No prublem, Miss Noe, no prublem

The secretary in the dean's office looked sideways at me when I snatched twelve blank discipline reports from the file cabinet just before class. Darren flew home yesterday, which left me as ringleader of the 7/8 block circus. The sub, a timid woman, would try her best to keep crowd control, but would eventually fail, like every other sub. Which meant it was up to me and I was not looking forward to it.

Someone cursed as I pushed them on my way to my room. "Watch the language," I shouted over my shoulder, even though I knew they couldn't hear me over the throng of high school hallways. I stumbled into my room without losing any of the papers I was balancing. Jazz music started to pour in over the speakers; one minute to the bell. I scribbled on both boards as sixty sophomores scrambled into the room. I could smell the sugar in their salvia and the sweat of being outside. I was bombarded by passing questions: what's on the board, where's Clemenhagen, can I go to the bathroom, I need a drink of water, are you teaching AP next year, what's on the board, what about the bathroom, what's on the board? The sub looked at me in horror as she tried to get them to settle down; her hair a bit more frazzled.

Then my typical mantra:
Alright, here we go; have a seat; gentleman, stop drawing on the board; Cory, sit down; Harry, glad you're here, you're late; Mira, why are you only carrying your purse into my classroom; get out a piece of paper...
It usually goes on like this for a good three minutes. Finally, the drone was low enough that I could squeeze in: "Take out a piece of paper, it's pop quiz time."

That always gets their attention.

What? Miss Noe, are you serious? Quiz on what? I wasn't here yesterday, do I still have to take it?

Yes.

Oh my god. What did we do yesterday? Can I borrow a pencil? I don't got no paper!

They copied the questions from the board, grumbling along the way. I heard " 's stupid" seeping out from the masses every once in awhile. They were most angry that it was a constructed response pop quiz. Heaven forbid they write down complete sentences and complete thoughts from their brilliant minds. They took the quiz, and calmed down. I relaxed my grip on the discipline reports.

We still had an hour and fifteen to go when they broke into their groups to perform snippets from Casablanca. We just finished Elie Weisel's Night last week. They needed something fun to do. Surprisingly, they worked for the time given, probably because I gave them worksheets to do along the way. I walked around and noticed Nikola, our handsome young man from Bulgaria, wearing a skirt.

"Nikola, what are you wearing?"

"I'm playing Eel-za Ms. Noe. I've gut my seester's high heels in my backpack."

As a class, we moved the desks back to create a thrust stage (habit from when we read Romeo and Juliet) and began to preform. It was amazing to watch their creativity and childlike imagination come alive during these times. I often fear we stifle it with AP preparation or snuff it out with testing. But the imagination is resilient. It just needs to breath every once in awhile.

Four boys used construction paper to create cigars, mustaches, and chops. One group did sock puppets (it was hilarious to watch the characters kiss; they enveloped each other from toe to sock). Several groups had name tags. Many tried an accent. Few came in costume. All were enraptured.

The class applauded the group who performed the shooting of Ugarte in the beginning (which was more Monty Python slapstick than real drama).

"Alright, next group is-"

"Miss Noe, will we have time?"

Holy cow, two minutes to the bell? I look over at Nikola in his skirt, high heels, and cut off tee shirt.

"Nikola, you'll have to go Tuesday. You'll have to come to school dressed like that again."

A flash of fear brushed his face before it immediately relaxed. "No prublem, Ms. Noe. No prublem."

I hear someone say, "way to take it like a man, Nikola."

I can't wait to see them on Tuesday.

Sunday Evening in Spring

I wipe down the patio table;
damp cloths leave dirt streaks.
The cool presence of evening rolls in
while the warm dog cuddles against my feet
exhausted from a day of play and activity.
I finally sit to grade papers, endless papers,
full of words, pregnant with potential;
yet the slow exit of the sun taunts me to linger
in her space a bit longer.
So my pen rests on the glass table top
lolling from one side to the other each time I shift.

Ah Sundays, how I relish and dread you.
Your slow hours are delectable
and your brief visits are welcome.
Do come again next week.

Cut back to:

Twenty-three more school days until summer vacation. Yes, I'm counting. And yes, I'm the teacher. Most people assume teachers weep as we count down the last days of a school year, afraid our delicate students still don't understand the difference between an iamb and a hexameter. However, we often leap behind closed doors when the end is in sight and make vacation plans. We don't like to admit we count; people get the impression we are careless about our instruction, or lazy. That's not the case at all.

We count because summer is one of the few times to do two things simultaneously: rekindle our passions (or second jobs for some) and interact with the adult world. It's like we play grown-up for two and a half months out of the year. We can meet our friends at the bar on Thursday night. We can swear in line at the grocery store. We can forget that we're one of the most influential role models for our students. We reconnect with family and friends. We dust off that book we started reading last summer. We play frisbee with our dogs every day.

This summer, I plan on doing a lot. My school is overzealous when it comes to summer vacations and I know that I will have meetings throughout the summer. However, what excites me is the writing. I get time to write. Not the academic reflecting that my profession demands, or the graduate papers my summer classes will require, but the glorious writing that demands time to listen to characters argue. I can stare at a white wall, zone out, and play with the stories in my head.

Which makes me realize, what am I doing here? I'm going to play with those stories. Oh, wait, I can't. Those 120 research papers need to be graded (it takes me a total of 18 hours to grade those suckers). Calm down, my dear young man, your story is coming. Pieces of it pop up and solve themselves, just keep talking to me during that place between awake and asleep. In that place, I am all ears, and I listen well to your arguments.