Back to School
“September has never meant harvest for me.
It’s all turned around, I’m ass-backward again.
The seeds of congestion are sewn,
They have germinated in my heart-plot
And the annual rooting, the gnarled ties,
All hurt when I breathe.
Now I have to go back and in again,
To undo and untie, roto-till the rough knots,
Clear out, smooth over, clean the slate.
I’d like to have a schedule
That makes more sense.”
“Every day in every classroom, everybody learns something.”
Setting the Scene
The first week of the first five years of teaching elementary school usually ushers in an annoying sore throat and chest cold.
I always showed up excited to welcome thirty new friends. Children arriving from nearby neighborhoods after a barefoot summer at the beach, and camp-outs in the redwoods, now assembled before me, bright-eyed and beautiful. Ready for me to be their conductor on a nine-month tour.
If I were an aura reader, or a clairvoyant, or had a more dependable visual memory, I would describe each new class as a gathering of energies, a lovely field of vibrant flowers, with an effervescence you wouldn’t believe.
Yes, misty, gaseous molecules…spreading, moving, swaying gracefully above, around, and through the group. If I had to guess, I’d say there were probably bubbly pale yellows, drifting through neutral gray spaces, into buoyant pinkness.
Eventually, I realized that the simple Germ-Spread-Theory of Back-to-School-Colds was a pretty good companion piece to my esoteric ephemeral effervescent explanation. But I do love to play with words and shapes and colors.
Playing the Roles
During my tenure as a classroom teacher (decades before anyone imagined shooting little kids) I stepped into various non-instructional roles in the Public School System. Every teacher does. Teachers are de facto Role Models and Shape Shifters.
We have always worn many hats in the course of each day. We are referees and diplomats, care takers and planners, liaisons, advocates, cooks, and entertainers.
Certified experts in curriculum and behavioral management, teachers also know our way around a First Aid Kit and the Heimlich maneuver. We are Mandated Reporters, trained to notice signs of possible child abuse or neglect.
Character Traits
One role I especially enjoyed was mentoring college students during their last steps leading to certification. They try out textbook theories with my students while real life keeps tossing in more hats to juggle from the sidelines. College courses don’t cover plans for emotional break downs in front of a captive audience.
They don’t have words for it, but children sense fear and confusion in a grown up who is not in control up there at the front of the class. They react as a group, a vibration, like the Borg, with waxing and waning respect. This manifests first as subtle inattention and can grow to psychological mob cruelty, piling on to disarm the rookie.
I smile and nod; I see it happening, but don’t interfere. Sympathy, comments, and suggestions will come later. Private, respectful feedback sessions, space for reflection and review. What worked, what not so much.
Applying the Method
I can still hear my mentor voice:
“We all make mistakes, we must. We all learn. Good job with Buster, though. What would you like to focus on for tomorrow?”
“We all wish we were already perfect. That very wishing wipes out our ability to see ourselves clearly. There will be tears.”
“If you want to be a teacher, you must accept personal growth. Personal growth is not always pretty along the way.”
“Now might be a good time for an ugly cathartic cry.”
“Here, blow into this paper bag. Your lungs need fresh oxygen, but there’s no room in there. The gasping is not helping. Blow, blow hard.”
“Seriously…runners and mountain climbers will back me up on this. Empty the lungs! Then the breathing will reset automatically. Trust the process. Don’t laugh. Blow!”
Self Reflection
The more time I spent in a classroom, the more I appreciated it as a setting for my own self-discovery, along with the children and the student-teachers. I found that my learning and teaching style is best described as ‘improvisational’, ‘spontaneous’, ‘instinctive’, and certainly ‘empathetic.’
I keep the messy desk of a hoarder, but I’m happy with the way I am, the way I teach. I can look back over years of valuable lessons, good evaluations from superiors, and endearing thanks from former students and their parents. However….
Things Get Real
There is one particular story of which I am not proud.
A mistake, a faulty decision, clashing instincts, common sense out the window. How could a caring, responsible teacher (known to be stoic in emergencies, able to repress emotional distractions to activate life-saving procedures) let this happen?
I have rarely shared this incident, only in therapeutic situations, with trusted friends:
During a sabbatical leave from my regular teaching assignment, I accepted occasional one day substitute assignments in my district. I enjoyed the spontaneity. It was like doing a guest entertainment gig; there was a general schedule for the day, but I could improvise and engage however I wanted.
These were third graders, so about nine years old. Fun already. The teacher’s Science plan called for ‘Animal Behavior > Spiders > Tarantulas.’
Notes detailed a ‘Show and Tell’ by Thomas, who had arranged to bring his Tarantula and introduce him to the class. She suggested we do this right before the morning recess break, so the kids could take their excitement outside after the presentation.
