Living the nightmare

By ALISTAIR BOMPHRAY

               Teachers in the house—you may want to pour yourself a shot of whiskey before you read this one. 

I’m about to tell you a story that will make your pulse quicken, your armpits moisten, and your nipples harden. Actually, the latter will be less a result of my story than the fact that you left the window open. Go close the window.

Are you back? Good. Then I’ll begin.

It was third block. I was in the middle of introducing my Digital Journalism class to the audio slideshow. If you don’t know what an audio slideshow is, go here for a good example.

My lesson planning had been minimal. Not that I hadn’t thought about it—I just hadn’t had time to get into specifics. And in my fifth year of teaching now, I can afford to be a little less “planned.”

Things began smoothly. When you’re working with technology in the classroom, Murphy’s Law dictates, “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and when it does your students will have a dope ass party while you struggle to fix it.” In hindsight, I wish something had gone wrong. But, no, Murphy—in an act of what I can only interpret as pure malice—saw to it that the LCD projector conspired with the speakers and Internet connection to provide a multimedia experience not to be forgotten.

Our first stop was the New York Times. Things were going better than expected. An audio slideshow about an urban taxidermist drew rave reviews. We discussed some of the finer points of composition—essential questions such as, “So when you’re taking pictures of dead animals, how much dead squirrel is too much dead squirrel?”

Next we visited the National Press Photographers Association. I hadn’t previewed the audio slideshows on this site, but I reassured myself that 1) NPPA was an official sounding name, and 2) most of the slideshows were from newspapers around the U.S.

So how bad could they be?

My students wanted to watch one called “The Ninth Floor,” the story of a New York City apartment building inhabited by twentysomething drug addicts. The first five minutes were brutal; each photograph led us deeper into the nightmarish existence of its hollowed out subjects. It was digital storytelling at its most visceral.

There were a couple of moments when I thought, “Should I be showing this?” but I reminded myself that my students were seniors and none of this was likely new to them anyway. Plus, it was good journalism—carefully crafted and unflinchingly honest.

 At the five-minute point, the story narrowed its focus to a couple, both of whom were addicts. It was a doomed relationship, but not one without love. There was a shot of them kissing, a shot of them fighting, and then, before I could react, a shot of them, well, consummating. And, I should mention, this wasn’t some artistic photograph with swirls of smoke and cleverly hidden private parts—this was the wild thing. 

Stupidly, I pressed pause. I’m not sure why I did this—I guess to stop it before it got even worse. At that exact moment, my door opened.

I thought to myself, “Oh God. Let it be a student and not a teacher.”

In fact, it was neither. It was my principal—along with three other teachers who were visiting my room to conduct a learning scan.

A hush came over the room.

I closed the incriminating image, but the damage was already done. They had seen. My only recourse was to plow forward with my lesson.

“Alright, folks. Fill out your critique. In what ways did the audio slideshow succeed, and in what ways did it fail?” I said in my best impression of a teacher who didn’t show his students porn.

My students, to their credit, understood the gravity of the situation and, for once, did exactly as they were told. Their silence was audible.

For the next three minutes, the principal and her entourage scrutinized my room, sparing no corner. They eyed my bulletin board warily, asked my students questions like “What are you learning today?” and made ambiguous facial expressions. Meanwhile, I remained on my teacher stool, willing the blood out of my face.

And then they were gone. Though I felt no small amount of relief at the sight of their backs, it’s a shame they didn’t stick around long enough to witness the wonderful discussion that followed.

Now it’s two weeks later, and I still haven’t heard anything. I have two theories about this. The first is that I’ve earned some collateral over the years, and therefore my administration trusts that it’s not my custom to project images of junkies having sex. The other is that I’m going to get a pink slip in my box by the end of the month. I’ll keep you updated on that.

The thing that has really messed me up about this, though, is the fact that this was the first time my principal stepped foot in my room all year. The improbability of that being the exact moment when my carelessness manifested for all to see strikes me as more than mere coincidence. This was the universe telling me something. And, if I may continue along this self-obsessed line of logic for a moment, it was telling me, for the sake of my students and my job security, to watch my ass.

Or perhaps it was the universe telling my principal something. The conceit of a learning scan is that it is possible to visit a classroom for five minutes and assess the quality of learning that happens there on a daily basis. Of course, all that can really be assessed is the quality of learning in those five minutes. This isn’t to say that bigger, more substantive truths can’t be gleaned, but that it’s just as likely that those “truths” aren’t what they seem. And the notion that an annual learning scan could substitute for a more comprehensive—and nurturing—evaluative procedure is the height of cynicism.   

Whatever its purpose, it was f’d up. In the dozens of teacher anxiety dreams I’ve enjoyed over the years, I don’t think my neurotic, overworked brain has ever cooked up something quite so excruciating. So props to the universe, I guess, for being so, er, creative. Which brings me to you. If you’ve lived through a teaching nightmare, I would love to hear about it. Just respond to this blog—I will gladly pour myself a shot of whiskey and take comfort in the fact that I’m not alone in my haplessness.