Martin Brown and Kristy Hanks were without question, the two loudest kids in school.  Martin Brown was senior, a large kid with an even larger mouth who couldn’t stay out of trouble for more than a few days.   He was a gifted actor, completely fearless and quick-witted, and in those days I was desperately trying to harness his energy towards something good.  Kristy Hanks was just as loud and every bit as fearless.  She was a star athlete, a good student, a tom-boy with grace,  a 15-year old girl with unparalleled self-confidence.  Kristy grew up on a ranch and had that sturdy way about her that comes from moving cattle at 5 a.m. on school mornings and working hard for what you have.

Everyone was trying to sleep, except  Kristy Hanks and Martin Brown who were playfully arguing until something Kristy said made Martin mad and he got mean.    He was accustomed to being mean when he was uncomfortable.  But a strange thing happened when he got mean with Kristy.  She didn’t care.   She was fearless and confident and unaffected which unnerved him.  Martin tried and tried to upset Kristy with his words, but  she just laughed, every comment increasing her laughter.   Eventually, Martin was too frustrated to do anything except pout and try to sleep.   I tried to intervene, but it was difficult to know who to reprimand–Martin for being mean or Kristy for antagonizing.

Kristy wouldn’t let Martin sleep.  “Martin, why are you so quiet?”  “Hey Martin, are you sleeping?”  “Martin what’s wrong, why aren’t you talking any more?”  “Hey Martin what happened?”  After each question, Kristy laughed with glee until I finally had to tell her to leave him alone.

We stopped for gas, and everyone got out of the van, and Martin was fuming.   He had reached a boiling point.  Everything that happened next seemed to go in slow motion.   From across the parking lot, I saw Kristy with her back  to Martin as he snuck up behind her and drew back his thick leg as far as it would go.  He swung his leg forward in an attempt to kick Kristy Martin–hard.  I ran quickly towards them, opening up my mouth to scream at him to stop,  knowing I wouldn’t make it in time.   But Kristy was an athlete, a ranch-girl with quick reflexes.

Before I could utter a word, in one truly glorious move, Kristy turned, caught Martin’s kicking foot in her arms and swept his other leg out from beneath him with her foot.   Martin fell to the ground, and Kristy dove on top of him.  She looped her arms around him, pulling his head to his leg in a half-nelson, pinning  him to the ground.   Martin flailed and bucked, and Kristy held him like a calf she’d just roped, her arms flexing with all her might.  ”Say you’re sorry, Martin!  Tell me you’re sorry for trying to kick me!” Kristy shreiked in pure delight.  I was trying to tell her to let him up, but it was all happening so quickly.  It was then that Martin’s red briefs poked out from his pants.  Seizing the moment, Kristy grabbed hold.  “Tighty reddies!” (as opposed to “tighty whities”)  she exclaimed as she gave the briefs a tug.  “Martin’s wearing his tighty reddies.  Why don’t you call that girl you like and tell her you’re wearing your tighty reddies!”

Martin struggled wildly to get loose and screamed profanity which only made Kristy tighten her grip.   Doubled over in laughter, between breaths, I told Kristy to let him go and she did.   Martin was understandably inconsolable.   I finished getting gas, and we continued on our way.  I drove in silence.   For about 15 minutes.   We had the two loudest kids in the school in our van, and neither of them could stay quiet  for long.

“Yeah Ms. Jane, why are your pants so high?  You should untuck your shirt then you wouldn’t be able to tell they’re so high,” Kelsey adds.

Thursday.  Two years ago there was a Ralph Lauren skirt I eyed all season.  It’s mainly tan and brown striped with a multitude of other colored stripes in the mix, it has a bohemian feel to it, and I eyed it all seaon and finally bought it, and I love it.   I wore it Thursday, and again I felt great.  It’s my favorite skirt, I always feel great in it.  It’s 4th period, my kids are engaged in a group activity, and I’m walking around the room thinking what a good teacher I am in my stylish skirt, and I see Brittany staring at me.

“Do you have a question, Brittany?”

“Have you ever been to Mexico, Ms. Jane?”

“Nope.”

“Well, there are people that try to sell you stuff on the street.   Like blankets.  Your skirt reminds me of those blankets they sell on the street.”

Alex chimes in, “Yeah, it looks like a blanket a Mexican cowboy would put on a horse.”

Chris isn’t my student this year, but I had him last year.   I often have students from years past stopping by to visit, wanting to tell me about their summers, begging for me to talk to the counselor and arrange for them to be in one of my classes this year.  Every seat in all of my classes is taken.  It’s an incredible compliment as a teacher to have full classes of students who requested your course.

