Just Teach: Chapter 1, Teacher in July

With each stroke I pull closer to shore. Right, left, right, breath. Left, right, left, breath. I swim with my eyes open. The water is filled with gold dust at this hour, with the sun coming up just beyond the island. After five, six breaths I pause to tread water and just look, at the light and at the land. The mayflies look magical rising and diving above the surface. Then I put my head down and keep going.

I hate the way my skin tightens with the cold. The roaring in my ears is disorienting. I am afraid of what I cannot see, but I insist on looking down into the green deep and each time I do so the panic takes my breath away. Where am I? What’s coming next? I cannot relax. And I haven’t had a swimming lesson in years. Shouldn’t I be doing it better?

I do not enjoy swimming.

I swim because I feel it is my duty. The water is here, so close and obvious, daring us to join the ecosystem of fish and insects and amphibians. Who would I be to sit on the dock and just look in? I want to be brave. I want to be good.

Kick, kick, pull. Kick, kick, pull. I know I am swimming, that this is what it is like to swim. But I cannot shake the insistent feeling that with each breath I am almost drowning.

***

I need to get to work. It’s seven, seven fifteen, seven thirty, and I’m shopping for kitchen gadgets in some Big Box Store, like Cosco, but really Family Dollar. It’s strangely bright and crowded at this hour, which is weird, and I really need to be at work, but I just can’t manage to leave. My students will be showing up at my classroom door any minute, but I didn’t call in for a sub, or tell anyone where I am, and there’s no way I’ll be there in time, and it’s a problem, but I just can’t find what I need yet. Then suddenly Big Box Store is work, so I’m on time, and the first bell is just ringing.

A swell of relief lifts me out of sleep, I turn off my alarm, pull off the clammy sheets, and leave Mark, inert and oblivious, on his side of the bed. I’m okay. It’s still August.

When I turned in my classroom key eight weeks ago, I was as brittle, fragile, the carcass of a cicada. Exhausted, cynical, anemic, a resignation letter saved on my computer from a particularly bad week in mid-May. After submitting my final grades and shutting the door to an empty classroom, I had to drag myself into the principal’s office for check-out.

Dr. Moore sat at the conference table in her office behind a laptop and a tall stack of manila folders, a plastic tub of classroom keys beside her. She looked up from her computer as I handed her my packet.

“Thank you, Ms. Martin,” she said, labeling my key and dropping it into the tub. She added a check mark next to my name on a clipboard. I handed her my End of Year Closeout Packet, which she glanced at before tossing it on the pile. Then she looked at me over her reading glasses and said, “I hope this summer you have a chance to…” She paused, and I was sure she was going to tell me to “look for a more suitable career,” but instead she said, “Reboot.” As if I could just turn myself off and back on again and that would fix the problem.

I wanted to say, “I quit.” I could have done it. I could have walked off into the sunset of June and never looked back. I think I would make a great barista.

Instead I said, “Thanks. Have a nice summer,” because it takes a full charge to find a new job, and I was at one percent. Dr. Moore might have appreciated my resignation, one less struggling teacher to worry about. But every teacher who leaves must be replaced by another, and honestly they can’t find enough warm bodies to fill the classrooms. So she handed me a coupon to Baskin Robins from the PTO and said, “See you in September.”

Most of the teachers I know work during the summer out of necessity or habit. The extra money would be helpful, but I put no price on my sanity. It takes six solid weeks of rest, play, daily drinking, and not thinking about anyone’s children but my own, to exorcise my demons.

But teaching is like childbirth: each summer I forget the pain and remember only the exhilaration of watching light bulbs turn on.

By mid-July I was scouring Craigslist for used trombones (because I am finally going to learn to play the trombone). I registered for a ceramics class at the Community College. I started a blog about best teaching practices (because this year I am finally going to be a great teacher). And when my mom asked me during our annual trip to the lake, “How’s teaching going, honey?” I said, “Great!” And it was true. I love being a teacher in July.

