Mr. Laske found this piece on Middle Schoolers. All of the upper grade teachers loved it. I'm posting it here.
A middle schooler is random motion, jumbled chaos, and predictable unpredictability--a child becoming an adult--paused for one magical moment between pictures of puppies, and pin-ups of sex symbols. They are a walking paradox of fashionless style, fueled by hormones and gum, and fired by engines that seem to never run out of gas. They are strongly independent social creatures that travel in packs and communicate by sacred note. They are nourished by the immediate, unencumbered by past, and impatient for the tomorrow they feel will never come.
Middle schoolers can miss the obvious, harp on the obscure, and defend the impossible. They thrive on spontaneity, loathe predictability and refuse to even acknowledge the parents they love. They deny the proven, dispute the certain, stand up for the irrelevant, and fall out of chairs. Tapping is their anthem, and fairness--their rule of life. They are possessed of selective memory, and a fierce loyalty to their own kind. Their hair is their banner, disorder--their creed. Their image is the only thing that matters more than lunch.
Middle schoolers are bolts of energy wrapped in a package of laziness. They are confusion poured into mood swings--fueled by encouragement, motivated by curiosity, and stimulated by challenge. They are inspired by sincerity, frustrated by denial, and defeated by doubt. They are gangly growth spurts with a twinkle in their eyes. They are confident pretenders masquerading in fragile shells of insecurity--trusting skeptics--secretly searching for heroes.
Middle schoolers love to be hugged, but hate to be touched. They are reactive agents who cling to routine while reaching for change. They are reminders of our own immortality; in-progress paradigms of possibility in whose lives we plant a lesson, shape a behavior, mold a character, and seal a destiny. They are the first blooms of tomorrow’s hope--fleeting sunbeams of a thirteenth springtime--on loan to a winter world.
A middle schooler is random motion, jumbled chaos, and predictable unpredictability--a child becoming an adult--paused for one magical moment between pictures of puppies, and pin-ups of sex symbols. They are a walking paradox of fashionless style, fueled by hormones and gum, and fired by engines that seem to never run out of gas. They are strongly independent social creatures that travel in packs and communicate by sacred note. They are nourished by the immediate, unencumbered by past, and impatient for the tomorrow they feel will never come.
Middle schoolers can miss the obvious, harp on the obscure, and defend the impossible. They thrive on spontaneity, loathe predictability and refuse to even acknowledge the parents they love. They deny the proven, dispute the certain, stand up for the irrelevant, and fall out of chairs. Tapping is their anthem, and fairness--their rule of life. They are possessed of selective memory, and a fierce loyalty to their own kind. Their hair is their banner, disorder--their creed. Their image is the only thing that matters more than lunch.
Middle schoolers are bolts of energy wrapped in a package of laziness. They are confusion poured into mood swings--fueled by encouragement, motivated by curiosity, and stimulated by challenge. They are inspired by sincerity, frustrated by denial, and defeated by doubt. They are gangly growth spurts with a twinkle in their eyes. They are confident pretenders masquerading in fragile shells of insecurity--trusting skeptics--secretly searching for heroes.
Middle schoolers love to be hugged, but hate to be touched. They are reactive agents who cling to routine while reaching for change. They are reminders of our own immortality; in-progress paradigms of possibility in whose lives we plant a lesson, shape a behavior, mold a character, and seal a destiny. They are the first blooms of tomorrow’s hope--fleeting sunbeams of a thirteenth springtime--on loan to a winter world.