I sighed when I saw Chris come in.  It’s not that I wasn’t happy to see him, but I was in a hurry and knew that I had few minutes to spare.   But I smiled and greeted him and asked him how his summer was. “It was ok,” he told me, “we had a death in the family.”   I was distracted, looking at my computer screen, and I completely missed his point.  I heard his words, but I missed their meaning.  I told him, “Oh I’m sorry to hear that,” or something of that sort.  I figured his great aunt had died.  We made some more small talk, but I was only half listening, I was finishing my lessons.  I barely looked up when he left, but I told him to come back and visit me again soon.

Later when I had time to think about it, it occured to me that Chris is a 16 year-old boy, and boys that age don’t tell you about a death in the family if it’s a great aunt.  They don’t mention the death of a great aunt if you ask them about their summers, and they certainly don’t stop by a teacher’s room to talk about it.  What Chris was trying to tell me was that his older brother, the only positive male influence he’d ever known had died last week, and he was not doing well with it, and it felt surreal to be back at school and had him questioning at age 16 the type of man he wanted to grow up to be.  He told all of that to the next teacher he went to visit that morning.

I was so busy working on the “perfect lesson” that I missed what was really important right in front of me.  Years ago when I was a new teacher I was good at running a classroom and had good rapport with my students but was blissfully unaware of things like dwindling  state test scores, the need for instruction to accommodate different learning styles, pacing guides, differentiated instruction,  reading across the curriculum, “best practice”, and discovery based learning.   My lessons were not good–heck I didn’t even plan lessons, I stood by the overhead and showed the kids how to do math.  But I was fun and energetic, and I was present with my kids every day.

Chris will be fine.  He’s resilient in that way that some kids are.  I saw him laughing and wrestling with a friend in the hall  later that week.   But I missed an opportunity I won’t get back.  But there will be more.  More students stopping by after school, before school, over lunch.  There will be break-ups with boyfriends and girlfriends, fights with friends, fights with parents, and maybe some even bigger things.  And next time whatever work I have to do will just have to wait.

Students want their teachers to be ”on” always, there’s no allowance for bad days or being tired.   It’s like their teacher, that classroom is the one consistent thing in their little lives, and you exist for them, you’re not a person with a life outside of that room.  Not to them.   They will make allowances for you to be sick.  Physically sick, that they understand.  If they like you, they’re angels when you’re sick.  Short of that they expect the same person, the same energy level every day.  And by Friday, teachers need a breather.

One Friday afternoon I needed a breather.  My room is not air conditioned, and with 30 hormone filled bodies crammed into the desks it felt like it a heater was blowing.  It was 7th hour, the kids were restless.  The varsity football team had its first scrimmage that night, there were rumors of a big party afterwards, and the clock seemed to stand still.   The lights were off–someone thought it would help cool down the room, I figured it was worth a try.   I was trying to teach them to simplify algebraic expressions, and I was losing the battle.  I needed the weekend too; I was watching the clock with them.

I had given them a problem to attempt to see what they knew, I should have given them more than one.  They all finished it before I had time to make it around the room once.  Thirty hands waved frantically.  “Put your hands down, everyone,” I announced, “I’m just going to walk down the rows and look at your paper.  I’ll get to each of you.”

They put their hands down momentarily.  But they were antsy, desparate, and hopeful.  Antsy for the day to be over, desparate for me to check their papers first, and hopeful for the right answer (which could mean no bookwork).  The hands began to fly again.

“Ms. Jane.  I’m done”  “Ms. Jane. Can you look at mine?”  “Ms. Jane, I was first.”  “Ms. Jane is this right?”  “Ms. Jane, I’m done.”  “Ms. Jane.”  “Ms. Jane.”  “Ms. Jane.”  “Ms. Jane.”  “Ms. Jane.”  “Ms. Jane.”  “Ms. Jane.”  “Ms. Jane.”

I felt a drop of sweat on my forehead, good lord couldn’t we get a breeze? Was it 13x or 10x?  Crap, I couldn’t remember.

“Ms. Jane! Can we just…”

It happened at that moment.  That final, “Ms. Jane…”.  My patience was gone.  Michelle Jones, one of my best students had the misfortune of being the last to speak. She was asking a question, but I didn’t let her finish.   At that moment I lost my temper with her and the entire class.

“JUST…..A……SECOND!”  I hissed through gritted teeth, as my students jumped in suprise.  “There is ONE of me and THIRTY of you.  BE. PATIENT,” I growled, oblivious to the irony  of  my statement.  “I want all hands DOWN.  Do not raise your hand.  Do not say, ‘Ms. Jane…’.  I know you’re finished.  Sit there and wait for me to come to you.  Do not TALK.  Do not GET UP.”