But the pleasure cruise of July turns into the commuter train of August, heading towards the solid rock wall of September.

But it’s still August, so I quell the panic with a hot shower, make a cup of tea to go, feed the dog and cat to keep them quiet, and sneak out of the house before my children wake up. I warned them last night that, “The party is over. Mama’s going back to work.” Louise, at seven years old, sort of gets it. She can remember being the last kid to be picked up from aftercare and that Sundays are “Daddy Days” so Mama can work. But Iggy just turned four, and already June is murky in his memory. All he knows is cooked breakfasts followed by books on the couch and walks to the park and playdates and pool time and Mama All Day. Mark’s going to have one hell of a morning with that kid once he wakes up to his new reality. I get into my escape vehicle and make the 20 minute commute out of town.

I could drive this route in my sleep, and some mornings in mid-winter when I need to be at school before sunrise, I practically will. University Street Elementary School is just across the city line in a small suburb. It’s been nearly two months since I have navigated the rotary in front of Town Hall which doubles as the public library. There’s a banner still advertising a spaghetti supper fundraiser at the fire station in June, and another announcing the upcoming Labor Day parade. Party 24/7 Liquor is already busy as the regulars smoke and catch up by the bus stop. A couple dozen men are gathered in the abandoned lot of the old car dealership, waiting to pick up a day of work.

I turn onto University Street and head down the hill. The road is populated with little bungalows and duplexes, each with a postage stamp yard, some with chain link fences protecting patches of dirt compacted by guard dogs, others with picket fences surrounding fastidiously-clipped lawns. Some of the owners are black families who have been in the neighborhood since the urban exodus of the 1970s. Some are white folks whose ancestors migrated from the mountains three or more generations ago. But most of the families are relatively recent arrivals to America, immigrants from Central America, Africa or the Middle East, who landed in this town by chance, and who call it home as much as anyone.

Just before I get to school I pass University Village, which spans five blocks and houses most of USE’s families. Many of the families at University Village survive with vouchers, living close to the poverty threshold, either working all the time for almost no money, or not at all for even less. I slow down when I see a group of boys playing soccer on the yellowing grass between the buildings. They turn their heads to stare at my passing car with feline curiosity. One of them waves. From the shape of his face, he could be Sara Jimenez’s little brother, but he’s bigger than I remember. I grin as I wave back, and then scowl and wag my finger at them like a scolding aunt who has eyes in the back of her head, like I know the trouble they are planning. The little brother laughs and runs after my car in fake pursuit. I smile back at him, and then to myself. We can play. I’m not his teacher yet.

The pleasure I get from seeing this child, practically a stranger to me, pivots somewhere in my stomach into anxiety.

“Why do you teach?” Dr. Moore asked me. It was last May, during my End of Year Professional Review. She had just shared the ratings from my observation, all 2s, “Developing,” with the exception of “Organization of Classroom Space” which she rated as “Ineffective” because it was right after our classroom reward party and I admit things looked pretty chaotic. The desks were all shoved to one side to make room for Just Dance. Not one single, “Effective.” But the observation was unannounced, hardly fair. It’s not every day that I let the class watch an episode of Boy Meets World as a treat. When I saw her come in with her laptop, I had to scramble to make it look like a Social Emotional Learning, which is a stretch, even though it’s a pretty good show.

Then she asked me, “Why do you teach?”

I stared at the ratings on the screen. After four years in the classroom I was still “Developing.” Ineffective.

I could have said, to help raise the next generation of citizens. Or, to close the achievement gap. Or, to do my part for social justice. Or, because I love children. Or, because I need a paycheck and like my summers off. But I could not think of a single thing to say.

“When you have the answer, then I think you’ll start to see some movement on these scores. In the meantime, I suggest you talk with Mrs. Hardy about classroom set up and get some tips.”

Why do I teach?

