir’am,” you say firmly, “You need to either order, or move aside.”

They stare at you, blankly. They do not respond. You see, out of the corner of your eye, your manager coming up behind you. So you try to remain calm. “Sma’amir,” you say calmly, though there is a growl in your voice that doesn’t seem right, and your heart is beating pretty fast and you seem to be kind of panting and maybe sweating a little — all of which would be normal if you were on the fryers, but not on register. Is something wrong with you? “Do you want to order anything?” You say it loudly, though also, you think, calmly, and slowly.

“Is there a problem here?” the manager asks.

“They won’t — ” you start, but then the customer cuts you off.

“No problem,” they say. They flash the manager a smile. They look at the menu.

You and your manager lock eyes. “Take it easy,” the manager says to you, “just take their order, okay?”

Flabbergasted, you can only nod. The manager walks away again.

The customer looks back at their phone.

You decide to just wait. They looked at the menu, they came in here and stood in front of the register: they surely want food, food that you have, food which you spend all day providing to hungry people. You can’t tell if this person looks hungry, exactly — but come on, everyone needs food. That’s what you sell here. Why would anyone come into this place if they didn’t want food? In the past people have come in already knowing exactly what they want, delighted and even grateful for what they get, for what you provide them with a smile. You brighten days. You provide vital nutrients, and you brighten days!

Minutes go by. They still don’t order.

You slap the counter. “COME ON!” you shout. “ORDER SOMETHING!”

The kitchen behind you goes silent. The people in line look around the person in front, and stare at you. The manager pokes their head out of the office and glares.

You take a deep breath. “Sorry about that. I would really like to take your order and get you some delicious food. Don’t you want delicious food?”

The person in the front is now staring at you, after your outburst. The phone is now in their pocket. But they still don’t order anything. They just stare at you, blankly. They don’t order anything.

Finally you shake your head. You lean close. “Okay, look. If you decide you want to eat something, then you go ahead and tell me what you want, and I will get it for you. But for now, I need to help the people behind you.” They don’t respond. You lean to one side, and look at the person right behind them. “Next, please! Can I help you?”

The second person in line is wearing Airpods. They are staring at a phone. They do not answer you, or look up.

They do not order food.

That’s what it’s like. All teachers want is to help: we know how to help, we have the help ready to give. Students need the help, and mostly even want the help. And yet they are difficult. All the time. One after the other, all day long. For no reason. Annoying their teachers constantly, just because they don’t think about what they’re saying or doing. Avoiding, at the same time, the one thing that would actually do them some good, the whole point behind school, behind teaching, behind all of it. They frequently apologize, especially when the teacher snaps angrily, or chews the students out for not doing enough work or caring enough about their own education. They say they’re sorry — and then they go right back to doing exactly what they were doing before. Nothing. Annoyingly.

My students want to learn. They should learn. But they don’t. Because they won’t try. I have to work five times harder, ten times, a hundred times, to get them to do the thing they should be doing, and they know they should be doing it; but they don’t.

All day long. Every day. For no reason. And that might even be the worst part: because I can’t explain why they won’t do it. I can’t understand why they won’t do it. Neither can they. I can empathize, because I didn’t want to do work in high school either; but I actually liked learning — and I recognized that I needed to do enough work, to do enough learning, at least to pass and move on.

In other words, when I went into the fast food restaurant, I ordered the goddamn food.

My students don’t. They just stand there. It’s not their fault, and they don’t do it intentionally — but my God, I am so very tired of fighting them just so they can eat a delicious meal.