This Is Why I'm Like This: Second Period

     
  8 am on an even day. Pretty much any even day. The only variable is the detail of which unit is being planned or graded.
 
  We have a block schedule, so I have odd days and even days. Second period is a planning period, and my room is used by a Special Ed teacher  during second, so I must adjourn to my cubicle.
    It's not bad here. Stuff that didn't make it into the classroom lingers here: A photo from my cast of Danny and the Deep Blue Sea,  a sign that says "KIDS ARE OUR FUTURE, NOT YOUR KIDS, BETTER ONES" given to me by a student. Metal roses from The Importance of Being Earnest.  Tape roses from kids' props projects in intro. A pottery "pea" a kid made for his fairy tale prop, it is perfect in size and the texture calms me. This cubicle was previously occupied by the former theatre teacher, who I replaced. He moved to lang arts his last few years. His move was voluntary, unlike mine, yet we seem to be following a similar path. I recently cut my hair so as to not resemble him any further (he's an old hippie with long gray hair). There are still random books he left behind on the shelf, and a DVD of Spaceballs. You can't recycle books because of the glue in the binding, and I hate filling up landfills, and the ARC likely does not want a copy of the International Motion Picture Almanac from 2004. So there they rest, on the shelf. I have a BIG CHIEF tablet that I do not remember purchasing, but I keep because it reminds me of K. Starkey and high school.
          My file cabinet has a small, stuffed lion on it that I did not purchase, and my computer hard drive has a plastic giraffe, purple maned Little Pony and a clay figure that is meant to represent me, gifted by an 8th grader last year in intro.  Yes, I teach in a high school but we have eighth graders. Maybe you can explain it to me one day. Gary Oldman watches over me next to a quote from To Kill A Mockingbird

                  " Real courage is when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what."


            I had a poster from Steal Magnolias, the last show I did, but it has disappeared, somehow, somewhere. It is not on the ground, some weirdo has absconded with it.

           There is a button with Einstein  "The important thing is not to stop questioning", an 18-19 school calendar, sticky love note from a former student and a note to anyone who wanders into this cubicle: "You've reached the cubicle of kryssi martin. I am not here. Please leave a message on a sticky note." Which a colleague did when he had to borrow my computer. Not that I would have known. Now my sign has a sticky note that says "Thanks for the use of your computer."

         I sit down and breathe. I look at my list. I sit in my classroom from 6.45 am-8 am  puttering and thinking about the list. I make it so I can take what I need to the cubicle and not disturb my colleague. First on the list: Enter grades.
         I don't wanna do that.

