CARVSMARK

Today is the second last day of classes, which in school-time means we are all functioning exclusively on vibes, caffeine, and a deep spiritual commitment to making it to Friday. The anticipation of the break is REAL. You can feel it in the hallways. It hums in the air like a fluorescent light that’s one flicker away from total emotional collapse.

The staff is exhausted. Not “I need a nap” exhausted—more like “What day is it? Why am I holding this coffee upside down? And how long have I been talking to this photocopier?” exhausted. The kids are beyond ready for the break. Even the bells sound tired. That bell rings like, “Guys… I tried.”

And whether we celebrate Christmas, something else, or the sacred holiday of sleeping in until noon and forgetting what day it is, there is a cheer in the air. A softness. A kindness. A bizarre, magical window of time where people hold doors open, smile at each other, and don’t immediately argue about deadlines. Kindness and love—two things the world desperately needs more of. Sprinkle that everywhere. Put it in the water supply. 

But today is also more than that, because we have PLT block—that magical, mysterious, highly controversial hour that has been debated more than pineapple on pizza. This is the block where students choose a place to catch up on work, get extra help, or simply experience what it feels like to be a human being for 60 uninterrupted minutes.

PLT has been contested by parents, teachers, and upper staff alike. It has been analyzed, questioned, reshaped, rebranded, renamed, debated, put on trial, and probably blamed for something like the Wi-Fi being slow. At some point, I’m pretty sure it was responsible for the weather.

So here is my take.

Right now, my classroom is full of kids—many of whom I don’t even teach. And yet they chose to come down here. Voluntarily. On the second last day before break. Which honestly should qualify PLT for some sort of educational miracle award.

Every single one of them has work out. Every. Single. One. Even my darkroom is full. The apocalypse has not arrived. No one is hiding in corners scrolling TikTok pretending to work while aggressively nodding. No one is “just going to the bathroom” for 45 minutes. What I do hear is students catching up on assignments, checking in with each other, learning together, and—brace yourself—talking. To each other. With mouths. In real life. Like it’s 1997.

And that, my friends, is rare.

Teenagers today have largely lost the ability to socialize the way I did in the 80s. We learned social skills by saying dumb things in public and living with the consequences. Today’s teens are bombarded by expectations from parents, social media, and the constant pressure to “be something,” even though no one can clearly explain what that something is. They’re expected to have a five-year plan, a side hustle, emotional maturity, and flawless skin by Tuesday.

Somewhere along the way, they forgot how to just be teenagers.

And I love what I’m seeing.

I look over and there are two of my students—one working on her 3D sculpture, the other assembling her photography Picasso assignment. They are laughing hysterically about how they cut their bangs and it went horribly wrong. Like tragically wrong. Like “this will live in family lore forever” wrong. And instead of spiraling into despair, they’re laughing about it and planning what they’ll wear to their family’s Christmas party. This—this right here—is learning. This is growth. This is emotional survival.

On the other side of the room, a group of kids is hunched over math work, collectively wrestling an equation into submission like it personally insulted their family. They’re helping each other, explaining steps, failing, trying again, failing louder, and then—miraculously—figuring it out. Together. Not alone. Not silently panicking. Together.

Nearby, a couple of students are deep in the creative zone, quietly building graphic art in Photoshop, fully locked in. In the darkroom, photo students are chuckling as images slowly appear on paper like actual magic. You can hear the joy. The real kind. Not the forced “this is fine” kind.

You can take away PLT. You can reshape it. Rebrand it. Slap a fancier name on it. But to me, this hour is the essence of what learning and growing looks like—especially at this time of year when everyone is tired, burnt out, and held together with duct tape and caffeine, and yet there are still smiles, kindness, laughter, and learning happening all at once.

Yes, there is socializing. And no—that’s not a flaw. That’s the point.

Face-to-face socializing is exactly what our kids need more of. We’ve stripped so much fun out of education with constant assessment, pressure, and performance that we’ve forgotten students are human beings first. Empathy used to be taught and practiced. Somewhere along the line, we tucked it away and assumed it would magically exist forever. But empathy is like a muscle—if you don’t use it, it disappears. Kind of like patience in December.

This hour is my favorite part of the day. Because here, I don’t just see students. I see young humans being kind, supportive, creative, ridiculous, joyful, and wonderfully imperfect.

And honestly?

That is worth every single minute of PLT.