There are so many stories to tell that it’s hard to sort
them out in my mind. Today I’ll tell about the beginning of the end of my
teaching career.
It happened shortly after I started my first (and last) year
as a full-time teacher. I had interviewed for the position of 7th
grade science teacher. I was really pumped about this, because from my subbing
experience I knew that science was my favorite subject to teach. However, the
school administration instead hired a combat veteran suffering from heavy-duty PTSD
to teach science and decided that I should teach German!
I should have run away screaming. But I really needed the
job.
No text books, no classroom, and no idea how to teach
German, especially to kids who were already functionally illiterate in two other
languages. But, more about that later.
Today’s tale starts with a lock-down. Another school in our
district had a child bring a weapon to school, so every school went into
lock-down. I hadn’t been instructed in lock-down procedure, but the teacher
with whom I shared my room was familiar with the process. Doors locked. Window
shades drawn. No one allowed in the hallways. Wait for the all-clear announcement.
But you know how it is with kids. There was a bathroom emergency. Not in my room,
but apparently another teacher let a child go to the bathroom rather than wet
himself. The principal got on the intercom with an extremely rude and condescending
announcement publicly shaming the teacher. I was appalled. She could have been stern, she could have reiterated the procedures, but instead she mocked her faculty in a tone of complete disdain.
Later that day, I listened to my fellow teachers in the
break room complaining bitterly about the principal’s behavior. So I drafted a
rather meekly worded email to the principal, asking that she not publicly shame
teachers as it had a significant impact on student respect for the faculty and
classroom management.
She called me into her office during my planning hour. Her
office was at the opposite end of the school from the main school office and
other administrative staff. Rumor had it that she requested that separation because
she spend all day working on her PhD instead of doing her job. I sat down at
the round table in her office.
“Where do you want to teach next year?” she asked me.
I thought it an odd conversation starter. I looked at her
face and saw that she was seething with rage. I may not be the sharpest tool in
the shed, but I could see that I was dealing with a total bully.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I haven’t thought about it.”
She launched into a tirade. I wish I had a recording of it,
but the gist was that “I’m great and the students are great but the teachers at
this school are a bunch of incompetent losers who make all of the problems around
here.” This went on for a while. She wanted to make me angry or make me break
down. If I yelled back, she would have grounds to fire me. I knew she wanted
to. If I cried or apologized, I’d be forever under her tyrannical thumb.
Amazingly, I managed to stay totally calm.
“I don’t agree,” I told her. “I haven’t been here very long,
but all the teachers I’ve met are really caring, smart professionals who are trying
their hardest to do a good job. They deserve respect and support for that.”
“You’re wrong!” she yelled at me.
I honestly don’t remember how the meeting ended. Clearly not
the way she wanted it to, because I simply refused to play her game, which gave
her nowhere to go. Of course, from that day onwards, I was a dead woman
walking. Not that it really made any difference to me. The job couldn’t have been
any worse.
