Permanent​

I was lecturing a unit on transcendentalism to first block. I cursed as I chipped my tooth and I promptly fled to the bathroom. I looked in the tiny mirror and wiped away the blood. Three teeth in the sink. Four. The smell of the decaying molars stung so sharp in my nose that I  screamed for help.

I flopped out of my bed. It was 5:30 on a Monday before school.

I spent that morning obsessed with finding meaning to my only “teaching dream”.

“For our Do-Now activity, I would like everyone to share a dream, and use elements of symbolism.”

A student interjected: “We should use the internet to get professional help.”

I swear my class is full of geniuses.

After Googling, I never wrote in that journal:“When your teeth fall out in a dream, it usually means that, in waking life, you’ve allowed something out of your mouth that should have remained in there permanently” (Dr.Oz).

My time is running out… In less than a month my mentor teacher takes over and I will be stripped of my status.  My own school had two open positions and did not consider my work real experience. The multiple job fairs have not landed me a seat in any principal’s panel interview. 

I won’t allow teaching to walk out of my life permanently.

 

Let’s Talk About Love

Previous posts highlight frustrations with work and living in abject poverty.

So why do I stay?
Let’s Talk about love.

My friends invited me to Athens for a home game. I went out with my wingman downtown afterward, I was single after all. Needless to say, girls do not like drunk men and there was a lack of action.
***********

I’ll spare you the details but I woke up next to that wingman. He became my fiancé.
I moved, put my career on hold, and changed my identity for someone.

On Valentine’s Day, I received a “Get Well Soon” card (complete with a fruit basket and liquor) and was abandoned. The only thing I had left was my teaching career… but it felt like a consolation prize.

That Fall I managed to move back and start student teaching. My second week I instructed a lesson on The American Dream; I plopped down at my desk to daydream about how I messed mine up.

“Mr. Harley are you going to do something else today we have been finished for awhile,” a student tapped me as I came to my senses.

You think you have your mental health in check until thirty people stare at you Monday-Friday at 8 A.M.

I was “sick” for the rest of the week, but I was truly bed-ridden.

The following Monday I haven’t changed my outlook, but I got in the car and walked into class hoping to have it together.

There was a card on my desk, “Get Well Soon”.

*The bell rung*

“I love each and every one of you sitting in my class more than you will ever know.”

 

Does he even work here?

There are two types of men in this world: the bearded, and guys with baby-face. When I was in 11th grade, I worked at a burrito joint and distinctly remember children referring to me as “Ma’am”. You should have seen the disgust on the lesbian’s faces after I told them I was –in fact— a teenage boy!
I love the way I look do not get confused; I just wished the faculty at my school did too. Every day I dress up for the reputation of our teaching profession, more so than the faculty who rolls up ten minutes before the bell in yoga pants and sandals. I abstain from gossip at school functions, follow instruction, and hold my head up high while I am at work.
“Young man… where are you going?” An assistant principle aggressively grabbed my shoulder as I walked out the building. I turned around and probably looked pissed off from being touched: “Do not put your hands on me! We are coworkers and you would remember that if you looked at me when I introduced myself.”

He frantically apologized, but similar comments seemed to come out of nowhere.
1. You are the less experienced driver,
2. The teacher who yelled at me for using the faculty bathroom.
3. “How do you feel being so close in age…”
4. Are you not nervous about the open house and the way they will look at you?
5. “You look 16 and that is all that matters to me, not the badge”
+++++

One comment put me over the edge on my walk up the stairs. A co-worker tapped me just to  scoff, “If you want to look like a teacher, just grow a beard.” This is an exemplar of situational irony because he is struggling with obesity.

I had thirty minutes before the bell rung, and students were walking in. One wallflower approached me (I looked on edge): “You are already a better teacher than he is. I heard what he said to you.”

My CT chimed in, “Mr. Harley has a lot to offer the school. Someone must be worried his job is up for grabs with how silent that room is.”
To veteran faculty who refuse to collaborate with millennials:
I am not taking your job because I know tech or pop culture.
They are giving me yours because you became bitter.

“Fully Involved”

I naively envisioned student teaching requiring maybe 25 hours a week of effort. Being only 23 years old, I pulled off meeting the needs of my internship, while being a furniture salesman. My newfound, livable wage of 40k/year transformed me into a real adult. I no longer existed in the ghetto of cramped student dormitories. I evolved into a man that had his pizza delivered to his house.

Unfortunately, working a second job is forbidden at Exorbitant Furniture. They own all of your time. I was on break one evening and had lesson plans scattered about the table for my American Lit Course. My boss, Ms. Illiteracy, walked in and noticed the paper trail:“What is this mess on my table? *Crumples folder* Teenagers are snowflakes. Which job is putting food on your table?”

She did not apologize or step down; it just became awkward.

I began filling downtime with designing my next unit and reading parent emails: “Lana came home thrilled about winning your essay contest. I did not know she was talented at something.”

I adore this career where I can make even neglectful parents see the value in their children. But why wait? I already had the job! I opened a Google Doc and began typing.

I hand-delivered my resignation letter, stamped with retribution, to Ms. Illiteracy: “I thought about your comments on being a teacher,” I said as I dropped it on her desk.

My students deserve 100% of my time. I now look myself in the mirror with honor.
-Mr. Harley.