Thirty pair of wide eyes looked back at me.  No one moved.  I don’t think anyone blinked.  I thought I saw Michelle start to say something else but she closed her mouth.  I doubt she’s ever received a frown from a teacher let alone a stern word.  I took a deep breath; it felt a few degrees cooler in the room.   It was 13x.  Not 10x.

My students sat like statues.  I began to finish checking their answers one by one.  I arrived at Ryan’s desk.  I stared at his paper.  He looked nervous.  Frowning suspiciously, I narrowed my eyes at his paper.  His careful calculations were much shorter than his classmates’.  Two lines for what should have 5 lines.  I picked up the paper for a closer look.   Trying not to anger me again, Ryan quickly offered, “I found a quicker way to do it.  I think it’s right–I got the same answer.   But I can do it again your way.”

I was amused.  “My way?  There is no ‘my way’.   Or “your way.”  Only correct mathematical ways supported by sufficient explanation.  That’s why I make you show your work.”

“Huh?” he mumbled.

“Never mind.  Your way is good.  Quicker and easier than how I would have done it.  It’s clever.  Nice work,” I said with a smile.  “Why didn’t you mention you had found an easier way to do it?

“Well, we all kind  of figured it out…Michelle tried to tell you…” his voice trailed off.

I looked at Michelle, she smiled at me.   Oh, I was the worst teacher.  My eager, inventive students were trying to get my attention.  Sure they were being impatient, they could have waited for me  instead of shouting out, but they were in the moment focused on their Math on a hot Friday afternoon.  Oh, I was the worst teacher.

“I did it that way too, but I was scared to tell you after you yelled at Michelle,” added Darlene.

Yup.  I was officially the worst teacher.   There was nothing left to do but  apologized for losing my  temper.  To Michelle and to the class.  That’s what grown-ups should do when they’re wrong–at least I could teach them that.  I apologized, and they were eager to forgive with a choruses of  ”That’s ok, Ms. Jane!”  Teenagers can be quite lovely when they want to be.

Their cheerful disposition softened me even more.  There was a full ten minutes left in class, and I did something I NEVER do.  I let them close their books, and I ended class early.  “Seriously!?” they exlaimed, “You are the BEST teacher Ms. Jane.”

Angie and Rick are at the table in the far corner, which is the best place to be in my classroom.  The table sits in a nook between a student supply table and the wall, and with the warm light of a floor lamp, colorful displays, and a few house plants, it makes for a nice haven.  Angie and Rick are seniors and they’re popular seniors and there’s something unspoken about them sitting there every day.  They’re honors students, extremely intelligent–they’ll run companies some day.

So I can’t really see what Rick and Angie are doing because I have to hold my head at a strange angle because of the crook in my neck.  Rick approaches my desk and asks if I can come to the back of the room for a minute,  and I can tell he’s serious.  I walk back to the nook and Angie’s face is ghastly and something is happening.  They speak to me in hushed tones, and I’m waiting to hear that one of them or one of their friends is in serious trouble…Drugs?  Pregnancy?

“How do you open your stapler?” Rick whispers.

I’m dumbfounded.

“What?” I ask.

“Umm….how do you open your stapler?” He whispers again, looking around to make sure no one has heard.

“Seriously…what?” I ask again.

“See, Angie was playing with the stapler and it’s stuck….”

And then I looked down, and Angie, an honors student, appears to be holding my stapler.  But the stapler is holding her.  Attached to her hand, clamped shut tightly a staple lodged deep and tight into her index finger.

For a split second, it occurs to me that a couple of years ago I was overseeing multi-million dollar budgets and flying in private jets with U.S. Senators, and today lord-willing I will dislodge a stapler from Angie Jachovich’s hand.  But I have no time to ponder the irony.

Seemingly unphsed, I turn over the stapler as if this happens ever day, and I press the release button.  Angie yelps loudly.  Pressing the release button pushes the staple deeper into her finger.  I look around, and we have an audience.  I’m sweating.  Angie starts crying.   And on the inside I panic.  I was fine until she started crying, but now I’m worried.  On the outside I’m calm.

“Honey don’t cry.  We’ll get it.  How bad does it hurt?”  (Rick and I are now both pulling with all our might.)

“Ms. Jane it doesn’t hurt…” (Wait, is she laughing or crying…?) “I’m crying because….I’m embarrassed!”

