The Bad Day

September 22

Friday was my worst day yet. The first time I brought my work home. And not in the traditional sense because, let’s be honest, I bring my work home every day. Planning lessons, grading papers, making handouts. This Friday, I brought the hurt home. My fourth period class made me crazy. 28 seniors – and I felt like every one of them was against me. Even the good students who always sit quietly and do what I say made me feel horrible. While chaos erupted in my class, those good, quiet ones looked at me the whole time. I felt like they were saying… “act like a teacher, miss, what kind of control is this?” I let this one class affect my day. The rest of my classes were awesome – really incredible. The football game in the evening was also fun. For some reason, all I remember is my 4^th period class – and a girl named Beatrice.

I yelled for the first time. I took my first student into the hallway for a one-on-one “what the hell are you doing?!” conversation. I felt my voice strain for the first time – the high-pitched trembling that sounds like you’re about to cry. I always understood why you NEVER cry in a classroom, but I never understood why a teacher would ever feel that way. I know why now. It’s because you’re trying so hard, and they aren’t meeting you half way. I heard about a dozen expletives yelled in my class (granted they were never directed at me), but I didn’t know how to manage it. My voice turned ugly. “Do not use that word in my classroom, am I clear, Carlos?” I stood in front of my class and gave period 4 the teacher stare for a full 30 seconds. It felt like the longest thirty seconds I’ve ever stood in one place. By twenty seconds, every one was silent, except for Devie who said “damn, she’s angry” and Alis who said, “shiiiiiiiit” in a quiet, resigned voice. I stood there for the last ten seconds just for effect. Lie. I stood there for ten more seconds because I didn’t trust my choked voice to start talking again. I felt my cheeks burning red.

You know, it wasn’t all that bad. It feels horribly bad at the time. Every time I looked at Ross, I wanted to say “I’m sorry, I know you’re listening, and I know I’m giving a horrible lesson right now, but don’t stop listening!” Every time I looked at Cristina, I wanted to say “thank you, stick with me.” Every time I looked at Carlos, I wanted to say “are you f---ing kidding me, sit in your seat and shut up!” And I never say the f-word.

So Carlos and the rest of the rowdy 4^th period was not the reason I had the worst day yet. I can handle those kids. Sometimes they’re hilarious and productive in class, and sometimes they will be chaos. I can get over those students easily. They just make me tired and red in class. The reason I brought the hurt home was Beatrice. She’s easily one of the brightest students I have – such a great writer. She should be in AP Lit, but Ms. Drinkward, the AP teacher, said she’s too lazy. Beatrice was reading a book in my class. Can you imagine how infuriating that is? She’s reading – she likes to read! Yay! – but she’s not doing any work in class. Instead, she’s reading and talking to her friends. I tell her to put the book away repeatedly until I actually go over and take the book from her hands, shut it, and hand it back. She tells me that her mom is going to come in ‘cause she would be angry that I just did that. I sarcastically respond that, good, I would love to talk to her. I handled Beatrice all wrong. I should have challenged her with harder work, but instead, I got into a conversation with her in front of the whole class. She called me out.

“Miss, why are you telling me to work when every one else is not doing the stupid worksheet on introductions either.”

“Because I’m not talking to everyone else right now, Beatrice, I’m talking to you.”

“I don’t need this worksheet, when I write, I just write, I don’t need to fill this out. I don’t need this.”

“I know you’re a great writer, but I need you to learn how to follow directions and work productively in class.”

This went on for a little while.

We never resolved the conversation because at that point Carlos yelled something inappropriate, and we needed to go out into the hall. When Carlos and I came back in, the class was more subdued – a bit scared that I took someone out. Then again, Beatrice never picked up a pencil.

After school, I ran concessions at the football game with my fellow teachers and a lot of my 12^th grade seniors. Among them were students from my 4^th period class. We talked, joked. I even gave Carlos a high-five and let him hang around me as I grilled the hot dogs. Beatrice was always within talking distance, but we didn’t say a word to each other. I gave her a few small smiles, but something she could easily pretend she didn’t see. When she left around 9 PM from the varsity game, she walked by me.

“Goodbye, Beatrice.” I waved my hand.

She walked right by me, purposely and heartbreakingly ignoring me.

Ouch, it hurts.