The concrete pathways of University Village convey people dressed in coveralls and scrubs, security and fast food uniforms, rushing to make the first shift. University Village is often the first stop for immigrants, or for young couples just starting out. For many, it’s a last resort. Nobody stays long if they can help it. So the children at USE appear and disappear from our rosters without warning, as their parents make desperate shuffles to balance the budget, reorganize families, and do what it takes to survive.

The school campus could use a haircut. The grass is knee high and the honeysuckle has completely engulfed the fence. The colorful murals on the exterior of the temporary trailers have faded in the summer heat. Suddenly, I can feel my heart in my chest. I thought I was ready for this, but now I’m not so sure.

The parking lot is more than half full and cars are streaming in. My colleagues climb out of their vehicles in flip-flops and high heels, jean shorts and sundresses. Everyone looks darker and shinier than they did in June.

I park the car on the far end of the lot in the shade of a small tree, and take a slow breath of AC before turning off the car and stepping out into the thick air. Mrs. Truman emerges from her sedan beside me. She was an aide in my classroom two years ago. It was a tough year, “The Year of Cody Brown,” we were called every foul word in the English language, and some in Spanish. When I was driven to hiding in the closet and crying nearly daily, and sent to the hospital twice, once for a bite wound and once for a panic attack. All this from a child no taller than my shoulder with a lisp. It didn’t help that there were twenty-six other fifth graders reading below a third grade level in our classroom, and the asbestos renovation was a nightmare, but still. Mrs. Truman and I spent a good part of it not speaking to one another because of a disagreement about her break schedule, but now there is nothing but affection between us. When you survive a natural disaster like Cody Brown together, you are bonded for life.

I shake of the feeling from Sara Jimez’s little brother, put on a refreshed smile, and give Mrs. Truman a hug. “How was your summer?” I ask. She replies, “Girl, too short!” Then she laughs, because Mrs. Truman is in her seventies and could have retired a decade ago. She knows she can’t stay away. Then she rolls her eyes and admits, “But I figure this is better than throwing away my savings at the casino.”

We move slowly across the asphalt with the masses, heat building under the sun that is now peeking above the roof of the school building. Teachers call out to one another with, “We’re baaaaack!” and, “How ya been?” I catch sound bites about summer adventures.

The administrators don’t look quite so rested. Dr. Moore is propped up in the doorway greeting each of us as we enter. She has a fresh hairstyle, impressively high heels, and a tight blue dress. She looks good, but her “Welcome back” feels forced. Mr. Wright is at the front of the room fussing with the overhead projector and arranging copies. The shaved skin of his bold head glistens with perspiration. I imagine they have been working overtime the past few days to prepare for our return. Presumably, they have taken off a week or two in the past months, but there is no summer reboot for 12-month employees.

I find the table with a huge number three written on card stock and put my things down. I’m back in third grade after an unfortunate experiment in fifth grade last year. Thankfully, Mrs. Bailey retired from third grade, so I have been moved back down to my comfort zone. Eight-year-olds are at the pinnacle of their academic lives. They will never be more awake, more helpful, more kind or complacent. They are sponges. Sure, there are plenty of kids who throw punches and chairs and can curse as well as any sixth grader, but I argue that even those humans are at their best. They still have the seed of infancy. They are brimming with potential energy.

Anything is possible in third grade.

The only downside of moving back to third is Mrs. Hardy, one of the three other teachers on the team. She has been at USE for about a hundred years, and as far as I can tell from a person who goes out of her way to avoid speaking to me, she hates my guts. Mrs. Truman told me not to take it personally. “Mrs. Hardy, she’s just like that,” she said. But either my actions or maybe just my existence have offended her in some way. She is sitting at the table already, and is conspicuous about not saying hello, so I drop my things and head to the refreshment table.

