Sometime before I decided I wanted to work in non-profit arts, but only a short while after I considered being a cowgirl, I seriously thought about being a teacher. I knew I'd be good at it -- I'd make class time fun, I'd inspire my students to want to do extra-credit assignments, I'd keep them from falling asleep at their desks. They'd all love me, shower me with ripe apples and greet me in the morning with a "Good morning, Miss Lin" in perfect sing-songy unison. I'd look forward to parent-teacher conferences, at which I would have nothing but complimenting things to report to loving moms and dads. I could even spend extra time clapping out those dusty chalkboard erasers.I think every student, at some point in her school career, had these same thoughts. "Oh I could do SO much better than Mr. So-and-so. I'd make an excellent teacher, and never give out homework."
When Mei's friend Peter asked me to take over his sixth grade math class in a Grand Street Chinese school, I lunged at the opportunity. I didn't think to ask about the pay. Didn't care one iota. I'd have those sweet, adorable children eating out of my hands after the two sessions; they'd beg Peter to go on vacation again, just so they could be taught by their lovely new substitute teacher.
Of course ... I was delusional. As any professional substitute teacher will tell you, the schoolyard is hell. Just be happy that you leave at 3 pm with all your hair still attached to your head.
When I arrived, Peter's kids were still in the middle of the English class. Math started at 3:30 and I had arrived 15 minutes early, so I sat in the waiting room with the parents and went over Paul's lessons plan for the day. Piece of cake, I thought to myself. Piece of cake.
The English teacher emerged from the tiny room, his face flushed, his hair mussed and with several beads of sweat clinging to his brow. "Your turn," he grinned, somewhat maliciously, at me as he darted for the front door. "I'm outta here!' he proclaimed.
Wimp, I thought to myself as I marched into the stuffy room. The children were completely silent - they stared at me as if I were some genetically mutated animal at a freak show. "You're not Peter!" one young girl screamed. All hell broke loose. Each child took it upon him or herself to shout out this fact at varying intervals. I smiled. No fear, no fear. "Oh yes I am," I announced. "So let's get started with class, okay?"
That comment seemed to put most of them into hysterics. After much wry nodding on my part, they eventually settled down.
I followed Peter's plan exactly. Gave them a quiz, watched a couple of known cheaters for wandering eyes and collected the exams. I thought it would have been nice to have the entire class participate in teaching. I devised a game, modeled after "The Price Is Right," in which one student/contestant would be given a problem to solve at the board. He or she could consult his or her peers/audience members for hints. Of course, it all sounded much more organized when I was contemplating a fun way to learn on my commute to the school. The students basically saw the whole ordeal as a free for all. They shouted out non math-related comments and personal insults to the victimized contestant so loudly that I had to speak out to calm them down.
I wondered if they learned anything that afternoon, besides how to throw paper balls -- items they had so neatly prepared and packed into Pringles containers prior to coming to class. Promptly at 5:30, one young gentleman gave a signal (a low hooting sound, something that I'm still trying to overcome emotionally to this very day), and a paper ball snowstorm ensued. I was the hapless victim caught in the crossfire.
I admit, after that I transformed into Evil Sub. I held them over their usual dismissal time until every last ball of paper was removed from the floor, their ears, and the backs of their shirts and deposited neatly into the trash bin. A cool eerie silence blanketed the room during the whole clean up process - a silence that meant, "We hate your guts. You're not Peter!" When the last child left, I collapsed in to one the mircroscopic-sized student desks, hung my head, and nearly wept when I remembered that I would have to return the following week.
Tomorrow Warrior Evvy must face the 12 midget demons again. She's recuperated from the first battle, slightly scarred but overall rather confidently (stupidly) that she can overcome this menace. After tomorrow, Evvy's aspirations to become a teacher will have been dead and buried.
E. Lin
1/28/00
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