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Simply A Substitute
Oct. 20th, 2008 10:13 pm 7 a.m.
I am jolted awake by the clanging bells of my alarm clock. I fumble with it for a moment before I can get it to cease the cacophony. I open my eyes. I take a deep breath, not really ready to face another day, but faced with little choice. I turn on the TV, Weather Channel, so I can figure out what to wear, what to tell my son to wear. Soon I am swept up in the morning routine of getting him ready and out the door to the bus, getting myself ready and out the door to the high school. So it begins.
8:20 a.m.
I am settled into my classroom, having dashed through the main office to grab a daily bulletin, greeting teachers and students as I go. I am smiling. I am asked, frequently, who I am subbing for by various students, only to have my answer greeted with smiles and happy exclamations if it is a class they take, or groans of dismay and entreaties to "sub for their teachers" if I'm not in one of their classes. I am hugged. I am shown a new tattoo, a new pair of shoes, a new hair color, a new piercing. I look over the lesson plans...will I be proctoring a test? Watching a movie? Actually teaching a lesson? One never knows. Bells ring, and the day begins.
9:40 a.m.
His name is Michael*. He comes up to my desk, looking for all the world like he is about to toss his cookies. He mumbles a request to go to the bathroom, and even though I am not really supposed to let kids leave the classroom. (They are somehow supposed to change classes, go to their lockers, go to the bathroom, and anything else within the five minutes between classes) or I'm supposed to fill out their hall pass notebooks, but I don't think he can wait, so I wave him on. He returns in a bit, pale as a ghost. I ask him quietly if he needs to go to the office and sign out, but he says there is no one at home to come get him. He looks and feels feverish, so I have him lay his head on his desk and leave a note for his teacher that he looks truly ill. I wish there is more that I could do for him, but things like school nurses just don't exist anymore. I can't even give him a few Tylenol, though I have dispensed quite a few Band-Aids, feminine products, safety pins, and the occasional granola bar for the kid who hasn't eaten.
11:35 a.m.
Her name is Ashleigh. She is a pretty girl with blond hair and a round face. She has a voice that could send dogs howling when she gets excited, as it quickly climbs octaves. She complains to me about her mother. Not normal teenage complaints, this one. She complains that her mother is a M.I.L.F., that her friends want to date her mom. She tells me about her mother buying alcohol for her and her friends, painting a picture of a woman desperately trying to be younger than she is by hanging out with teenagers and trying to get them to think she is cool. She shows me pictures of her mom (who is very thin and attractive), of her boyfriend, of her life. She confides that she has battled bulimia in the recent past and sometimes wonders if she shouldn't go back to that, as she is frustrated having a mother thinner and prettier than herself. I tell her I understand, that I, too have battled an eating disorder, and that it must be tough having a parent who tries to be a teenager. I let her know she isn't alone.
1:10 p.m.
His name is Dakota. He is one of two openly gay males in our high school. He talks to me about his boyfriend in a neighboring town. I ask to see a picture, and he proudly shows me one. I ask if he is out to his parents, and he says he is, and that they are very supportive. I catch his eye and maintain eye contact as I tell him I know exactly what it is like to come out to your parents at a young age. There is a moment of silence as it sinks in what I am telling him, without telling him anything at all. A smile spreads across his face as he realizes he really does have a teacher he can talk to about things, and he spills about how tough it can be in a small town, but that he is lucky to have a great boyfriend and parents who just want him to be happy. He reaches out, as if to give me five, but then wraps his large hand around mine for a warm moment. I am so proud of the courage of this young man.
3:05 p.m.
Her name is Cassandra. Her family is dirt poor, living on the wrong side of the tracks...pick your euphemism. She hovers over my desk, eager to have someone to talk to. The other kids don't talk to her much. I've seen it in the halls. She drifts from class to class looking for a kind smile, and she doesn't get very many of them. She shows me drawings her brother has done that she carries in a sketchbook. She tells me of her kitten, Tom. I get frustrated, sometimes, by her constant hovering, but I try to remind myself that she doesn't have anyone else to talk to. I listen, and hope that someday she will grow out of this awkward stage and find her place in life. I watch the clock.
3:20 p.m.
The bell rings. Students rush out, and I tell them to have a great day, a great weekend, a great life. I straighten the classroom, give it a final look around to make sure everything is in order, and turn out the lights. Tomorrow will bring another classroom, another set of students, another set of challenges, another set of rewards. Today was payday, but the check on the 20th has so little to do with why I'm a teacher, even if I am simply a substitute.