The “Continental Breakfast” as advertised in the agenda, turns out to be Tastykakes that have been cut into halves and a jug of Sunny Delight. I pour myself a paper cup of Sunny D, pick up a Butterscotch Krimpet and mingle.

Coach Ramon is standing by the fan in the corner, arms crossed, accentuating the biceps he has been working on over the summer. He is a beautiful man, to the point of distraction. Mrs. Truman had to tell me to stop hanging out in the gym after I dropped my class off for PE each week because gawking could be considered sexual harassment. In Puerto Rico he was a high school chemistry teacher, but this position was what came up first when our district held a recruitment fair in San Miguel, so he took it.

“Hola,” I say, not at all flirtatiously.

“Hola,” he answers. He always humors my stupid attempts to practice Spanish. God, that smile.

“You ready to be back?” I ask, sipping my Sunny D.

“You bet,”he replies. And then he winks, which might just throw me off my feet, until I catch Mrs. Truman looking at me sideways from across the room, eyebrows raised. I excuse myself with, “Nos vemos,” and speedwalk away.

Sarah Lazarus, the school counselor, stops me with, “Hey, Maggie!” She has a new tattoo of a humming bird on her bicep and looks like the summer did her a well of good. She tells me she has a new boyfriend and took two graduate classes over the summer. Then she waves over Ms. Blake, our special educator, with, “Hey, Monica! Whoa, you have news for us?”

Ms. Blake turns sideways slightly and smooths out her dress to reveal a barely visible belly bump. Only Ms. Lazarus would have the guts and gall to call out a first trimester pregnancy. Ms. Blake smiles. “Only eight weeks, but I’m already showing. Third babies pop fast.” She was on maternity leave last fall, so this is a surprise.

I congratulate her, adding, “You look good.”

“Well, I feel like shit. Been sick almost every day this summer. And exhausted all the time. But here we go!”

The schedule says we will start promptly at 7:45 am, but the copy machine was broken and people continue to trickle in, so at 8:15 we are still milling about and chatting. There is a murmur about the internet being down. The Tastykakes are long gone. The AC in the cafeteria is already straining against the heat of the day and the 89 bodies waiting to get started.

Finally, Dr. Moore steps up to the microphone and taps. Nothing. Mr. Wright jiggles the chord and holds it tightly to the socket in the wall. We are jolted awake by feedback. It’s showtime.

“Good morning!” says Dr. Moore. “Don’t you all look beautiful! Ready for a great year!” I can imagine her as a talk show host. “Let’s have a round of applause for our custodial crew who has been working around the clock to get this place ready for you. Don’t these floors look great?” There is a robust round of applause. The floors are indeed clean and waxed. “And your administrators have been working hard, too. And the summer school teachers. Making sure our babies are more prepared for the next grade. And working on your curriculum materials… The new books should be arriving any day now… Working to make sure this is going to be the best year yet at USE!” The applause is less enthusiastic. I, for one, am not confident the books will arrive on time.

The opening monologue is equal parts sermon, TED talk and stand-up comedy routine. Dr. Moore is warm, funny, optimistic. She is entertaining. As a person, I like her. I would subscribe to her on Youtube. As an administrator, I find her flashy smile and false promises aggravating. Last year she was out of the building more than a third of the days. (Mrs. Truman kept count.) If there weren’t 26 children showing up in my empty, dingy classroom in less than four days, I might be enjoying this. I pull out my notebook to add to my to-do list while Dr. Moore works her way through a powerpoint about the District’s new initiatives.

After an icebreaker of Summer Break Bingo we are instructed to work with our grade level teams. Mrs. Cruz is our grade level chair. She’s Filipina and came to the US about fifteen years ago with a teacher recruitment program. In the Philippines she was a professor of literacy at the University of Manila. I worked with her two years ago and at this point would follow her into battle. She is consistent, calm, and works hard for her kids. She’s also a devout Christian, which comes in handy when I just need someone to pray for me. She likes a good laugh, but she doesn’t mess around. And she makes an excellent pineapple cake, which thankfully she has brought today. The Butterscotch Krimpet won’t get me through lunch.

