One Friday Afternoon

Friday afternoons are like mini summer vacations for teachers.  There’s all the jokes about teachers and free summers, but the truth is this–in order for teachers to maintain the patience needed to deal with young minds, teachers need summer vacation.  And by Friday afternoon teachers patience is waning.

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.”

Staplers should come standard with an emergency release button

Study Hall.  Thursday afternoon.  Last class of the day.  I have a crook in my neck, and I’m counting down the minutes.  I should be grading papers, but I’m staring at the screensaver on my computer.  Most of the kids are quietly working, a few are staring out the window.

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 Cook

Marty Cook’s shoes are never tied.  It’s not for a lack of effort, it’s not that he’s trying to be cool, it’s not that there’s anything peculiar about his shoes or his laces.  Marty just can’t keep his shoes tied.  He can’t keep his wiry blond hair from standing up in every direction, he can’t keep his thick glasses from slipping down his nose, he can’t keep his pencil in his hand, and he can’t keep his mind on his schoolwork for very long.   He gets A’s in Wood Shop and P.E., but not Math or English.  Like all 16-year old boys, he can’t sit still in a desk very long, but he’s quieter than most 16 year old boys.   The other students like Marty.  He’s kind  to everyone, so the girls like him.  The boys like him because he tells good stories about beer, hunting, and women.  (Stories, he of course overhears his Dad tell.)

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.