3rd-Graders weren't fooled by this 'substitute teacher'
By Maria Pascucci
(Originally published in The Buffalo News)
I once read that a writer should allow herself distance from an
event before trying to write about it, in order to gain perspective.
A few months' distance allows me to share my traumatic story of
my one-day stint as a substitute teacher.
The income of a freelance writer -- especially a beginning one
-- is nothing to brag about, so my family has been nudging me
daily to go into the "practical" teaching profession
where steady paychecks, retirement packages and summers off command
reverence. I needed a few extra dollars, so I decided what better
way to see if I could ever be a teacher than to put myself on
a local sub list.
I guess some school districts are desperate for subs, because
all I needed was a bachelor of arts degree and a desire to work.
I never took a teaching class in my life.
A week later, I toppled out of bed as my phone rang at 5:40 a.m.
(Did I mention that I'm not a morning person?) Two and a half
hours later, I crept into a third-grade classroom -- and discovered
my personal hell.
Don't get me wrong, I like kids, but being in charge of 21 active
9-year-olds terrified me. When I scribbled my name on the chalkboard,
I knew I was an impostor. The kids sensed my fear and ate me alive.
Their regular teacher left me a lesson plan, the first one I had
ever seen. Spelling test, reading time and completing yesterday's
writing assignment would fill out the day. Easy enough, right?
Not quite.
The kids wouldn't sit at their desks long enough for me to take
attendance, much less take the spelling test. To fully grasp the
comedy of this scene, visualize the movie "Kindergarten Cop."
I tried to read to them from their assigned book. I was painfully
informed that the story was boring. I attempted to play a word
game with them on the chalkboard. That kept their attention for
about two minutes.
One little boy tugged at my arm and asked, "Can I go to the
bathroom?" A chorus of bathroom requests followed. Another
boy, wise beyond his years, whispered, "This is your first
time doing this, isn't it?"
A girl asked, "Are you sure you're a teacher? You look like
a high school student." I didn't know whether to laugh or
cry, so I laughed.
When I escorted them to the cafeteria amidst cries of, "He
took my lunch money," and "She called me an idiot,"
I contemplated a mad dash for my car. I was in way over my head.
Other teachers sensed my despair. A few pitched in to help. I
wouldn't have made it through the day without them.
In the afternoon, the kids were so loud that the principal charged
in to take control. The kids swooped to their seats. One little
girl started crying. The principal asked me what they were supposed
to be doing. I sheepishly informed her about the writing assignment
they "swore" they had completed.
With true Gestapo swiftness, she demanded to see their notebooks.
They creaked open blank pages. She told them how disappointed
she was in them. She scolded them. She never cracked a smile.
She was brilliant. She made me feel as though I, too, should have
done the assignment.
I don't know how, but I made it through the day alive. Now I write
with renewed vigor. I'll joyfully send out queries and article
submissions, not knowing if they'll ever be accepted. The next
time I enter a classroom, I'll be in the student's chair.
Teachers, you deserve far more than summers off. I salute you.
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