“Alright team,” she begins. “Welcome back, Maggie. We missed you. Good to see you survived fifth grade. Most of us are old friends, but there are a few new faces, so let’s do introductions first. Who wants to start?”

At the other end of the table, Ms. Dudley pops up and says, “Ok, I’ll go first. You know I’m not shy. Hey everybody!” The table strains against her weight as she struggles to dislodge her legs from the space between the table and the attached bench that was designed for ten-year-old’s stature. Mrs. Cruz, glancing at the timer on the board, gestures for her to please don’t get up, but Ms. Dudley doesn’t hesitate to take the floor when it is offered.

“Now Ms. Martin here, that’s my first born! Hi, baby! I’m so proud of you.” She strides over and gives me a big hug. Bernadice Dudley has been teaching English for Speakers of Other Languages, or ESOL, at USE for as long as there have been “speakers of other languages.” For some reason I can’t remember, she refers to me as her “firstborn child.” It’s both awkward and funny because she is a buxom, black woman and I am a pale, skinny white lady, and although she is fifteen years my senior, to look at us we seem the same age. She is ageless, and her energy is boundless. She is the self-designated cheerleader of any team. She speaks at least four languages fluently, each with a thick South Carolinian accent. “Good morning, y’all. Buenos Dias. Bonjour. Guten tag. I’m Ms. Dudley. I am here to serve you, to honor you, to support you, and to help these babies achieve their dreams. I love you. I thank you.” We applaud politely for Ms. Dudley’s intro. She winks, bows and lands heavily back onto her end of the cafeteria bench.

We rush through the rest of the introductions. I know most of the team, but there are two fresh faces. Cynthia Carter tells us she is new to the area, but not to teaching. She stands at least five foot nine, over six feet with her Afro. She has a quiet, gentle energy. She is originally from California but just moved from Illinois. Her husband is in the military. She has a teenage son. I get the sense she knows what she is doing.

James Lee is also new to the team and the school. He is in his second year with a national teacher residency program, but transferred to USE because his charter school was shut down. He seems smart, astute, quiet and observant for now. He demurely says he’s looking forward to learning from us, but he gives the impression he knows everything already. I give him two years before he applies to law school.

Then there is Mrs. Hardy, who is busy writing names onto folders. “Mrs. Hardy?” Mrs. Cruz invites. She looks up and says, “I’m Mrs. Hardy, and I’m here to work.” Which pretty much says it all.

When the timer goes off, we still haven’t made our poster. Mrs. Cruz quickly writes all of our names on the chart paper and says, “Team name?”

“How about the Third Musketeers?” offers Mr. Lee. Cute. I wonder where he went to college.

Ms. Cruz adds the title to the poster. “Cheer?” she asks.

“All for one, and one for all! Go team!” cheers Ms. Dudley.

For the next hour we work in groups to understand something called the “Coherence Framework” which is impressively incoherent, so instead of talking about the Coherence Framework mostly we talk about summer vacation. At 9:30, Mr. Wright says, “We’re going to break early so you can have ten minutes to use the restroom, because at ten o’clock the water will be turned off for the rest of the day. You may want to fill up your water bottles as well.” There is a rush for the door.

I am relieved to find there is no line at the staff bathroom in the library. I slip inside and bolt the door because the lock on the door handle sometimes fails. In a perverse renovation, they have ripped out the single stall over the summer so that the toilet now sits vulnerably in the corner of the large room. Rust stains still line the mirror and the metal brackets on the floor where the stall once stood. There is no toilet paper, even though I can’t be more than the fifth person to use the restroom today. The paper towel dispenser has also been removed. Reluctantly I pull a brown paper towel from the stack on the sink. I make a mental note to start carrying kleenex with me.

