I hadn’t had a student teacher in the last eighteen years. I had a tough experience with one—her end goal was to be a sub and work at McDonald’s. She was falling asleep at school, not working much on lesson plans, had no classroom control, and didn’t learn several kids’ names. I felt awful that I had to let the college know that I believed she should try it again before becoming a teacher. Who wants to crush someone’s dream after they’ve put in four years and lots of money? The college knew that they had given me quite a task and promised, “We’ll give you a realllllllly good one next time.” I never said yes to one again—for other reasons, too. Now I teach three preps—tricky for a student teacher—and two are AP: Advanced Placement Literature and Composition (juniors) and Advanced Placement Language and Composition (seniors). That’s seems like a lot for a college senior to take on. But I came across a resume from an ISU student that looked great—she was clearly smart, she could write well, and she seemed passionate about both teaching and English. I requested her for spring semester.
As a cooperating teacher, I was a bit anxious as I am untidy and have wicked ADHD. I kind of struggle with some parts of technology because I am a dinosaur. I also worried about being a little too excited for a student teacher. I wanted her to learn so much, to grow confident in her skills. I just fear that I can be a lot. The last thing I wanted was for her cooperating teacher to be a hindrance. Nutshell, I needed to make a good first impression—convince her that I’m super normal. She was to visit my classroom the last afternoon before break.
Before school that December morning, I had the tables arranged in a huge circle—each table had two chairs. We were going to act out the last scenes of ROMEO AND JULIET in the center during freshman English and then the following two sections of AP Lang were having a philosophy Socratic seminar over Nagel’s “War and Massacre.” As always, anticipating the first bell I was a bit nervous and flustered. Nothing special needs to be happening for me to be flustered, but I am always a bit more nervous when we are performing Shakespearean scenes, worrying if anyone will volunteer, how it will go, etc. One girl came in a little early. She gave me a wreath made of Lindor chocolate balls. It also always flusters me when kids give me presents. (Kindness can be disconcerting.)
Anyway, I was rushing around up front with about 2-3 feet between the tables and the front board. I caught my boot on a chair leg and fell forward hard. I landed on a random chair which met its doom as my doomed body torpedoed onto it. It was one of those formica chairs with metal legs. Nothing should break those. If you threw one out of a second story window it probably wouldn’t bend. I fell with full force on the chair on my ribs and side. (My arm hit something as well.) I was on the floor—I had shouted and then sat there for a couple minutes knowing I might be really hurt. Poor Viviana in the back of the circle said, “Oh! Are you ok?”
“I don’t know,” I said as another student walked in. I stumbled out to Zack’s empty room (next door comrade). Unsuccessfully stoic, I said, holding my side, “I just need to cry for a couple minutes, and my classroom is full of kids.” I told him what happened and he was truly sympathetic. Then during the morning announcements and pledge I went to the bathroom and washed my face and caught my breath. When I came back I told them I had fallen, but then proceeded with Act V of Romeo and Juliet in that theater-in-the-round style anyway. (It still rocked because I am a freaking PRO.) By noon, a solid dark purple bruise the size of a small dinner plate was painted on my side. It hurt, hurt, hurt.
The discussion of “War and Massacre” 4th period went great. (I have kids lead the discussions so I didn’t have to move much.) Then at lunch I filled in the nurse and my boss. They were appropriately “wowed” by the size and intensity of my side bruise. I decided to fill out a workman’s comp report just in case my personal insurance wouldn’t cover a potential slowly rupturing spleen. The nurse gave me a tiny frozen sponge in a baggie to put on my giant bruise and gave me the paperwork she could find. The boss offered to send me home, but I had to meet my new student teacher.
I had missed lunch, and then the 6th period “War and Massacre” discussion didn’t go very well—it just didn’t land, and I could tell the leaders were disappointed about how things had gone. I complimented them anyway of course, but I was still in so much pain and really just ready for them to head to their next class. Finally alone, I had about fifteen minutes until the student teacher showed up. I quickly cried some more, must have put the tables back in rows somehow, and got copies of the books she would teach. We met for an hour—I was upbeat but not at my best. (I did not show her my bruise.) The government teacher then called and asked if she could take my end-of-the-day homeroom for me. “God, yes.” I didn’t even give her a class list. Before my young guest could leave some funny junior girls came in begging for a chance to improve their score on an assignment. “Fine.” I introduced them all. I introduced my homeroom kids as they filtered in and then shooed them off to the government teacher’s room. I was seriously in pain.
Finally, bruised and feeling both relieved and defeated, I drove home—my long a$$ fifty-minute commute to Des Moines—to start my winter break. I had read recently that it takes eight good impressions to overcome a bad first impression. I felt I had some work to do.
Nevertheless, I guess I mostly accomplished what I needed to that day with my classes and the ISU student. As Hemingway notes while an old man is fighting the sharks attacking his marlin, “But man was not made for defeat. He can be destroyed, but not defeated.” I wasn’t broken that day, but I both defeated and destroyed that goddam chair. I bent the hell out of it—I should have taken a picture.
