It was
the last day of school, a work day for teachers. That usually entails that our classrooms are
packed up for the summer and we have returned all borrowed materials to the
book room or the library, cleared all debts with the front office, and turned
in our lesson plan books and student grades to the principal or her designee.
Teachers
usually start preparing for this big day a month or so in advance; after all,
it is a tremendous amount of work to get done in one 8-hour day.
Most
principals I worked for did not keep the teachers past noon, though the work
day is a paid contract day. It makes up
marginally for all the hours and weekends teachers spend throughout the school
year doing work on their own time.
By the
time I had cleared my room and locked it for the last time, it was close to
eleven. I started my “stations of the cross,” going from one to another getting
the mandatory initials on my checkout list – the librarian, my department
chair, the front desk, etc. I was down to the lady in charge of student grades,
and the final stop – shaking hands with the principal – when the grade woman
closed her office and went to lunch.
She
went to lunch.
Some
of the folks in line gave up and went to lunch too, but I stayed. Her usual
lunch “hour” was only thirty minutes, so I was determined to be there when she returned.
I moved up several places and the
handful of us tried to make ourselves comfortable.
She
and her pals came back seventy
minutes later, laughing gaily, while the few of us diehards were fighting
growling tummies and sugar lows.
The
group she was with was a handful of young teachers who considered themselves the
“cool” teachers. The type who if one
does not recognize their coolness, they will announce it straight out. Everyone
else is laughable and does not deserve to breathe their air.
The
few of us stood from where we had leaned, sat, or drooped. At last, the grade lady was back. But then she did the unforgiveable – she let
her “cool” friends go to the head of the line.
She was too stupid to know they let her in their clique so she would
grant them favors. She was no cooler than the rest of us; she was just a chump.
I
erupted. I cussed. (I will not write the word here, but believe me, it was NOT
ladylike.) I called them spoiled brats and entitled snobs, and showed them
where the end of the line “blank” was.
The cool
teachers looked at me from the end of their cool noses. Who was I to tell them
what to do? I charged at them and they backed off in their cool high heels and expensive
sneakers. Another teacher in line tried to intervene. She danced between us and made her Rodney
King speech of “Can we not get along?”
I
ranted about having to wait more than one hour while the grade lady went to
lunch with these “blankety blanks,” and now they were cutting into the front of
the line? I. Did. Not. Think. So!
I charged
at them again.
Our
principal peeked out from her office and smiled at me. We had been friends for a very long time, so
she knew about my psycho side. She did
not intervene; she just watched.
The
cool teachers scampered off, saying things under their breath about old
dinosaurs and crazy old hags, but I did not care. The grade lady slunk into her
office and was very polite when it was my turn to meet with her. She signed my
form.
The
principal and I shook hands after I gave her my completed checklist. She asked if I was okay.
“I’m
cool.” I said and we both smiled.
