Teacher, Revised

by ALISTAIR BOMPHRAY

Note: This is part one of a three part essay. 

The smiles at the dinner party go from strained to relaxed, the wine flows a little more freely, even the gloomiest guests brighten up when the conversation turns to that substitute teacher. It’s a topic that crosses all cultural and generational gaps. They are mythical creatures, these substitute teachers. They have sprouted horns and started a colony on some far-off island. They exist in a self-imposed leperdom from which no one escapes. They have fashioned wings out of crayons only to have flown too close to the school’s fluorescent lighting. They double as a reminder of how stupid grownups can be, and a warning of what last resort labor awaits the out of step.

What was her name? Oh yes, Mrs. Ames. She fell asleep once in the middle of class and drooled all over her blouse. And Mr. Schmidt. We all called him Mr. Shit but he could never catch us definitively because he wouldn’t say “shit.”

What did you call me, young man?

Mr. Schmidt. Isn’t that your name?

That’s not what you said. You said something else.

What did I say?

Snickers from the class. Mr. Schmidt senses his defeat, but as it is the call of the substitute teacher to spare no shred of personal dignity, he must blunder on.

You know what you said.

Yeah—I said Mr. Schmidt. 

Well, I heard something else.

I think you’re losing your hearing, Mr. Shit.

With Mr. Schmidt living on in my imagination as the archetypal sub, it was with no small amount of misgivings that I began my own tenure last year as a substitute teacher for the Oakland Unified School District. If you believe in karma, then this was Mr. Schmidt finally getting back at his tormentor.

Teaching I had done before. This business of affixing the word “substitute” to that honorable title was something new to me. Three years ago, I was a high school teacher in New York City, ruling my own classroom with the sovereignty of a kind but powerful king, and now I found myself groveling at the feet of strange principals, even stranger secretaries, asking questions like, “Where’s the faculty bathroom?” and “Do I get any free periods?”

I was the daily recipient of hastily written notes from regular classroom teachers instructing me on the day’s procedures, each note ending with an exclamatory, “Have a great day!” notes not unlike the ones that I myself used to write.

Curse the regular classroom teacher and their arrogant optimism! How could I have a great day struggling to learn the names of yet another batch of opportunistic students, stumbling my way through the arbitrary conventions of the typical public school classroom?

Student 1: No, teacher, that’s not how we start class.

Me: Well, it’s how I’m going to start class.

Student 2: It was my turn to do the attendance!   

Me: You can do it tomorrow.

Student 3: Why’s Sam drinking water? We’re supposed to sit down.

Me: Sam, please sit down.

In unison: Where’s Ms. Miller?

Me: She died. Now be quiet.

The key to this thankless job is the first five minutes. If you can win them over then, the rest of the day will be an easy one hundred and twenty bucks. Conversely, if the first five minutes have you reexamining the life choices that brought you to this new low, then, as sure as Mr. Schmidt would drink himself into a dreamless stupor each night, there will be trouble in Purgatory.

My ultimate nemesis came in the form of a fourth grade class in East Oakland. In what would prove to be the critical blow to my already ambivalent desire to “Have a great day!” this class would determine within the first five minutes not only to murder me in cold blood, but to display my decapitated head on a stake in the hallway as a warning to future substitute teachers. 

To be continued on Wednesday, April 8…