         My next door cubicle colleague who teaches math asks me if I'll teach her class. She volunteers to teach poetry. She does this about once a week, she finds it amusing. She teaches trig. I tell her I'm happy to switch as long as the kids are OK writing monologues about math. She laughs and starts a conversation with my other cubicle neighbor, who is across from me and the daughter of my cubicle's previous resident. We don't really get each other, but they try. I appreciate the camaraderie of cubicle life, and since I'm only here twice a week, three times if Wednesday is an even day, it's fine. I couldn't be here all the time. I have colleagues who, like me, just live in their rooms. If it wasn't for this one period where I am displaced, I'd use this thing for storage. Cubicles are gross. How do people live in these as careers, on a daily basis?
         It is only myself and another math teacher in the offices during this period. Occasionally he'll shuffle over and embark on a Netflix series conversation. It is the only thing we have remotely in common, and I'm pretending because I don't watch Netflix series' much at all. But he's a really nice guy and I truly appreciate the effort. In my year down here, I have discovered what it means to have "colleagues".  I was just that "loose cannon" down there in theatre rattling around next to the  beloved music department. This is very different, and I am determined to accept any offering of conversation or acquaintanceship whilst in the building. I still refuse to attend any social events, though. I'm not that accommodating.
       Check email. I don't want to do this, as I know there is a barrage of behavior reports I need to fill out for the IEP/504 kids in my classes. UGH. There are 9 in a single class of 25. That seems high to me. Which is why I have a co teacher who is special ed, but the kids aren't supposed to know that's why I have a co teacher, they're supposed to believe this is a regular class.  Don't get me started...
          Check phone and text family. I like doing this more than grades and behavior reports.
          Turn on computer.
          Say "Ugh" out loud as 30 google doc sonnets from poetry class emerge. Crap, I need to grade those, don't I? Imagine how horrible it would be if everybody in class actually turned theirs in on time. I'd have twice as many.
          Remember I have handwritten sonnets on my clip board to grade. Say "UGH" out loud again.
         Math colleague in the neighboring next door  cubicle asks what's up. I answer "Sonnets". She says "I'll trade you, you teach trig and I'll grade the sonnets."  It is like we didn't just have this conversation. It's fine. She never wants to teach her classes. My other cubicle neighbor, across from me is my co department chair as well as the daughter of the former theatre teacher. She's nice. She likes Jane Austen a lot. Sometimes we say words to each other. I asked for her to order the play Black Elk Speaks for my class, and she ordered the full biography. 30 copies. I have one on my desk, laboring under the delusion that I should at least read it at some point.
          The bell rings and I am alone. Well...there is the math teacher with this off period who will stop by occasionally to discuss Netflix shows he enjoys. He teaches stats. When I pass by his cubicle he's reading news articles on his desk top.  He is twitchy and I enjoy him. He also teaches swimming, so I feel a camaraderie as I am a theatre kid teaching lang arts, and he is math teaching swimming.
          I look down at the clipboard. The first "sonnet" is a handwritten dictation of "Imagine" by John Lennon. This is an ESL kid from China. While I love this song by John Lennon, it is not a sonnet.
         Log into IC, look up this student's counselor and send a note. I don't think he's going to do well in poetry.
          I hate doing that, it feels racist. Last semester a girl from China self selected out of poetry on the second day, she couldn't comprehend pastiche-ing Langston Hughes. She would have been fine if it was a class of reading poetry only, perhaps. But I make them write.
           Math Colleague shuffles over, tells me about a Netflix (or maybe it's Amazon) show that is a documentary about a murder that a guy did not commit, his wife was actually killed by an owl. But nobody knew, or investigated the actual evidence, but a neighbor knew and didn't say anything, well he said things but nobody listened.... I nod. He enjoyed the show and is enjoying retelling me. I see my colleagues chatting with one another about common hobbies and am always left out. I have no hobbies. It didn't seem weird when I was teaching theatre, doing theatre, theatre was job and hobby. Now it's like...I just receive what others say in an effort to create relationships, but I can't contribute. I don't have any hobbies, I don't watch Netflix shows or go to live concerts. Somehow I suspect this makes me less than human...
           Math Colleague picks up his copies from the printer that lives in the weird room that used to have desktops in it,and shuffles back to his own cubicle,where I suspect he is watching Netflix shows.
          OK. Sonnets. On the clipboard. Go.
         Mark the scansion.
         Mark the rhyme scheme.
         Write supportive comments in the margins
         Lather, rinse repeat.
         Return to IC to enter those grades. I did not put the loose papers in order by class period. Why would I do that?
         Put papers in order by class period.
         Enter grades.
         Sigh.
         Ugh.
