The perks of being "that class"

"Gary! Gary! Take our picture," I called, waving to the 4th grader who was carefully making his way down the stairwell as our boat rocked with the waves of the mighty Niagara. The next day, that same child would be wondering why there was no picture of HIM included in the class field-trip slideshow. "Don't be so selfish, Gary" I snapped, "the world doesn't revolve around you, y'know." I turned to face the class, "Who does it revolve around, children," I asked. "Mrs. Mosiman," they chanted dutifully.

This year's annual trip to experience the Maid-of-the-Mist and tour historic Old Fort Niagara was wonderful. Not because fellow teacher Geri was standing at the boat rail when a gigantic tsunami-sized wave rolled up and soaked her. Not because my lunch included a delicious Bruschetta sandwich from the D & R Depot in LeRoy. Not because Sydney had done up my hair in cute braided pigtails. Not because of the amazing weather.

No. This year...the trip was especially wonderful because, unbeknownst to me and my fellow chaperones, we were known as "that class" as we happily traipsed along, seeing new sights and absorbing new knowledge. I first became alerted to our (undeserved) reputation shortly after our tour had begun. "Are you aware that the other tour guides are talking about you," a fellow teacher whispered in passing. I squared my shoulders and took a breath, readying myself for the compliment that was surely headed my way. "They're saying," she continued, "that their tours will NOT be conducting themselves like that class." That class? That class as in...my class? I looked at my sweet band of little cherubs, sitting happily on a little hill listening to Tourguide Douglas, in complete confusion. "But what are we doing wrong," I asked. She looked up at me as I stood on that little hill. "You're suppose to stay OFF the earthworks." "What earthworks," I said, the horror of realization sinking in as I gazed upon the hill upon which I stood. "But there are no signs..." I said defensively before spotting signs posted at regular intervals along the earthworks. Oh no. We'd done all but gather around one of the signs to take a group picture.

Okay. Re-set. Now that I knew that Tourguide Douglas was too nice to tell us when we were (unknowingly) committing infractions, I would be extra vigilant to earn back the respect we so obviously deserved. And we were doing so well. Asking insightful questions. Answering questions to prove that we were mostly not a bunch of doofuses. Alright. A few doofus answers slipped through...but only to prove we're human. "What was the main strategic route of transportation," Tourguide Douglas asked my cherubs, Lake Ontario to his back. "Salted pork," yelled my little Robbie enthusiastically while I moaned and promised to pay my chaperones back the tax dollars that went into my salary this year. "That was an interesting answer," one of my dads commented as he walked with me. "It was a conditioned response," I explained. "Like how in Sunday School, all answers end in Jesus." Another teacher was motioning to me so I walked over to her.

"Did you know that you're not suppose to touch the carved-out canoe," she asked. Oh no. I glanced at the small sliver in my finger that I'd just gotten from touching the carved-out canoe. I could just imagine what all the other tourguides were saying. "We're not going to touch the carved-out canoe like that class." We'd done all but shove all of us into the carved-out canoe for a group picture. I glared at Tourguide Douglas. How are we suppose to know we're doing anything wrong. It's not like there was a sign or anythi..." I glanced over again at the carved-out canoe. Oh.

It was time for a "If you can't beat 'em...join 'em" attitude. It was too late to outfit my kids in leather jackets or roll a deck of cards up into the left sleeve of their white t-shirts. I could try to prompt them to answer to the question: "What are you rebelling against?" with "What've ya got" but I'm afraid Robbie will answer with "Salted pork" and ruin our street cred. It was time to embrace our unintentional reputation and just enjoy the rest of our tour.

And enjoy it we did. "Wait...we didn't get to see that," another tour's student was heard saying on the bus to my kids as they described the giant flag housed in the museum. I'd asked Tourguide Douglas specifically to see it. "We're tired," my kids had complained, "we don't care about an old flag." "It's air-conditioned in there," I responded. "Oh! Where's that flag again," asked my newly patriotic pupils. "Wait...we didn't get to eat anything out of the garden," another child who wasn't a member of that class complained. We had inadvertently stumbled onto the edible vegetation portion of the tour. It was interesting to me that the same group of kids who had passionately spat their sample of lovage onto the ground hours ago were now making that same herb out to be the Cool Ranch Doritos of its time. "What topographical map? I didn't see a reproduction of the fort made out of toothpicks," another indignant voice wailed from the back of the bus. No...only that class did.