K: My Time as a Substitute

Work Diary/Temp Job

I find the note in the attendance roster, held to the thin paper by a
paper clip that has seen better days. Actually, everything here has
seen better days, but I tell myself this is a useful room, a room
accustomed to active children bursting with creative energy. Just look
at that drawing of a unicorn on the desk closest to the door, rendered
in indelible black ink. See how the carpet is threadbare from the
thousands of feet carrying young minds to new horizons? How the
unopened books reflect a desire to explore new ideas and not outdated
rhetoric?

BEWARE! is written on the front of the note, in red marker. On the
inside, in black ink, it says: "Hello. I was the substitute teacher for
this class yesterday. I should be here today; however, one day in this
classroom has forced me to cancel my assignment. As I respect my fellow
professionals, I want to warn you about a few things before your day
begins:

1. Do not leave this classroom unattended. Your instruction sheet will
tell you to make yourself visible in the hallway during passing
periods, but don't you believe it. Stay in the classroom with your eyes
peeled and your finger poised over the intercom button.

2. Do not allow any kids to leave the room, even if they cry and do the
pee-pee dance, unless you want to spend thirty minutes listening to the
principal deliver a lecture on 'maintaining vigilance in the modern
classroom'.

3. Do not turn your back on the kids at any time, not even to write on
the chalkboard and especially not on a kid named Brian Pulowski. Do so
at your own peril!"

The note is signed, respectfully, Miss Alma Robins, Substitute Teacher
for Twenty-One Years.

Surely this woman is exaggerating (though I am impressed by her use of
a semicolon). This is only my second assignment as a substitute
teacher. My first lasted three wonderful days with a group of
eight-year-olds in an accelerated class. We sang, made snowflakes out
of blue construction paper, and pored over differential equations until
it was time for a nap. One of them disappeared during lunchtime, but we
found him propped against a tree, reading a comic book. Kids will be
kids, I guess.

My first student arrives. I was told my assignment involved eleven- and
twelve-year-olds, but this girl looks much older. She's wearing a
half-shirt, baggy jeans, and bright red high heel shoes that match the
lollipop in her hand. Incredible, really, this unconventional way of
dressing. The girl should be commended for daring to stand out in the
crowd.

Then the next student arrives, and another. Soon there are five or six
- all girls - milling about in the same outfits, only in different
colors. Two more arrive and I realize no one has brought any books.
I've counted twelve when I hear one of them snarl, sotto voce, "I'm
gonna kill you, you slut." Quickly I look down and pretend to read the
attendance roster.

But not for long. There's a loud crash at the door and in walks a tall
boy in a football jersey and untied shoes. Five o'clock shadow dusts
his face. Behind him are three more boys, who copy the their leader's
languid stride while laughing the laugh of the profoundly retarded:
a-huh, a-huh, a-huh. The sound is unnerving, like listening to a
clogged drain try to free itself.

The change over the girls is remarkable. They each perch on a desk,
postures erect and lollipops held over their laps while they giggle
amid the "hey homies" and "wassups". One of the girls, distinguishable
by the blond streaks of hair at her temples, stands up and teeters
towards the tall boy, who is adjusting something in the front of his
jeans. When she reaches him, she presses up against him and kisses him
on the mouth.

I am in the wrong place, I think. I do not belong in this viper's nest,
with these proto-hookers and thugs. I look down, and check the room
number. It's correct. I look at the clock. Three minutes until the
bell.

"Excuse me," I say, "I'll be right back."

I make my way down the hallway, towards a door I saw earlier. It looked
like it opened onto a parking lot, possibly the one where I left my
car. I pat my pockets and try to remember if I left anything in the
classroom. Only my lunch, I remember, which doesn't matter. I'll be
home in plenty of time to fix something hot.