Only In Dreams

Last Sunday night, I couldn’t sleep.

I tossed and turned, ground and gnashed my teeth, and paced – actually paced – my apartment. Finally I fell asleep for maybe three hours, tops.

Monday I worked. I taught grade eight social studies. I was in a fog of exhaustion, the kind where you hope what you’re saying aloud is what you mean to, and not what you’re thinking. Or not thinking.The fact that I could maintain classroom management while walking dead has got to be a testament to all that the past few months have taught me.

Oh, how far I have come from that wide-eyed, smug little priss who whinged about the faculty functions her ivy-covered teachers’ college made her attend. Oh you poor baby. Tell me, is Upstairs At The Pudding as beguiling as I remember it to be?

That night I slept the deathless sleep of the innocents. ‘Twas glorious.

The next day I spent an hour on the bus haulin’ ass out to a half-day at a school that I had never seen before. It was a lovely day; the birds were singing, the sun was shining, the kids were counting down the seconds to the last bell of the day…

…and then I rode the bus home. With, like, every kid that I had just taught. So there’s that. I either need to buy a car, or time my bus routes better.

“Hey! She was our teacher today!”

“Yes. Yes I was. And how are you?”

Still Kickin’

Ummm… hey.

Have I really not updated this since late February? Jaysis.

March: My job ended. My students threw me a surprise party. They baked cupcakes that spelled out “Goodbye Miss Randell”. I almost cried out of happiness and embarrassment. Believe it or not, I actually don’t like being the centre of attention all the time.

April: I spent four weeks straight filling in for a music teacher at another school. Never have I been so grateful for that undergraduate minor in music and years spent under the tutelage of Mr. Fizz. My other half and I went to Metropolis over Easter Break and it was lovely.

May: I’m subbing, doing the day-to-day thing. To date I’ve taught English, French, Art, Gym, Science, Social Studies, Math, and those last four subjects in French. Quick, someone assign me to a shop class so I can be truly multidimensional!

The weeks are trickling by. The days are getting longer and the air sweeter. As excited as I am for summer, I will miss these days.

So We Don’t Forget

We’ve been studying World War Two in class. Well, “studying”. I’ve been talking about it – when I’m not reminding people to get in their seats, put away the phones, put away the phones, put away the phones – and maybe a third of the class at any given time is listening.

I don’t want to sell my students short, but most eighth-graders aren’t terribly interested in learning about, well, anything aside from a viral video or an Aeropostale sale.

So here we are, four weeks in, and we’re plugging along. The battle of Midway, the raid at Dieppe, the Americans coming late to the party… We’ve compiled memorial lists of Shoah victims, color-coded maps of Europe circa 1939, and discussed whether or not Hitler was clinically insane and/or just plain evil.

The whole time I’m wondering: are they getting it? Am I going overboard? Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Is this opening sequence from Saving Private Ryan a little too intense for a roomful of fourteen year-olds?

I should point out at this juncture that my class is… a little rowdy. Most of them come from homes that don’t exactly match up with the sitcom images that middle America grew up with. Sometimes I forget how young they are because they act so hard.

“Guys, I’m not asking a ninety-something war veteran to come in and talk to you if you’re just going to be wild, you know?”

Yes, it’s true: against all logic, common sense & gentle warnings from the administration, I arranged a class visit from a WWII veteran. I had given my class almost a months’ warning, because they are not the group to spring things upon. On Monday, I perched on the edge of my desk and gnawed my cuticles, praying that he would remember to show up, that they would be OK, that we would learn something.

He was ninety-three and shared a name with a Hollywood actor. When he spoke his voice was thin and gravely. He told us how when he was in grade eight he went to the same school that he was visiting now, how then it was run by nuns who weren’t shy about using the strap on “a smart-alecky kid”. He told us about landing on the beach in Normandy. He told us about how Nazis would hide landmines underneath bodies in the trenches. He told us about being in Paris on V-Day.

He told us that in seven years there probably wouldn’t be any more WWII veterans left.

You could have heard a pin drop for the entire hour that he was there. When the bell rang to change classes, several students asked him for his signature and shook his hand.

“They were much better listeners than a grade eleven class that I spoke to a few weeks ago,” he told me, as I handed him the “Thank You” card covered in student signatures. “Those kids were falling asleep and writing messages to each other. You have a very nice class here.”

“They’re fantastic,” I agreed.

“I’m really glad that I came. I think it’s important to talk to the young people so that they don’t forget. And wow, _______ School… I haven’t been back here in ages.”

“Thank you so much for coming. Thank you for everything.”

I called him a cab and watched from the doorway as he climbed in, waving goodbye as the car pulled away. I felt… sad? Grateful? Humbled? Behind me I could hear the same class that had just treated a war hero with such dignity and respect going ape-shit in the computer lab with another teacher. After school the bell some of the students came into my room to talk to me about the visit. About how he was hard to hear but they tried.

“Were we good, Miss?”

“You guys were unreal. Thank you.”