Separation

Another Creative Non-fiction piece I created for Advanced Creative Writing class.

Separation

 

            “No, Mommy! Don't go!  I wanna stay wif you today!”

            I looked down into the sad blue eyes of my three-year-old daughter, Nora, as she clung to my leg and looked up at me, whimpering.  Tears threatened to spill and she sniffled, a portent of the wailing that was sure to follow if I didn't act fast. 

            “I have to go to work, baby, but I love you and I'll be back this afternoon to get you,” I told her as I bent down to give her a quick hug.  I knew better than to pick her up because she'd only cling to me and that would make saying goodbye worse.  I'd learned that trick from my days as a preschool Montessori teacher.  Brandy, our babysitter of two years, distracted her with Sesame Street and I slipped out the front door.  In truth, I was finding the separation as hard as Nora.  I'd rather have spent the day with her instead of attempting to educate hordes of insubordinate, snotty teenagers who had little respect for substitute teachers and even less interest in their education.  I needed a new job and I didn't even care if it wasn't in education

            Despite having a Master's degree in Secondary Education and multiple teaching certifications, I had been unable to secure a teaching position no matter how hard I’d tried.  The dismal economic situation caused Texas to cut teaching jobs by the thousands.  It was (and still is) a bad time to be a teacher.  I’d made ends meet by substitute teaching, something that I’d come to despise after years of being stuck in the substitute pool and putting up with all kinds of abuse from the students.  Long-term positions were great and I enjoyed them when I was lucky enough to be chosen for one, but I hated day-to-day subbing.  It was the beginning of the school year and I was going back to work, no matter how much I hated it.  I'd been home all summer with Nora and she'd gotten used to long days spent watching Curious George on television, playing on the playground, swimming, and hanging out with Mom.  Now she was back with Brandy and she wasn't happy about it.  She loved and trusted Brandy like a second mama, but she wasn't me and Nora knew that.

            As I climbed into my husband's pickup truck (my car was in the shop for repairs), I recalled an incident from the third grade.  It was the first day of school.  All of the students were directed to the gym, where we were told who our teachers were before being sent to sit in a line behind an orange safety cone that bore our teacher's name.  The Kindergarteners and the First Graders were quiet and nervous, looking around the enormous gym with solemn eyes.  The rest of us chatted quietly, but the gym was not too noisy.  One of my new classmates, a girl named Bobby Jo, tried to alleviate the boredom by picking up our class' safety cone and shouting, “Scooby Dooby Doo!” into it so her voice echoed around the gym.  This made all the older kids squeal with laughter and the little kids to smile.  The teachers weren't so amused and made Bobby Jo move to the end of the line after the third time she'd invoked the name of everyone's favorite cartoon canine who solved mysteries.

            The quiet atmosphere of the gym was finally broken by an ear-piecing shriek.  I looked over and saw a mother dragging an unwilling Kindergartener by the arm across the gym to her class' line.  The little girl's brown pigtails swung as she screamed, “No!  No!  No!  I'm not gonna go to Kindergarten!  I'm gonna stay home with you, mama!  Don't leave me here!” before she threw herself face down onto the floor.  The little kids watched this with fear and maybe some understanding.  The older kids looked embarrassed and disgusted.  We whispered to each other, “What a brat!  She's a baby.  Her mama needs to take that baby home and bring her back when she's old enough to behave.”  Our judgmental commentary only increased and was peppered with laughter when we noticed a large puddle forming under the prone, wailing Kindergartener and we spotted her soaking wet dress when her angry mother hauled her upright.  The red-faced mother hissed unknown punishments at the girl as she carried her hysterical daughter out the door.  A janitor appeared a few moments later, armed with a mop and bucket to take care of the remains of the poor little girl's public scene.  

            I'm sad to say that I joined in my class' snickers and laughter.  I had conveniently forgotten about the time only four years before when my parents had left me and my older sister at a family friend's house for the weekend so they could spend some time together.  I was fine until I woke up at 4 am, realized I wasn't in my bed at my house, and began howling for my mother and father.  My older sister was eight and was very good at getting me to shut up, promising that mom and dad were coming the next day to get us and that they'd hadn't abandoned us to the wolves. 

