Teacher, Revised

by ALISTAIR BOMPHRAY

The end of a long break always goes something like this: The night before, I’m a wreck. Even though I’m not physically required to be at school for another twelve hours, I might as well just go in and sharpen pencils or something (now isn’t that a creepy image—the insomniac teacher alone at school in the wee hours of the morning, methodically sharpening number twos). ‘Cause that’s where my head is. But I don’t. Instead, I mope around the house, unable to sit still long enough to read or book or give the cat a semi-satisfying scratch. It’s over. All those beautiful empty days. Gone.

“Are you okay?” my girlfriend asks.

“Sure, whatever,” I mutter.

At this point, I’m officially pacing. I know I should plan the week’s lessons, grade some papers, find my school keys, anything at all to kick-start the teacher part of my brain. But I can’t. Which would be okay if I could enjoy doing nothing for one last glorious evening, maybe sit outside and listen to Oakland’s night sounds, play a little guitar. Why should fourteen days of relative relaxation end in such turmoil? All good and well to think these thoughts, but the before school anxiety continues to swell inside me like some kind of unpoppable psychological zit.

Oh, sweet beer, if only you could plan my lessons too.

Then arises a most shameful inspiration: Maybe I should get drunk. Yeah, I know it sounds bad, but let’s be honest, teachers, you’ve been there. Right? And I’m pretty sure there’s a six-pack of Tecate left over in the fridge from New Year’s Eve…

Wisely, this time, I don’t turn to the bottle. I play guitar. It helps. A little. Nothing like belting out a little Johnny Cash (hey, The Man in Black, kind of fitting for a funeral, don’t you think?) to make you feel like you don’t have to wake up at six in the morning to face a roomful of groggy, slightly pissed off teenagers—which room, by the way, will be veritably buzzing with the sound of incoming text messages being received on shiny new iPhones still ripe with the stink of Santa. (Did that sound bitter? Bear with me for a moment.)

At eleven, I get ready for bed, terrified of what the night holds. I never sleep worse than the night before going back to school. For one thing, my average bedtime for the last two weeks has been between one and two in the morning. And now I’m trying to be all responsible and go to bed at a normal adult hour. The body is not so easily fooled.

So instead I try to stay as still as possible. When that doesn’t work, I try every conceivable position—first the back, then the stomach, left side (oh! almost had it there, but was startled into full consciousness by a sudden flash of panic), right side, the back once more, 180 roll to the stomach… you get the point.

Eventually, the greenish light of my alarm clock catches my eye. 1:05 am. Shit. Less than five hours till that thing turns into a devil’s pitchfork prodding me deeper and deeper still into the fires of Hell. It’s at this point that I really start to freak out.

Keep in mind this is all coming from someone who loves teaching. Oh, you didn’t guess that after I compared it to eternal damnation? It’s true. There’s nothing I’d rather do in the world. But here’s the thing about teaching (cue the world’s smallest violin): it’s really hard, and sometimes I just don’t want to work that hard. Facing kids every day who would rather be, let’s face it, anywhere but school is tough, man. And I’m not even some fresh-faced rookie getting my ass kicked on a daily basis anymore. My classes are, um, mostly civil. Yet I still get like this.

And, of course, in the end, all of that restless nail biting turns out to be a waste of good stomach acid. After a desperate half hour of trying to pull a lesson plan together, the bell rings and the exquisitely dreaded moment arrives. And just like that, I feel better. The kids pile into my room, showering me with shout-outs and smiles. They say, “Happy New Year, Mr. B!” They ask, “What’d you do over break?”

Instead of immediately getting down to business—you know, bell to bell instruction, that overrated holy grail of teaching—I riff with them for the first fifteen minutes. I tell them about the wedding I went to in Michigan, the disappointing consistency of the snow there (alas, no snowball fights), and going to see Avatar 3D. I give the class clown a chance to tell a story from her break, something about her little brother locking himself in the bathroom. It’s not that funny of a story, but the way she tells it is. By the end of the story, she has the whole class laughing, including me.

That’s when I remember: This isn’t bad. It’s good. I like this. What was I freaking out about? Which is exactly the moment Lisbeth chooses to start screaming obscenities across the room at Luis. Oh, riiight. That’s why.

No matter. Tonight I will sleep like a rock. I’m back.

Alistair teaches English and Journalism in Hayward, CA.