story hour

In fifth grade we went to Exchange City. In our district, fifth graders spent several months excitedly planning for this daylong field trip. Exchange City was like a miniature indoor city, complete with courthouse and radio station, and every kid had to apply for a job in the city, and the teachers would decide which kid would do best in which job, based loosely on what positions we applied for. We had to learn how to write checks, balance our checkbook, submit resumes, make laws, vote for laws, etc.

I think I applied for radio DJ, doctor (blood pressure takers? I don’t remember), and like… artisan. Or something.

They made me bank president.

Our first hour of the day was spent in training. The factory kids made their items to sell while their corresponding retailers learned the ropes at the registers, the bankers figured out how to process paychecks and debit card withdrawals, the law enforcement finalized the laws and punishments, the food service kids learned how to wipe tables.

Actually, writing this out makes me wonder if the whole thing was kind of a sick joke amongst the teachers and parent helpers.

Eventually the radio kicked on, and the first shift of the day started, and we had our one-day city.

I could go into detail, describing the city and commenting on a lot of aspects of this field trip. But I won’t. I’m bored with this story, a little. And my mind is wandering.

I just wanted to say that as the bank president, I worked all day. Each kid was supposed to get a break in order to go be a citizen, keep the city alive, buy stuff, break laws, etc. During my break, I went and ate my sack lunch at the restaurant (which only sold Hi-C, which really goes to show their faith in the food service kids), then went to start shopping the stores. And before I was able to purchase a single junky craft, some bank teller came and got me because there was a problem in the bank. And my break was spent sorting through pay stubs and catching up on the piled up mess from when I was at lunch.

I was one of the richest kids in the city. Literally. The bank president tied for the highest paying job. But all I bought was a cup of Hi-C. And maybe some ribbon on a stick at the end of the day. I don't remember.

I told the parent sponsor who was helping in the bank, “I have the most money but this stupid job means I don’t have time to spend it.”

And he just chuckled knowingly*. At the time I thought that was condescending and frustrating, that he didn’t get my hint (DO MY JOB FOR ME, MICHELLE’S DAD).

I'm not going to end this with some life lesson I've learned in retrospect. It's not like I now have the highest paying job and no time to revel in its benefits. And I certainly don't want to justify that condescending chuckle by ending on an OH, ADULTHOOD note. Absolutely not.

Yeah. There is no moral of the story. I was just thinking about it today. And I am literally falling asleep at the keyboard, as usual. Sorry. As usual.

*This response, in any of its forms, really REALLY grinds my gears. To this day.