            But now I was eight years old.  I was a Big Kid.  I didn't scream and cry like a baby just because I was away from my parents.

            I chuckled to myself as I buckled my seat belt and started the engine.  Another memory flashed into my mind and I laughed even louder as I drove away from Brandy's house.  I had begged and pleaded with my parents to let me go to sleep-away camp for a week the summer following third grade.  I was nine years old and just old enough to go.  My parents agreed and I bounced with excitement the day my parents drove me to Camp Flaming Arrow in Hunt, Texas.  Summer camp!  Swimming!  Roasting marshmallows!  Making S'mores!  Singing songs!  Horseback riding!  Canoeing!  Arts and Crafts!  New friends!  Memories!  I exploded from the car when we finally got there and was impatient for my family to leave so camp could get started. 

            I lasted about twenty-four hours.  The reality of being away from my family sunk in the following afternoon and by bedtime, I was a crying, hysterical nutcase.  I begged the counselors to let me call my parents, but they said no.  My well-meaning counselors suggested that I write a letter home to my family and tell them that I missed them.  I sobbed as I pulled out the pale blue stationary with matching envelopes that my parents had bought especially for camp from my suitcase.  I composed the most dramatic, heart-wrenching letter that a nine year old could ever write.  If that letter had been turned into a film, it probably would have won an Academy Award because it was so full of sorrow and would have moved everyone to tears.  Is it any wonder that I wound up majoring in Theater in college?  While I cannot recall my exact words, the letter was along the lines of, “Dear Mom and Dad.  I am so miserable here.  This was the worst mistake I've ever made and I don't want to stay here anymore.  Please please please come and pick me up as soon as you get this.  I WANT TO GO HOME!  I'm going to die if I stay here!  I miss you!  I love you!  Don't you love me?  If you love me, you'll come get me now!  My pillow is wet from all of the tears that I’ve cried because I miss you so badly.” Repeat ad nauseum for two pages.

            My parents still have that letter.  I've never lived it down.  

            Of course, I wound up having a fabulous time, even though it was marked by periodic bouts of homesickness.  I survived the week and was reluctant to go on Saturday when my parents came to pick me up, unsure of what to expect.  They'd been right to ignore my pleas of clemency from the tortures of summer camp.  All of that occurred only ten months after I'd laughed at the poor Kindergartener in the gym.  The only real difference between me and that little girl was that I could write legibly and I had better bladder control.

            As I turned onto the highway that led to the school where my dreaded substitute teaching job awaited, it occurred to me that separation is not easy at any age.  We just deal with it better as we grow older.  Young children wail and cry for their mamas.  Older children write impassioned letters, expressing their sorrow through words.  Aspects of those children remain in me still, even though I'm now an adult.  I wanted to cry for my Nora.  I didn't want to go to my hated job.  I wanted to turn that car around, sweep her up in my arms, and take her home to make popcorn and watch a movie.  I missed my baby and I'd have rather spent my day with her, but I couldn't. 

            I smiled as I composed a letter in my head, “Dear Substitute Teaching, You make me miserable. You were the worst mistake I ever made and I don't want to be a substitute teacher anymore.  Please please please let a different job come along. I WANT TO QUIT!  I'm going to die if I have to do this job much longer.  I won't miss you!  I don't love you!  I know you don't love me.  Since you don't love me, then let me go on to something better and less depressing.” 

Telling Substitute Teaching how I felt was cathartic.  Maybe those well-meaning summer camp counselors knew what they were talking about after all.  I decided that in order to get through my day, I was going to have to perform a separation of a different kind.  I had to separate my anger and apathy about my work situation from the job itself.  I still had a responsibility to the students, even if they didn't give a flying flip about me or their education.  I was a teacher and if I displayed a lackadaisical attitude, then my students would pick up on that and follow my lead.  I arrived at the school and was inside the classroom a few minutes later.  I was lucky to have Computer Science, which was a pretty easy class to teach.  The students filed into the class with the usual reaction they have when they see a sub.  “We have a sub?  Sweet!  Free day!”  Whatever.

            I dismissed any lingering feelings of disappointment about my work situation as the bell rang and I closed the classroom door.  “Good morning, students.  My name is Mrs. Leonard and I will be your teacher today.”