Diary of a Public School Teacher (Part 1) (fiction)

6:30 a.m. finds me almost finished with breakfast. My 15 year old stepdaughter is already bathed and finishing up homework which is due two weeks from now-what can I say? She is driven. The five year old is still fast asleep and no amount of tickling, poking or shouting will get him up willingly. Finally my frustrated, highly put upon, hubby has to lift him out of bed and plunk him- still sleeping- into the bath tub of warm water. I know it sounds a little cruel right? Yeah, but it’s this or be late. So every morning we are forced to play this little game. The baby- our alarm clock – is long dressed and observing us all calmly, as if to say look at those lesser beings.

Finally we are all in the car. The five year old is now fully animated and singing The Itsy Bitsy Spider song at the top of his lungs, with the baby doing backup. Its 8:00a.m. Traffic is backed up and I already have the beginnings of a headache. The last of my kids is dropped off and he runs towards the school house with nary a backward glance. I feel a little hurt but that’s life, he is growing up. It’s nice to feel needed though.

It is with great trepidation that I finally pull up to the school where I work. It’s 8:44a.m. Students are milling about and vendors are already selling cavities and hyperactivity (disguised as candy) to the kids whom for the next six to seven hours will take out their “sugar high” on me. I rush to sign in before the Vice-Principal whom I call the Iron Lady marks a big red x beside my name reminding me that I am late again for the 30th time this month. What can I say? Traffic is brutal!
The sound of the buzzer and kids rushing off to classes brings me back to life and I hurriedly dash up the stairs before I am swept away in the sea of ‘picky head chirren’

1st Period
I am sweating like a fat man in a sauna. By the time I get to my class, my wig – which keeps me from wasting time in the morning – is awry and unbecoming and all forty two of my grade eight students are snickering as they catch sight of their teacher and her bedraggled mop. Some have the nerve to be laughing out loud-which irritates me a great deal-I snap angrily at that overly fed kid who is pointing and guffawing-exposing all 32 of his less than pearly whites- he clams up immediately – I will get nothing from that one for the rest of the class I think to myself – regretfully. He never has anything to say anyway. What can you say about a child who is always talking while you are teaching but shuts up when asked what he is talking about, or instead blatantly lies and says he was not talking? I could say more on that one but I will not.

The class is running smoothly and I breathe an inward sigh of relief. Unfortunately the relief is short lived as a fight breaks out between two girls. I think to myself of all the classes in the school why mine? Apparently girl 1 stole girl 2’s pencil and to add insult to injury yesterday girl 1 told the Home Economics. teacher that girl 2 had skipped her class and lied about being at the nurse. So embittered, this is girl 2’s day for revenge. Why she chooses my class to resolve her grouse is anyone’s guess.

I look up to see books and desks flying, 42 children shouting and the battling divas on the floor, hair all messed up, underwear on display and dignity all up in the breeze. Of course being the teacher I have to try and separate them. Everyone else is shouting Fight! Fight! Fight! So I get in the middle only to have my wig snatched off. A well aimed fist leaves me seeing doubles. This shocks the spectators into silence and brings the battling divas to a halt. Then there is a collective shout of laughter which goes on for a couple of minutes. While I rescue my dusty headpiece from the floor, jam it on my head and race for the staff room. I almost faint at the sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Makeup and mascara are all racing down my face and my jacket is ripped. The Vice Principal appears out of nowhere looks disapprovingly at me and shakes her head. I imagine what she will write in that little black book she is always toting around. Well she will get hers one day.

Of course the periods after this are all blurred as I try to live down the shock of exposing my picky roots to the worst grade eight class I have ever taught. By the end of the day I have a new nickname, “Wiggy Wonder”. Even the teachers cannot hide their obvious amusement at my plight and one chubby teacher, who I cannot stand, comes up behind me and gently plucks some remnant of paper from the now famous wig. I utter a defeated thank you and think to myself “lousy heifer”.

On my way home I am thoughtful and thankful. Even though the day’s excitement has given birth to a migraine from hell, my kids are safe, I’m almost home and I still have a job. I have a feeling there will be more days like this, so on the weekend I am switching to braids or at least some industrial strength hair glue.

To be continued:

copyright 2003