Day of School, 26

Chapter 16

Day of School, 26

    There are so many times as a teacher when I feel like I’m standing in front of a firing squad. There’s six kids asking me to use the bathroom at the same time, five more kids bombarding me with eight hundred questions, the phone’s ringing, there’s a kid laying on the floor for some reason, another one standing on his chair and looking like he’s about to deliver a flying elbow from the top rope �" all of that and it’s only like 8:03 on a Monday morning. 

It’s constant throughout the day. There are always five hundred things going on at once and two hundred and fifty or so kids to look out for, including those on the top rope who might have a future as professional wrestlers �" but that’s normal. After three years I’ve gotten used to it, juggling what other people might consider chaos. It might be a firing squad, but most of the bullets are rubber, and sometimes they sting a little, but these situations are nothing I can’t handle.

But then there’s moments like this, when there isn’t a ripple in the water. Everything is calm and still… glorious… perfect. I’m in front of the room and it’s dead silent. All eyes are on me. They’re listening, taking notes, sitting on the edge of their seats - captivated by this lesson and I realize I’m experiencing one of the rarest moments in teaching; the epitome of full class engagement. I can see it in their eyes - they’re enraptured and like a ravenous glutton I’m feeding on it and I just want MORE, MORE, MORE because my appetite for this feeling is insatiable, my thirst for it - unquenchable. 

I’m off the script, but I’m in the zone. I’ve gone rogue. I’m a vagabond, a deviant, a wanderer, a rebel �" a man on his own. I’m the Lone Ranger without Tonto, a man without a plan in every sense of the phrase. I’ve scrapped the lesson plan, torn it shreds and cast it into the flames, a risky maneuver, no doubt, but not to toot my own horn - what I’m saying right now is nothing short of incredible and every student in this room is hooked.

But it’s not just me up here. I’ve gone into dual content mode with my most natural subject.  Social studies which is basically English Language Arts’ twin sister when you boil it down to its most simple elements, and I’ve called on Mister Thomas, social studies teacher, man of history for a little assistance. 

“Consider the text as a metaphor for colonialism, and the impact it has on indigenous populations. Look at how they are being treated. They aren’t being treated like humans. How are they being treated?” 

If you’re like me, you’re the kind of person who asks rhetorical questions all the time, but what you’re really doing is using it as a transition to a point you’re trying to make, so it is in fact not a rhetorical question, but one you intend to immediately answer. 

“Like animals!” My voice gets louder as I answer my own question, my pace quickens, “They strip them of everything but the breath in their lungs. They take away their names, belongings, everything, and they tell them everything they are doing is wrong, everything they believe is wrong. And this happens. It’s still happening today. At its core this text represents colonialism.” 

I wish I had a microphone in my hand right now so I could drop it. Their pencils race across the page, writing down every word I’ve said. 

“Any questions?” I ask, and about ten hands anxiously shoot up �" but the bell rings and I can see the disappointment in their faces. 

“Sorry guys,” I say, “We’ll talk more about this tomorrow.” 

The class empties, and as I sit down at my desk to catch up on some grading, I couldn’t be prouder of myself. I go off on tangents all the time, but I rarely let myself off the leash and go running into the wastelands on my own like that �" but after more than three years, I’ve gotten pretty good at finding my way back. 

I’m about to sit at my desk for my planning period to get caught up on some work when my classroom phone rings. I stare at it as it rings a second time, debating whether to pick it up. No one ever calls with any good news. It’s either insignificant, or I’m going to be asked to do something I don’t want to. I’m hoping it won’t ring a third time. It does. I reach for the phone, for no other reason than to avoid having to answer a, “Why didn’t you answer your classroom phone?” email with like 18 people cc'd on it before the day ends. 

“Mister Thomas’s room,” I answer reluctantly. 

“Hi Mister Thomas, it’s Rosie. Mrs. Carson had an emergency and had to leave early. Are you available to cover?” 

My immediate instinct is to say no. I have six thousand things to grade, lessons to plan, and frankly, I just don’t want to, but I don’t want to have to answer a “Why didn’t you cover Mrs. Carson’s class?” email before the day is through. In case it isn’t obvious, I’m highly driven to avoid receiving and answer any form of “Why did/didn’t you do *BLANK*?” emails. I might go so far as to say it’s my second most powerful motivator in everything I do and every decision I make as a teacher - just after my students. 

“Yeah, sure,” I sigh. 

><><><

    Like Robinson Crusoe, I’ve stumbled into foreign, uncharted terrain - a strange and unusual land where the walls are covered with numbers, symbols and equations - but I’m surrounded by familiar faces of twelfth graders - some in my advisory, and others I haven’t had in class since they were in tenth grade. 

    “Oh s**t, it’s Thomas,” a female voice, but one that I cannot place, whispers. 