         OK....google doc sonnets. Begin.
        Check scansion.
        Check rhyme scheme.
        Type supportive comments in the margins.
        Google doesn't sort by class period, so I checked them off on the paper roster as I went.
        Enter grades.
        OK, what am I doing in LA 9 today?
        Open a google doc and try to remember what I did last time I saw this class.
        AH! Speeches. It's a work day. Sweet. All I have to do is print speech outlines and rubrics.
        Answer text from daughter in Durango.
        Write bossy text to daughter and husband here in town.
        Open email. Lengthy email from Other Gig. Scan it  quickly  and write a reply that sounds like I read the whole thing. I will discover at rehearsal that I did not read it correctly and my answer confused the producer. This happens consistently enough that I question why they continue to email me. Clearly it's not working out.
         Say out loud "Can we please smoke? Can the adults please smoke?" Nobody is around to hear me, so I'm not in danger of nobody getting me. But I can guarantee that if someone did overhear, they would not understand. I'm in a language arts and math office cubicle, not a theatre. Theatre people get it.
          Stand up to go make copies. Walk to the end of the row, realize I don't have my badge to use the copier. Go back to cubicle and retrieve badge.
          On way to copy room, encounter Yet Another Math Colleague, this one who used to teach science. He knows about my need to dress like a looney in my search for a Section 8, and calls me "Klinger". He fist bumps me and notes today's get up, which includes mismatched socks and a Dollar Store orange scarf. I look like Mr. Furley from Three's Company. He always has a cup of coffee, always looks like he's had it with everyone, and is expecting his first grandchild. I smile and say "Morning Grandpa" at the fist bump, which elicits a spark and smile from  him. He pulls up his sleeve to reveal his latest tattoo, which I marvel at. He is in his fifties, and has recently decided he needs tattoos. I am delighted. I enjoy my exchanges with him. I wish he would retire he has clearly had it with the kids' behavior, which has exponentially become insurmountable in the last five years. Nobody listens to anything, nobody cares, nobody's respectful yet they think they deserve an A for showing up. I can't imagine how much worse it is in math, since everybody has to take it and nobody likes it. At least in lang arts we can diversify with films or group presentations. Math. Gross. Why would anybody want to be a math teacher? Well, he didn't, he switched from science a few years ago, not my business why, but I think he liked science better. The kids like him, the ones who want to learn find him to be kind and patient. The others are just...rude, disrespectful, entitled, disruptive. That's his co taught class, he has one too. He's never had to tell me, I read it on his face.
           Copy room. There are two copiers for the entire staff.
           One has a handwritten sad face taped to it.
           The other is in use, and there are two teachers in line.
           I hover a moment. My printer in my classroom is not working, but the printer in the LA/Math office is working. Maybe I'll just print to that, I only need 30 copies.
           Ya, Immma do that.
           Stop at the bathroom on the way back to the office. It's not that I have to go, but fifteen years of this has trained my bladder. We have 90 minute blocks with five minute passing periods, and on even days I have 4, lunch and then 6,8 back to back. It's like when the girls were toddlers,I would make them try to go every time we passed a bathroom, because you never know when you're going to encounter another bathroom.
           I head back to my cubicle, noting the time. I have ten minutes to print what I need and get to class.
            I sit down at my desk, bring up the google doc and hit "print LA/MATH" and cross my fingers.
            I walk to the printer. There is a stack of some sort of math with lines and letters that I have to move to get to my pages. I do so using the very tips of my fingers and edge of the paper as if it's diseased. It's bad enough I have to share a printer with math, don't make me touch it.
           Stack the pages, return to cubicle. Load clip board with phone, keys and badge. Stand a moment staring at the desk, sure that I'm forgetting something. Determine that staring at my desk as if I'm trying to remember where I parked my car at the mall is not going to help me remember whatever it is I think I've forgotten. Look at my phone instead. Reply to bossy text from massage therapist daughter suggests I should stop telling her what to do. Since I have to go to class, I reply with a thumbs up emoticon and a black heart and janus masks.
            The bell rings. I open the office door and make my way through the throng.  These people have no concept of spatial awareness, polite behavior or traffic flow. They stop in the middle of the hall,they reverse direction suddenly, hurl greetings and vulgarities across the hall at one another. I fix my gaze in far focus and walk a steady pace to my door, looking at no one.
           A kid hops into my focus, smiling his head off. It is my beloved Green Crocs. Today he's wearing his grandmother's dress. I gratefully receive the smile and return one, nodding my approval at his dress. He dances down the hall and I return to my cold focus and metered pace. Almost to the classroom.
             Arrive. Exhale. Enter.