It felt more like a juvenile detention center during lockdown than lunchtime in my neighborhood public middle school. Teachers were strategically stationed throughout the cafeteria about 20 feet apart. One of the vice principals had taken her customary place at the microphone. Every few seconds the noisy room was punctuated with her constant commands: ?You, in the green shirt, sit down.? ?Students standing at the back table, find a seat quickly.? ?Young man at the soda machine, move to a table.?
 
Parents who had attended this upper-class suburban institution 20 years ago touted it as ?a wonderful school.? Other parents had told me how terrible it was. At the time my son was nearing graduation from fifth grade, so I decided to find out for myself what our middle school was really like.
 
But I didn?t want to get the typical parental tour, given by smiling staff who would tell me just how progressive or fantastic everyone and everything is. I wanted the real deal. So, I signed up with the county to be a substitute teacher.
 
Within a couple of days of being finger-printed and filling out the paperwork, the electronic phone voice that beckons substitutes informed me of an opportunity at that school. I grabbed it.
 
The lunch experience was depressing, stifling and insulting to both teachers and students alike. How did things get so bad that what used to be a welcome break in the middle of the day for both faculty and kids is now a necessary evil?
 
I talked with other teachers when I got the chance. Stepping out into the hallway with one teacher to monitor the changing of classes (yes, Virginia, the police state is real -- it?s the easiest solution to disorder), the 20-year veteran of the school bemoaned the disrespect for authority, the lazy attitudes, the violent outbreaks, and the general unpleasantness. ?The kids used to be so good.? She once enjoyed teaching, but not any more.
 
On this particular day I subbed for English class, following the normal lesson plans for the day, which called for the students to take took turns reading aloud.  As kids droned on, stumbling over even the most basic words, I glanced around the room. There were kids sleeping in the back, and others just staring into space. Disinterest abounded. Taped to the walls were book reports, each with its own hand-made cover. As I leafed through the pages between classes it was obvious the students? time was spent more on their ?creative covers? than on the actual exercise of analyzing or writing about books. And this was 8th grade.
 
A couple of days later I was again beckoned to the school by the impersonal, electronic voice. This time the offer was for PE.
 
The depressing atmosph