    “Language,” I groan. I shuffle to the front of the room and check the desk for plans - which of course, there are none. Nothing on the board either. Why did I answer the phone? 

    “Do you all have something you should be working on?” I ask, the blank stares immediately telling me that they don’t - or if they do, they aren’t divulging any information.

I look for a friendly face, an ally in the crowd - but the closest I have amongst them is Jadyn and The Hurricane, and their averting eyes tell me that I’m once again a man without a plan, a lost wanderer, Frodo without Sam - surrounded by a pack of hostile orcs.

    I debate channeling Mister Thomas, math teacher, laying a few whoppers on them, tossing a few word problems their way, and trying to teach these kids math - but this is twelfth grade and is well beyond even his area of expertise… and over the last few years I’ve come to learn that everything I ever learned about math was wrong… so that’s out of the question. 

I could always give them a block to catch up on missed work and hope that’s enough to keep them quiet… but I know these kids well enough to know that’d leave me walking a tightrope over a sea of sharks. 

    Well… I guess that leaves one option. 

><><><

Niceteen faces stare blankly around the room as I ramble on about a text they’ve never read, and I experience the epitome of zero-class engagement. Some are drawing in their notebooks, others on the desks, most are gazing off into nothingness and pondering life’s mysteries. No one’s listening - but everyone is silent. Class is half over. I’m halfway to freedom. 

“Consider the text as a metaphor -” 

“What’s a metaphor?” Someone asks. 

“Are you stupid?” Another girl asks 

“Who you calling stupid b***h?” 

Time stands still. There are words that I hear all the time, swears that go in one ear and out the other. B***h is one of those words that I hear constantly, but it’s not always used in anger or aggression, but that definitely felt a little borderline. Sometimes I have to replay situations in my mind of things that have just happened, and I look for something, a key detail that might help me decide how I must respond. I drift back six seconds... 

><><><

“Consider the text as a metaphor �"“ I said. 

“What’s a metaphor?” I was cut off by Lindsey Guzman and I was on the verge of responding to her question when another voice chimed in.  

“Are you stupid?” It was Lexi Perkins who asked the question, Lexi, who rumor has it (because the kids don’t know when sharing things with me becomes TMI), has perhaps been engaging in some sort of relationship with Manny Lopez, Lindsay’s boyfriend. 

“Who you calling stupid b***h?” Lindsay said back to her, and I suddenly become aware of the tone, and the look in her eye as she said it, and now as she stands up to her feet, her fist clenched, I know that there’s about to be more than just a ripple in the water.

Virgil? Where are you?

“Lindsay, Lexi, relax. Sit down,” I say, but my words do nothing to quell the impending battle. Panic sets in. Lindsay stomps towards Lexi, who throws herself away from the desk, rises to her feet and looks ready to throw down - and this all happens in the span of about two seconds and I’m on the other side of the room again telling them to stop but there’s nothing I can do.  

“Yo!” A voice booms like a storm signal �" and for a moment I think Virgil may appear - but a thousand holes are poked in my sails when I see that the voice belongs to Rosa Cortez…and she looks pissed, which means a third competitor is about to join the fray and a grim situation is about to get even worse, and at that moment I abandon all hope, but Rosa pushes forward then stops between them. 

“Why don’t you both sit the f**k down and deal with that s**t later?” Rosa says, stepping forward and standing between the immovable object and the impenetrable force - both of whom freeze - blocked by Rosa, the impassable barrier. 

“Sit down, Lexi,” Rosa whispers calmly looking one direction. “Chill out,” she says looking Lindsey’s way and both girls and even though they look pissed and I have no doubt are going to fight at some point, they sit down �" because no one wants to mess with Rosa Cortez. She’s the “baddest” girl in school, the one person no one messes with because crossing the line with Rosa means you unleash Pandora’s box. 

Rosa looks at me for a second, gives me a nod that casually says, “You’re welcome,” and my eyes silently send a heartfelt “Thank you” in her direction. Class goes on, and while it’s not perfect, Virgil stays with me through the rest of the way �" Rosa Cortez, keeping a watchful eye over the scene for any ripples in the water.  

What’s happening? I no longer feel as though every time I see her that a storm’s rolling in �" but almost like she’s… an ally. No, let’s not go that far yet. She’s like a gentle rain storm. The clouds are still dark over yonder �" but maybe… they’re clearing… 

><><>< 

“Hold on a second,” I stop Rosa at the door, “Thanks.”

    “Don’t sweat it,” she says. “You needed the help. You can be kinda a b***h sometimes.” 

    I let the last sentence go in one ear, out the other, “Can I tell you something?” 

    “Sure,” she shrugs. 

    “I’m really impressed with the growth and maturity you’ve shown this year,” I tell her, never expecting those words would come out of my mouth. 

    “Thanks…?” She looks equally as shocked to hear them.