*all students names changed.
I am jolted awake by the clanging bells of my alarm clock. I fumble with it for a moment before I can get it to cease the cacophony. I open my eyes. I take a deep breath, not really ready to face another day, but faced with little choice. I turn on the TV, Weather Channel, so I can figure out what to wear, what to tell my son to wear. Soon I am swept up in the morning routine of getting him ready and out the door to the bus, getting myself ready and out the door to the high school. So it begins.
8:20 a.m.
I am settled into my classroom, having dashed through the main office to grab a daily bulletin, greeting teachers and students as I go. I am smiling. I am asked, frequently, who I am subbing for by various students, only to have my answer greeted with smiles and happy exclamations if it is a class they take, or groans of dismay and entreaties to "sub for their teachers" if I'm not in one of their classes. I am hugged. I am shown a new tattoo, a new pair of shoes, a new hair color, a new piercing. I look over the lesson plans...will I be proctoring a test? Watching a movie? Actually teaching a lesson? One never knows. Bells ring, and the day begins.
9:40 a.m.
His name is Michael*. He comes up to my desk, looking for all the world like he is about to toss his cookies. He mumbles a request to go to the bathroom, and even though I am not really supposed to let kids leave the classroom. (They are somehow supposed to change classes, go to their lockers, go to the bathroom, and anything else within the five minutes between classes) or I'm supposed to fill out their hall pass notebooks, but I don't think he can wait, so I wave him on. He returns in a bit, pale as a ghost. I ask him quietly if he needs to go to the office and sign out, but he says there is no one at home to come get him. He looks and feels feverish, so I have him lay his head on his desk and leave a note for his teacher that he looks truly ill. I wish there is more that I could do for him, but things like school nurses just don't exist anymore. I can't even give him a few Tylenol, though I have dispensed quite a few Band-Aids, feminine products, safety pins, and the occasional granola bar for the kid who hasn't eaten.
11:35 a.m.
Her name is Ashleigh. She is a pretty girl with blond hair and a round face. She has a voice that could send dogs howling when she gets excited, as it quickly climbs octaves. She complains to me about her mother. Not normal teenage complaints, this one. She complains that her mother is a M.I.L.F., that her friends want to date her mom. She tells me about her mother buying alcohol for her and her friends, painting a picture of a woman desperately trying to be younger than she is by hanging out with teenagers and trying to get them to think she is cool. She shows me pictures of her mom (who is very thin and attractive), of her boyfriend, of her life. She confides that she has battled bulimia in the recent past and sometimes wonders if she shouldn't go back to that, as she is frustrated having a mother thinner and prettier than herself. I tell her I understand, that I, too have battled an eating disorder, and that it must be tough having a parent who tries to be a teenager. I let her know she isn't alone.
1:10 p.m.
His name is Dakota. He is one of two openly gay males in our high school. He talks to me about his boyfriend in a neighboring town. I ask to see a picture, and he proudly shows me one. I ask if he is out to his parents, and he says he is, and that they are very supportive. I catch his eye and maintain eye contact as I tell him I know exactly what it is like to come out to your parents at a young age. There is a moment of silence as it sinks in what I am telling him, without telling him anything at all. A smile spreads across his face as he realizes he really does have a teacher he can talk to about things, and he spills about how tough it can be in a small town, but that he is lucky to have a great boyfriend and parents who just want him to be happy. He reaches out, as if to give me five, but then wraps his large hand around mine for a warm moment. I am so proud of the courage of this young man.
3:05 p.m.
Her name is Cassandra. Her family is dirt poor, living on the wrong side of the tracks...pick your euphemism. She hovers over my desk, eager to have someone to talk to. The other kids don't talk to her much. I've seen it in the halls. She drifts from class to class looking for a kind smile, and she doesn't get very many of them. She shows me drawings her brother has done that she carries in a sketchbook. She tells me of her kitten, Tom. I get frustrated, sometimes, by her constant hovering, but I try to remind myself that she doesn't have anyone else to talk to. I listen, and hope that someday she will grow out of this awkward stage and find her place in life. I watch the clock.
3:20 p.m.
The bell rings. Students rush out, and I tell them to have a great day, a great weekend, a great life. I straighten the classroom, give it a final look around to make sure everything is in order, and turn out the lights. Tomorrow will bring another classroom, another set of students, another set of challenges, another set of rewards. Today was payday, but the check on the 20th has so little to do with why I'm a teacher, even if I am simply a substitute.
*all students names changed.
