Let's segue back into the Temping Chronicles, just because I'm giving some thought to rejoining that world. Perhaps, if I revisit those not-so-halcyon days, I'll give thanks for the teaching job I have, and revile the temptation to forsake it.

In the mid '90s, the last gasp of local hometown companies was reaching its last death rattle. All of the smaller cities--like Frederick, Lynchburg, Fredericksburg, Williamsburg and the like--had seen their little local banks and department stores eaten up by the big city firms. Now, even the big city companies were being swallowed by national conglomerates. Richmond's old Central Fidelity Bank and her two great department stores were gone. Washington had lost her beloved crusty old Riggs National Bank and was about to lose Woodward and Lothrop, one of the best department stores on earth. Baltimore had already lost all of her big stores and the banks were going fast. In 1996, the bank that kept me in beer money went, as well.

Requiescat in Pace, Bank of Baltimore! Born in 1818, "Baltimore Savings," as everyone called it, was created by a group of civic-minded wealthy Baltimoreans. Heretofore, banks were for the wealthy; the little people just sewed coins into mattresses. This bank was intended for the Little People. You could--from 1818 until its dying day--open an account with practically nothing. In fairer days, the Bank sent employees to City and County schools to teach kids about saving money and to open kid-sized savings accounts. Even now, I occasionally run into people who actually paid for their college educations from money saved through a Bank of Baltimore account established in grade school. The Bank flourished through the 19th century; after the Great Fire it built an impressive home for itself at Baltimore and Charles (then called Sun Square for the newspaper that occupied the opposite corner) which stands today--for rent.

I'm sad to say that, today, I have my accounts with a huge conglomerate bank. All of the old locals are gone, except for tiny little neighborhood concerns that have precisely one office. I don't think that any of those gigantic corporations will ever bother with things like schoolroom savings accounts.

I digress as always. The bank was broken up and sold off for parts (ironically, this was masterminded by a man who spent a lot of time claiming to be a Real Baltimorean and a Friend of the Working Man, who then went on to establish another bank). We were sold first to Foist FI-Delity of Newik, New Joisey. This was actually the way that their employees would answer the phone. While my department survived that sale, we didn't survive the next, when Foist FIdelity was eaten by First Union, headquartered in Charlotte. (No accent is required here. Since almost no one in Charlotte is actually from North Carolina, no accent occurs there.)

Thus began the long--and recurring--saga in my life: temping for Hopkins.

The first temp gig I took at the World's Foremost Medical Institution was in the world of psychology. This was highly entertaining. My actual work involved, primarily, typing and organizing the rather exhaustive studies performed by a doctor who had spent several years studying emotional problems in teenagers. I never did meet the doctor herself; she was on sabbatical. Instead, I reported to her administrative assistant--who, herself, possessed a doctoral degree, but had been relegated to working as an assistant. This was actually a refreshing assignment. After the world of banking, I was once again surrounded by academe; and it was a guilty pleasure to see that even someone with a degree rather more advanced than mine could still be stuck doing admin work. Also, I got to see firsthand how completely clueless academia can be.

Those who teach, or do social work, are the ones in the trenches. We see what really happens in the lives of those with whom we work. Those who study from afar, on the other hand, use data as a crutch in the same way that I use cigarettes. Data and cigs both keep you mollified and put off reality for at least five minutes.

As I collated data and typed research reports, I grew to understand that the doctor masterminding these studies (note--at this point, my classroom experience was a good six years in the future) had NO IDEA of what was really happening in the "disadvantaged communities" that she ostensibly researched. She clearly had an excellent grasp of psychology and sociology, but without practical experience, her studies--to my mind--were useless. Without firsthand knowledge of your subjects' lives, how can you decide what they need? what they lack? what they have?

Most of these thoughts are retrospective. At the time, I found her research interesting, and actually, I still do. Now that I've spent seven years working with those who would have been potential subjects, though, I think that I probably have a better grasp on the issues that face them.

Anyone who is interested--I mean, truly interested--in studying and rectifying the problems that face teenagers should be required to teach in a high school for a year. The old maxim is that you can't know someone until you've walked a mile in his shoes. While you can't BE a teenager again, you CAN live in the world of the teenager, at least part-time. No amount of data collection will give you the information that any teacher has at his fingertips.