Robert Wilder - Tales from the Teachers Lounge: What I Learned in School the Second Time Around-One Mans Irreverent Look at Being a Teacher Today

CONTENTS

a. For my father, Ben Franklin Wilder

b. In memory of my mother, Joan Helen Wittmer Wilder

c. For my students (past, present, and future)

d. For all those who choose to teach other peoples children

All of the above

Part I:

The
Apprentice

Born with a Grimace

W hen people ask me how I became a teacher, I tell them my career literally crashed into me. I was twenty-six and had been in New Mexico for barely two years, and married for less than twelve months. Everything seemed fresh to memy beautiful wife, Lala, the pale blue southwestern sky, even the crusty enchilada casserole I served waiting tables in the evenings. After leaving a hectic advertising job in New York City, my life seemed as simple as an inmates wardrobe choices. Then, one day, I was visiting a friend who worked part time at a local hippie school. While we were talking, a boy tore around a corner and ran straight into my groinage. I doubled over while he hit the deck headfirst. Just as Id always done with my younger brothers, I picked the kid up, brushed him off, and sent him on his way. I didnt ask him how he was feeling about our collision, or if he needed to apologize to my bruised junk to create a sense of closure. We did no art therapy, aromatherapy, or Real Boys sharing out. The head of the school had been watching from her window and liked my simple, direct approach, which my friend translated later into We desperately need a goddamn man around here. Even though I was waiting tables at night, I thought being a teacher might be fun. I imagined a lot of picking up, brushing off, and sending kids off to play in the fields of the bored. Obviously, as any teacher sober or otherwise would tell you, I didnt know shit.

And, as I learned later, if you teach in a private school, you dont have to. Private schools dont require a certain number of degrees or multitiered levels of certification the way the public schools do, which was perfect for an uncertified guy like me. I was assigned to be an assistant first-grade teacher in this alternative school on the southeast side of town. Classes were held in a series of ramshackle adobe buildings with low ceilings adjacent to a moldy greenhouse and a hardscrabble playground. Like any hippie school worth its patchouli, we offered circle time and a rabbit named Loveheart, and instead of saying grace, we sang about the earth being a harbor, a garden, and a holy place, which covered the mariners, horticulturists, and zealots among us. Even though the school was founded on pursuing kindness and peace, many of our students had felony-with-training-wheels behavior patterns that had barred them from attending the local public elementaries. Since this was my first teaching gig after a short career in the backbiting business some call advertising, I was eager to help these little critters learn to read and write and do the kind of simple math even the actors from Saved by the Bell could master. I imagined myself sitting next to a girl in pigtails, helping her sound out Dick and Jane books. In this hippie haven, I never saw the Janes, though, and dealt mostly with the dicks. While Carly , the head teacher, was leading counting games using rods made from recycled organic materials, I was escorting Jack, a local ambulance chasers son, to the bathroom to flush the giant turd hed left for his classmates to view, and then rinse out the liquid soap he had kindly poured into all our drinking cups. Other days, I would try to coax a walrus-toothed kid named Elijah Muhammad into joining our circle instead of scowling at us from his scrotum-like throne on our only beanbag chair. This little baseborn Bartleby, however, preferred to do nothing most days but construct elaborate forts in thornbushes, swear under his incisor, and pendulate exclusively on the middle swing outside.

The freakiest student we had by far was a nine-year-old girl named Ray who was born to a crack-addict mother and immediately adopted by a man whose love for elaborate drapes and exotic sea salts made it apparent that he was probably playing for the wrong team. Today we would bandy about famous names for Rays tangled and moist web of issuesTourettes, Aspergers, Kannersbut back then everyone just called this oddity with the short and uneven bangs that girl.

At one of our first circle times that year, all the six-and seven-year-olds were gathered near the turquoise-tiled fireplace sharing their fear of fascism and wishes for renewable energy resources, but I couldnt help watching Ray because of her smorgasbord of twitches and tics. It was as if a violent video game had been implanted into her brain and her face was the exploding screen. Her eyes were never both open at the same time, and the side of her mouth always held a small balloon of airready to spit, whine, or bubble in some spasmodic sound effect. Maybe the other students were accustomed to Ray and kids like her, or they had their own inner twisted shit to contend with, but they basically ignored Ray until she jumped up and ran to the outside door screaming, Watch out for the danger! Watch out for the danger! Shaking her fist at the small glass window, she stamped her feet and then butted her head against the wood like a ram learning to count the hard way. Carly quietly asked me to handle it. I had absolutely no training dealing with crazies other than my three brothers, their sketchy friends, and the high-maintenance (read: bitchy) customers at the hotel restaurant where I worked at night. I didnt know what to do other than open the door and let this girl follow her batty-ass bliss. Once she caught a glimpse of daylight, Ray bolted out of there like a rabbit violated with a cattle prod. She scooted down the open stretch of dirt road in front of the schoollegs and arms akimbolike the scarecrows love child in The Wizard of Oz. Since I was chasing her, I guess that made me Margaret Hamilton sans broom, which, given my naturally squinty eyes and the way I wore my hair at the time, is a pretty fair comparison.

Whos in danger, Ray? I asked when I caught up with her and my breath. Shed stopped at the edge of a steep arroyo, the bank thickly lined with juniper and chamisa bushes.

The deer, she said plainly, but pointed to the sky, then twirled around three times.

Flying deer?

No, the mama and her babies. Rays intonation seemed to suggest we had both been here before and I knew this family deerly. Her eyes spun around her head like she had bought them from a costume shop.

Right, I said, rolling my own eyes.

Then she slipped down the elastic waistband of her pants and farted. I have gases, she said, and shrugged.

I can see that. I hung my head at my pathetic life. Smell it too.

It became pretty clear that the bulk of my time would be spent escorting Ray, keeping her from running away to join an invisible family of elk or infringing on the other kids low safety thresholds by screaming strange non sequiturs in their ears. Her little outbursts caused more than one girl to wet herself and aggravated the problems with Carlys already depleted immune system. Carly was the kind of mellow educator who prided herself on her ability to stay calm under all circumstances, and Rays explosions put a dent in her goals and a bloody ulcer in her gut. As for me, each day with Ray started to feel more and more like the few disturbing times Id dropped acid in college; here I was again, half a decade later, trying desperately not to let Ray become the Cheshire cat in my Go Ask Alice in Wonderland nightmare.