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| Me during my early years teaching! |
I pulled my car into the
fenced enclosure, neatly sliding into the correct slot, my assigned number.
Walking around to the passenger side door, I heaved out my black tote, hitching
it onto my right shoulder as I leaned forward to heft out the plastic crate
filled with essays and a class set of journals. My muscles screamed in protest
by the time I reached the Administration building where I quickly checked my
box for any important messages, so I set everything down long enough to rotate
my shoulders, fill my pitcher with ice, and chat with a colleague about the day
ahead.
Cutting across the
patio, I nudged open the glass doors and trudged up a short flight of stairs,
turning to the left towards my classroom. Outside my door waited an impatient
group of students.
“Finally.”
“Geeze, Miss. Can’t they
do something about your schedule?”
“You’re always late!”
I ignored their lament
as they recited the same complaints every morning. My work day didn’t start at
my own classroom on my home campus. Instead, my day began on our nine-ten
campus teaching a career studies class to freshmen. I “borrowed” a teacher’s
room on that campus every day, and her resentment at being displaced meant I
had to schlep supplies back and forth because she forbade my students from
using her tape and staples. She’d taped little X marks on the floor where I had
to make certain the desk legs hit. Her rows must be perfectly straight. Because
I had to leave these freshmen five minutes before the end of the class period
to drive to my other campus, an administrator asked this other teacher to step
in so the students would have supervision. This teacher refused, though. I
reasoned that my seniors were capable of waiting in the hallway a few minutes
every morning. Unlike the freshmen, I doubted they’d start throwing punches or
vandalizing anything. However, they did like to complain.
My key turned quickly in
the lock. One student grabbed the crate while the others filed into the room.
Someone flipped on the lights while another student pulled out the bin that
contained the class’s journals. The instructions written on the board before I
left the afternoon before meant these seniors settled down quickly while I
caught my breath.
The windowless room with
its dark-paneled walls and orange carpet constantly carried a scent of mildew.
I’d tried to warm the room with overflowing pots of philodendron and scented
candles. I’d stapled an old bedspread from ceiling to floor along one corner of
the room and placed a small couch with pillows and a floor lamp to create a
reading/writing nook. The room, too tiny for the number of desks it contained,
didn’t feel cramped because I’d clustered the them into groupings of various
sizes.
Last night, I found myself back in
that old classroom. I hadn’t step foot into that space in eighteen years, yet
in my dream last night I lugged my tote and crate, swept up those stairs, and
greeted my students. I caught the wafting aroma of mold and cranberry candles.
I scanned the instructions on the board on the unit on Abnormal Psychology. And
for a moment, I relived in a vivid dream a moment that represented millions of
moments from my teaching career.
This school dream marked the first
return to work from my subconscious mind. I don’t know why this particular
scene surfaced, but the memory reminded me of the joy teaching brought into my
life for many years. I didn’t mind teaching five preparations across two different
campuses because those seniors sitting outside my door resented losing five
minutes of instructional time. They longed to delve into Freud, Skinner, and
Bandura. So if I drift back to work in my sleep, it’s wonderful that I slip back
into one of my best memories where teaching school was a dream.
Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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