I look around, and our audience has grown.  A circle of curious eyes, gathered around to watch me and Rick try to pry Angie Jachovich’s hand from the stapler.  By 3:45 the whole school will know.  This is a huge social blunder for a 17 year old girl.  Angie is mortified.  And crying.

Rick has the bottom of the stapler, I have the top, and the damn thing will not open.  Why isn’t there an emergency release button?  How could a stapler not open?  All eyes are on me–Angie’s, Rick’s, the rest of the class…Teachers are supposed to be able to fix everything.  This I can not fix.  I’m stumped.

Scratching my head, I take a step back, and Rick suggests walking Angie to the office.  Angie seems horrified that more people will see, but she also really wants her hand released from the stapler, and she knows there’s no other way.  Out they go, Rick, Angie, the stapler.

“Back to work, ” I assert, and I go back to staring at my screen saver.  A while later they return, and Angie is showing off a band-aid, and Rick is telling the story how many people it took to pry open the stapler, and I’m digging out my Lysol wipes.

After school as I’m disinfecting the stapler, I have time to think about that aforementioned irony, and I think about what I gave up to teach–the salary, the power, and the perceived glamour.  And I think how nothing can replace that feeling–that knowing it in your gut feeling–that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing what I am meant to do.

I shut the windows and turn off the fans, give my classroom a final glance before turning out the lights and locking the door.  And I head home to rest the crook in my neck.

Marty’s dad works at the factory all day and drinks at night.  His older brother sleeps all day and drinks at night.  His mom works two jobs.  Marty lays low.  Stays out of the way.  Sometimes he steals a beer or two from his dad and plays video games, sometimes he walks to the coke machine downtown with friends.  He ignores his brother’s drunk friends, and he ignores his dad’s drunk friends.  When he turns 18 next year, he’ll get a job at the factory.

Last year, Marty Cook missed a few weeks of school to go on a hunting trip with his dad and his uncle.  When he got back his clothes were more dirty and wrinkled than normal, and he was more behind in Algebra than normal.  I sat him near the back of the room where I could work with him individually until he was as much behind as was normal for Marty Cook.   I was in front of the class teaching about exponents and Marty was cutting out flashcards with scissors.

Everyone was taking notes (like bases in multiplication means add exponents) and Marty who was normally quite pale was growing increasingly red, and then Juan stopped taking notes to say something to Marty, and then everyone else seemed to be caught between Algebra and something else.

Trying to regain the attention of my class, I plead, “Ok, guys I need you with me for a few more minutes.”

Juan, who has a really big mouth (literally and figuratively)  tattled.

“Miss Jane, Marty got his hand stuck in the scissors.”

I looked at Marty who was by now purple.  Every eye in the room looked from me back to Marty.

Of course.  Of course Marty Cook had his hand stuck in the scissors.  I wasn’t even surprised.  I was lucky Marty didn’t cut off a finger with those 6th grade safety scissors.   I walked to the back of the room with every eye still on me.  Marty was tugging at the scissors with all his might.  Ass I got a closer look, I saw that indeed the scissors were firmly attached to the base of his fingers–where a normal person would wear a ring.

And then the advice started. The wise advice of 16 year old boys.

From Juan: “Marty why did you have the scissors so far down on your fingers anyway?  That’s why they got stuck.”  (Decent advice albeit 5 minutes too late.)

From Bobby: “Miss Jane, you need a lock cutter.” (For a 3 mm ring of plastic tightly wound around a finger.)

From John:  ”Just leave it.

From Chris: “They have saws down in the shop.  I can go ask Mr. Adams for one.” (For a 3 mm ring of plastic tightly wound around a finger.)

And finally from Jose:  ”Do you have any lotion?” (Which was a pretty good idea, actually.)

Lexie Frank had lotion in her purse.  With the whole class gathered around, I greased up Marty’s fingers and the scissors.  On the count of three I pulled the scissors and Marty pulled his hand, and in one triumphant moment Marty was free.  Everyone cheered as if they had all just been a part of something important, something bigger than themselves.

I walked back to the front of the class strangely unaffected by the fact that my Algebra lesson had digressed to unsticking Marty Cook’s fingers from a pair of scissors.  I was equally unaffected a few weeks later when Marty got his head caught in the sleeve of his sweatshirt during a lesson on fractions, and I was not surprised a few weeks after that when Marty discovered that a bag of mashed potatoes had exploded in his book bag.  Marty Cook’s shoes are never tied, and it kind of works for him in a weird way.

I was standing at the front of the room talking about an upcoming test.  Half the class was writing down the details in their planners, half the class was spacing off, and Juan Contreras was squinting at me, because as always Juan couldn’t see.  He desperately needed glasses–or maybe he had them and didn’t wear them.  But Juan couldn’t see anything, which is why I made him sit in the front row. (Yes, I had to make him.)

