Bell Work

I'm standing in front six long rows of empty desks. My hair is still damp from the bath I had to take this morning, my shower curtain still being MIA. It is lost, no doubt, somewhere in the chaos of boxes, upturned furniture, and chocolate-santa candy wrappers carpeting the floor of my new apartment. I'm overdressed; there are no students in the school today and the veteran teachers are moving briskly down the halls waving  Happy New Year to each other in jeans and sweaters, clutching tall coffee mugs or thick stacks of ungraded final exams. Meanwhile, I stumble down the recently waxed halls in what I thought would be sensible heels, and slacks much to thin to protect me from the chill still being driven out of the school by the 40-year-old heating system.

But right now I'm standing at the head of a vacant class. I am standing, I think, in the same spot that I will stand hundreds (perhaps thousands) of times during the next three months: taking attendance, giving exams, reviewing homework, breaking up fights (actually, I might have to be bit more mobile to handle that one). It is the spot where all of the students look automatically, searching for direction, permission, or furtively checking that their cell phones continue to go unnoticed. This is the spot from which I will earn my way as a student teacher, probably the lowest title on the power totem of a public school. From here I will fight for students' attention, defend my teaching ideals to the veteran teachers, and - in all likelihood - confiscate a cell phone or two.

It is common for most student teachers to take on the full load of their host teacher's classes. However, my host teacher - Ms. Salmon, being the heroic professional that she is, has four plans (that is four classes to plan for), which is a lot, even for a veteran. One of these plans (which is actually two classes, or periods) is AP Literature, which I am not trained or qualified to teach, but that I will greatly enjoy observing. As a result, the three plans that I will be taking on are Introduction to Literature - a freshman course, Technical Writing - a senior elective course, and American Literature - a sophomore course with several juniors thrown into the mix. I will begin immediately with the freshman, taking them through a poetry unit, and add the other two on a few weeks into the semester.

As there are a great deal of legal issues that surround the privilege to privacy of students and teachers, I am intentionally omitting the name of the school that has graciously accepted me as a student teacher, as well as changing the names of both my students and my colleagues.

So this is the beginning, though in true beginning form, it feels a great deal like an ending. It is the end of my life as a student, as a proud procrastinator and essay bullshitter (two "t"s or one?). God save the soul that tries to bullshit his way through a high school class. I am jealous of my friends returning to campus for their final semester of college classes, worrying about book lists and 9 am classes. It is an odd space that I fill as student teacher - not quite a college graduate but definitely no longer a student. And it is the indefinite quality of my position that signals a sense of beginning. There is something still be discovered, still to be defined.