The rest of the morning is a string of activities around our Core Values. The session concludes with a talk about room set-up from Mr. Wright. “Less is more, people. Let’s say it together: Less. Is. More!” Only Ms. Dudley shouts with him. “We’re not going to fill every inch of wall space this year. And if you don’t have your anchor charts up on the first day, we’re not going to worry about that. Because you are in the process of building!”

Subtext: Stop it with all the clutter. The fire marshall gave us a final warning.

It’s a good thing less is more, because according to the schedule we have only five hours before Friday to set up our rooms. The children are arriving in six days.

“And we’ll need your patience,” he adds. “Our wonderful custodial staff has been working all summer to get things ready for you, but there is still more to be done… Oh, and you know we cannot control the building climate. I’m just saying, patience people. Patience.”

Subtext: The AC is out. And don’t even think about complaining.

During the lunch break, I decline an invitation from Mrs. Cruz to join my team for take-out from Jimmy’s Subs. I check the room assignments and head upstairs to 202. It’s the same classroom I had two years ago.

Last year Dr. Moore moved me outside into one of the modular trailers behind the school. We call the structures “temps,” but they have been around for decades. The floorboards of my temp had rotted through in the back corner. I covered the hole with an old rug and pushed a bookshelf on top to keep the cold from seeping in. I hated being out there because some kids had a habit of taking walkabouts when they went to the bathroom, and when it rained, there was a waterfall from the gutter right over the front door. The upside was that I had control of the thermostat. And no one ever bothered me. No “just popping my head in because I was passing by.” The peace and autonomy were almost worth the inconvenience.

It feels nice to be back inside, although I can’t say I have missed these stairs. This is one of the few buildings left in the district with no elevator. I shudder to contemplate carrying all of my boxes up here. As I reach the first landing, I can feel the temperature rise.

The best thing about this room is that I know all of its quirks. I know that I have to open up the grate on the heating unit to stop the humming. I know that the remote control to the ceiling mounted projector won’t work and I will have to use a meter stick to turn it on and off. The loose tiles near the door don’t bother me anymore, or the faint septic smell seeping up from the small bathroom, or the inexplicable pillar in the center of the room. My expectations sufficiently lowered, I am looking forward to settling back in. Indoor plumbing cannot be overrated.

On my way out I check the wall by the door and sure enough, “yur FUkt” is still carved into the paint. I complained about it when I first occupied the room three years ago. I had on my list all year to paint over it, but I never got around to it. The custodian assured me there was a work order to take care of it. But here it is, like a prophecy. I’ll have to find a motivational poster to cover it up.

The premonitory graffiti lingers with me as I make my way back down to the cafeteria for the afternoon session.

The rest of the day is an introduction to the New Curriculum. “You can throw away those old textbooks!” Dr. Moore declares, to scattered cheers and applause. Two years ago we had the other New Curriculum, which is now the Old Curriculum. Dr. Moore seems genuinely enthusiastic. “All materials are online. Scholars will be learning at their own pace.” I pay marginal attention to the powerpoint of graphs and charts demonstrating the curriculum’s effectiveness and how this New Curriculum is sure to boost test scores. I toggle between the tutorial of how to log in and set up a class, and shopping for school supplies online.

Before the end of the day we are called down to the stage one grade level at a time to pick up our supplies. Without a word, Mrs. O’Malley hands me a bright yellow reusable tote bag with the USE logo, like the welcome gift at a conference. The bag is not heavy and includes: a stapler, one roll of tape, a pack of wide-ruled lined paper, two stacks of post-its, one box of pencils, a ball point pen, and two highlighters.

“That’s it?” I ask Mrs. O’Malley. I know we got at least two boxes of pencils last year.

“And take a chart paper from the table,” she adds, moving on to Mr. Lee.