I nod from a distance as Thomas explains how he found the spider and what he had learned about Tarantulas. There are many impressed oohs and aahs from the kids as he walks around to let everyone see inside the Mason Jar. It is a LARGE blackish brown tarantula. It has eight legs, of course, as each of us count and confirm for ourselves, and he is very hairy.
Thomas gives us some interesting facts about tarantulas. Most people don’t realize that even though they look scary and dangerous, “it ain’t necessarily so”.
That catchy phrase from the soundtrack of ‘Porgy and Bess’ has now latched on as a Category One Ear Worm, a jazzy eight-note riff, a reverberating warning.
“They don’t bite humans unless they feel threatened by them. Their bite isn’t going to kill you or send you to the hospital. It is like a bee sting,” Thomas assures us.
“The things that you’re liable to read in the bible, it ain’t necessarily so…”
The tarantula is clearly Thomas’ pet. He takes him out of the jar and lets him rest on his hand and crawl up his arm. Most of us gasp to see this. I am impressed but a little tight in the chest, and signal Thomas to put him back in the jar. Once the lid is back on, I join the cheers and applause.
Their exuberance carries the class out the door to the playground. What a show!
I was already aware of the gist of Thomas’ research on tarantulas. I knew they got a bad rap just for being so big and hairy. I also knew another fact he hadn’t mentioned. I knew that when surprised or alarmed, Tarantulas Jump!
I saw one jump at my big brother when we were kids. Their paths met unexpectedly on the sidewalk. I disappeared discreetly into the shadow of a sticker bush and never mentioned what I had witnessed. My brother was my hero, and he had never been afraid of anything in all his six years. But the three of us were pretty much completely undone by the moment.
So the kids grabbed snacks and rushed out the door to recess. I was looking forward to the break myself, to get to the Adult Restroom on site, having trained my bladder to synch with the specific time I was permitted to go.
The Tragic Flaw
Thomas left the Tarantula Jar on my desk and joined the revelers. The last one out rushed past my desk and disappeared into bright daylight before the door closed.
Simultaneously there was a Loud Splat and Crashing Glass!
Sudden High Pitched Silence…probably from the overhead lights.
I am paralyzed. I can’t breathe or swallow. No gasp, no scream. Not a coherent thought. Zero plan.
I peak over the desk to the floor. Broken jar, chards of glass. No tarantula. I think I hear velvety scuttling, moving away from me toward the far wall.
Fight or Flight hormones gush down pathways in my brain and into the intercom phone on the wall behind the desk:
“Tarantulas Jump!”
“I Need Help!”
“Send the Custodian!”
“Tarantula Escaped!”
“Hurry!”
“Hairy! Scary! Jumping! Hiding! Waiting to get me! Under the bed! Fangs!”
“Save the children!”
“Hurry, Hurry, Hurry!”
Tension
Stan the Custodian knocks and enters with a bucket and a broom.
His face changes from ruddy to pale when he sees me, wide-eyed, hyperventilating, pointing to the upright piano against one wall.
“I think he went behind the piano!”
I watch Stan gingerly roll one end of the piano away from the wall, forming a V-space to do what he has to do. I hear a few humiliated shouts and grunts, banging and knocking, and I can see the shapes of the struggle between man and beast, piano and broom. At the end there is the stench of battle, dust disturbed, and a dead tarantula in the bucket.
I really need to get to the bathroom.
“How the Heck did he get in here?” Stan wants to know.
“One of the kids brought him for Show and Tell.'‘
A deep rumbling germ of a thought begins to bubble up from my gut and take form, but I can’t quite see it.
“Well then, why the Heck didn’t you get the kid in here to catch him?'
Oh crap. Good question…
Stan stomps his way out, upstream, with the bucket and the broom, against the flow of kids swarming back into the classroom.
It was incredibly sad to explain to the class what happened to our friend the Tarantula. I told Thomas how sorry I was for the way it turned out, but I couldn’t admit that my panic in the emergency caused the tragedy.
I was so ashamed. I failed to consider the most obvious and sensible course of action: Let Thomas find and coax the Tarantula out…they’re friends. That would have been the Big Lesson of the day, and I destroyed it.
Monitor and Adjust
“OK, what would you like to focus on tomorrow?”
Sherry, you are my teacher hero. I came to the game late--in my fifties--and was astounded at how difficult the work was. I did my best, but almost always felt behind the curve...Effervescence es my new favorite. Thank you for sharing.
Good Morning Madame Killam - LOVE “Effervescence” (Do you sell your art?)
I also liked your poem, and could relate to it very well, on August first my brother died and that poem holds true.