So  there I was talking about the test, and Juan was squinting, and I asked if there were any questions about the upcoming test. Juan raised his hand.  ”Umm….Ms.  Jane, did you get bit by a spider?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.  It was so random, I  wasn’t even sure I had heard him right.  ”Nope,” I replied, “Any questions about the test?”

“On your forehead.  I think you got bit by a spider.  That can happen in your sleep,” Juan continued.

Oh.  My blemish.  How in the world could Juan Contreras of all people see that?  I mean, I knew it was there, I have 20/20 vision with my contacts, and I could not see it in the mirror.  Juan, half-blind Juan could see it?  Was he faking not being able to see the board?  No way.  No way he would fake being forced to sit in the front row.  Juan was a back row guy.   This was an anomaly. My  thoughts were interrupted.

“Oh. my. god. Juan.  You are SO rude.  That’s not a spider bite, that’s a zit, you moron.”

(Ok, note to self, Lexie Frank also has good eyes.)

“Yeah, Juan.  That’s a zit,” added Bobby.

“Oh, my god, you guys, stop talking about it.  She’s standing right there.  You guys are probably embarrassing her. I would be totally embarrassed if I was her.”  (Thanks, Lexie.)

But it was Juan who was embarrassed, poor kid.  His face was maroon.  Juan adored me, and I suspected he had a crush on me. He had been in trouble with every other teacher, but never me.   He worked hard for me (relatively speaking), he never cussed in my class (a huge gesture), he made me a wooden pencil holder in shop class, and a homemade card for my birthday.   And he was mortified.

Still baffled by the seemingly eagle-eye vision of these kids, I intervened, “Ok, thank you Lexie for your concern.  Yours too, Juan.  Unless anyone has a question about the test I think we should get started.”

Juan raised his hand.

“Yes, Juan?”

“Ms. Jane, don’t worry about the zit.  People will just think you got bit by a spider.”

“Thanks, Juan.”

But, one time my third year teaching I left the classroom.  The copier was literally right down the hall, it would be a 30 second trip, the students were working.  Martin Brown was a new student, and I still didn’t know his capabilities.  Martin Brown was a sophomore, he had gone to our school back in 7th grade, then his family moved, and now they were back.  Martin was fat.  There’s no point mincing words.  He was a large kid whose pants never fit.   He was loud, disruptive, brilliant, and bored.

So anyway, I needed copies, and Martin was new, and I made the decision to leave the classroom.  Heart pounding, I hustled down the hall made my copies, and I’m standing by the copying machine, and I hear Martin Brown’s voice over the intercom in the office.  “Testing.  Testing.  Yo, who’s there?”

I should add that our school didn’t use the intercom.  At least not any more.  We used  our phone system for annoucements.  It was all computerized.  We never used the intercom, so I had no idea that it was still functional.  But standing there making copies, I heard Martin’s voice,  and I ran back to my classroom in a hurry to stop him before my principal heard.  I walked through the door and Martin was  standing by the wall pressing the button for the old intercom.  The boys were laughing really hard, and the girls looked  like they’d seen a ghost.

I was furious–partly at Martin and partly at myself for leaving the classroom.  I got the class quiet, and I asked ”What is going on?”  Silence.  The boys were still trying not to laugh, the girls still looked like they’d seen a ghost.  30 blank stares.  Finally Janice answered.  She was a smart girl, the teachers liked her, none of the students did.

“When you were gone, Martin was pressing the old intercom button.  And that’s not all.”

“What else.”

“Martin stood in front of the class, lifted up his shirt, and licked his nipple.”

The girls shrieked at the memory, the boys laughed, and Martin was proud of himself.  Out of all the things I thought I would hear, that statement was not even in the top 100.   Martin was a large kid, and I’m not going to get into the physics of the situation, but I will say that I instantly knew Janice was not telling a lie or exaggerating.

What do you say to that?  In the 30 seconds I was gone Martin Brown figured out the old intercom system and licked his own nipple in front of the class.

I don’t remember what I said or did.  I’m sure I kept him after class.  I doubt I sent him to the office–doing so would reveal that I left the class unattended.  Somehow the day and the moment passed without notice, I never heard a word about it from my principal or any other staff member.  Later that year, Martin would manage to run off one of our English teachers, forcing her into early retirement and would have the lead part in the Spring Musical.  Looking back, he was probably my favorite student I’ve ever taught.  But that day he was not, and that day I vowed that I would never again leave my class unattended.