By my calculations this will get me through the first two weeks of school, maybe the first month if I ration. In theory, we can request more supplies as needed, but we must do so by email and last year only one of the dozen emails I sent requesting supplies was ever answered and that was to tell me that there were no more pencils in the building until further notice. Parents were sent a lengthy list of supplies ranging from pencils to hand sanitizer, and some of them will send things in, but it won’t be enough to cover the year.

So as soon as Dr. Moore bangs the gavel after our first day of training, I head to Walmart.

The scene is too similar to my recurring Big Box Store nightmare, so I rush to check off my list. I fill a cart with the things I know I need: more staples, push pins, good pencils (not the cheap generics), good markers and colored pencils, construction paper, a box of copy paper, tape (masking, duct, packing and Scotch), good glue sticks (not the cheap generics), popsicle sticks, thematic borders for my bulletin boards, a class set of blue folders, a class set of red folders, 24 boxes of dry erase markers because they are on clearance, a laminator because it is on sale, and 12 containers of disinfecting wipes. I also fulfill the lists for my biological children’s classrooms, with extra disinfectant wipes and hand sanitizer in case they have new teachers with weak immune systems.

In the check-out lane I am behind another mother with a cart piled high with supplies. I hear her tell someone on the phone, “I mean who do these teachers think we are, anyway? They think I have money for their pencils? I mean, paper towels? Kleenex? That’s bullshit.” My emotions toggle between sympathy (I am about to spend over $100 for my own children’s classrooms.), and rage (You think I made this goddamn list?). I keep my mouth shut.

When the cashier looks at my cart, she says, “You a teacher, huh?”

I resist the impulse to hug her. “How did you know?”

“Teachers buy in bulk.” She starts scanning the items. “And you never can have enough Clorox wipes.”

When I get home I am exhausted. The summer has made me weak. I am relieved to find that everyone seems happy and there is frozen pizza in the oven. I collapse into my husband’s arms while David climbs up my body and Maya waves a stack of drawings for me to see. “How was your day, Teach?” John asks. I close my eyes and do not answer, to which he replies, “I saw that Starbucks down the street is hiring.”

Over the next two days most of our time is spent in planning meetings and trainings. I use the lunch breaks to chip away at my room. I hire Ms. Truman’s grandsons to move my boxes up the stairs and put the desks in place.

On Friday, after I feel more or less satisfied with the state of my room, I go down to the office to pull the cumulative files on each of my students. Mrs. Cruz is there doing the same. “I’ll show you my class list, if you show me yours,” she says. “Who you got?” I show her my list.

“Tyson, drama queen. I had his older brother. They’re all characters. Erica, sweetheart. Tami, she’s on the spectrum but I hear the mom won’t admit it. Smart girl.” The she pauses. “Oh, boy… You got Angela.”

“Angela?” I scan my tired brain for name recognition. I haven’t heard of her. Usually the heavy hitters are infamous.

“I thought she was moving, but she’s on your list. There she is. You got her.”

“What about her?” I look for her file. It is the thickest one in the drawer.

“I hear she’s the reason Mr. Stanley retired early. She’s… Special.”

Subtext: Cody Brown’s got nothing on this girl. It’s going to be one hell of a year.

I spend an hour flipping through files and taking notes. I have:

• Four kids with Individualized Education Plans (IEPs)
• Seven English Language Learners (ELLs)
• Two Behavior Intervention Plans (BIPs)
• Seventeen students reading below grade level (BGLs)
• One kid with autism
• Three new to the country
• Five new to the school

I do not know how I will get them all on grade level (OGL) by the end of the year.

I do know that they will add gray hairs to my head, shave years from my life, make me laugh, bring me to tears, and keep me up at night. They will be “My Kids” for the next nine months, and whether I like it or not, I will come to love them like my own.

I will try to teach them how to read, and how to multiply, and when to regroup with subtraction, and when to use a capital letter, and the capitals of the states, and the continents of the world, and why the moon changes shape in the sky. And, if I am lucky, they will teach me how to teach.