Some teachers are needier than others. It's not as if the migraines will be distributed evenly among the teachers. It's the third-grade homeroom teacher who will get them--over and over and over again. She will also need regular bathroom-trip relief. A mysterious young man will disrupt the day by bringing her flowers. There is a subtext to your interactions with her, and it is this: I cannot believe my life is this great, unending indignity. And you will empathize, because: How could you not?
To be a substitute teacher is to pass through the Gateway to Hell. The third-grader teacher--the one with the regularly-scheduled migraines--will summon you to take over her class at the last minute. "This is a math packet," she says, a wicked look on her face. "Some of them will finish quickly, but some will not finish even after the bell." Your first, innocent thought: They will not finish because they will have become absorbed by, engulfed by, a delightful world of math! They will not finish because they are enchanted--dazzled by learning!
This is not accurate. They will not finish because the math packet is baffling and tedious, and no one has explained the rules to them. Do a quick cerebral dance. "Mental math": How to explain that? What are the words to illustrate each step in rounding? 26-13....It has an answer, but if you simply perform the calculation, then you are wrong. There must be adjustments and counting by tens. There must be number bonds. One question asks: The plane flew for approximately 800 miles. What is the greatest number of miles the plane could have flown? Is this some secret coded language? Is this math?
The battleground will be the three-hole punch. When the child cannot solve the unsolvable and mind-numbing challenges in the math packet, she will take interest in the nearest available stimulus: The three-hole punch. Tactile! Auditory! Visual--that burst of snow when the bottom falls out! She will test you: Can I use the three-hole punch? You are a softie, and unthinking: Yes. Yes. Why not? And she knows she has a small victory. Migraine Teacher would never permit access to the three-hole punch. The ADHD kid now understands that she owns you--and there will be no turning back. Extra children flock to the three-hole punch--like moths to the flame. Try: Just try to speak to them. Try to use English. You fool! It's time to rely on threats.
What a farce--to be a third grader! For social studies, the Migraine Teacher has left a packet about North, South, East, and West. The King's kitchen is west of his study. The study is north of the TV room. You must flick the worksheet over--and back--over and back--committing the words in tiny print to memory, then enacting their commands on a blank canvas. But who gives a fuck about this fictional King, and his fictional fucking kitchen? You look at your beleaguered substitute teacher; together, you two share a moment of wordless, existential despair. This is school. You must do this for fifteen more years.
At times, there is silent writing. Migraine Teacher has left prompts for you on the wall, in her careful, perfect block letters. The letters are multicolored! Here is Migraine Teacher's advice: Write about a person who is important to you. Or: Write about a place that is important to you. And: If you're stuck? Draw a picture to get your juices flowing. And this will be your year. Person, place, picture. Person, place, picture. There are ways to manufacture drama here: Migraine Teacher, I'm out of ideas. Or: Migraine Teacher, I don't know how to spell TOMORROW. I don't know how to spell TAFFY. I don't know how to spell BASKETBALL. When you manufacture an interest in knowing correct spellings, the teacher has to interact with you, and if you're lucky, you get a little post-it with the word you've requested. A post-it: Good for folding and rolling. The top quarter has that weird sticky residue, which you can roll between your thumb and forefinger, as a way of warding off sleep. Roll it, roll it, roll it. Person. Place. Picture. Roll it. Soon, you will have lunch.
Class ends. The mothers arrive. It is PC to ask: "Will your mom or dad pick you up?" But one of those nouns is irrelevant. It's Mom. Mom, Mom, Mom, even in Manhattan, even in 2018. The mothers will give a brief, alarmed expression to the fatigued male substitute at the front of the room: Is everything OK with Mrs. X? Which is code for: What the fuck are you doing here? Smile. Mention the migraine. Pack your bags; have warm, secret thoughts about your television.
To be a substitute teacher is to pass through the Gateway to Hell. The third-grader teacher--the one with the regularly-scheduled migraines--will summon you to take over her class at the last minute. "This is a math packet," she says, a wicked look on her face. "Some of them will finish quickly, but some will not finish even after the bell." Your first, innocent thought: They will not finish because they will have become absorbed by, engulfed by, a delightful world of math! They will not finish because they are enchanted--dazzled by learning!
This is not accurate. They will not finish because the math packet is baffling and tedious, and no one has explained the rules to them. Do a quick cerebral dance. "Mental math": How to explain that? What are the words to illustrate each step in rounding? 26-13....It has an answer, but if you simply perform the calculation, then you are wrong. There must be adjustments and counting by tens. There must be number bonds. One question asks: The plane flew for approximately 800 miles. What is the greatest number of miles the plane could have flown? Is this some secret coded language? Is this math?
The battleground will be the three-hole punch. When the child cannot solve the unsolvable and mind-numbing challenges in the math packet, she will take interest in the nearest available stimulus: The three-hole punch. Tactile! Auditory! Visual--that burst of snow when the bottom falls out! She will test you: Can I use the three-hole punch? You are a softie, and unthinking: Yes. Yes. Why not? And she knows she has a small victory. Migraine Teacher would never permit access to the three-hole punch. The ADHD kid now understands that she owns you--and there will be no turning back. Extra children flock to the three-hole punch--like moths to the flame. Try: Just try to speak to them. Try to use English. You fool! It's time to rely on threats.
What a farce--to be a third grader! For social studies, the Migraine Teacher has left a packet about North, South, East, and West. The King's kitchen is west of his study. The study is north of the TV room. You must flick the worksheet over--and back--over and back--committing the words in tiny print to memory, then enacting their commands on a blank canvas. But who gives a fuck about this fictional King, and his fictional fucking kitchen? You look at your beleaguered substitute teacher; together, you two share a moment of wordless, existential despair. This is school. You must do this for fifteen more years.
At times, there is silent writing. Migraine Teacher has left prompts for you on the wall, in her careful, perfect block letters. The letters are multicolored! Here is Migraine Teacher's advice: Write about a person who is important to you. Or: Write about a place that is important to you. And: If you're stuck? Draw a picture to get your juices flowing. And this will be your year. Person, place, picture. Person, place, picture. There are ways to manufacture drama here: Migraine Teacher, I'm out of ideas. Or: Migraine Teacher, I don't know how to spell TOMORROW. I don't know how to spell TAFFY. I don't know how to spell BASKETBALL. When you manufacture an interest in knowing correct spellings, the teacher has to interact with you, and if you're lucky, you get a little post-it with the word you've requested. A post-it: Good for folding and rolling. The top quarter has that weird sticky residue, which you can roll between your thumb and forefinger, as a way of warding off sleep. Roll it, roll it, roll it. Person. Place. Picture. Roll it. Soon, you will have lunch.
Class ends. The mothers arrive. It is PC to ask: "Will your mom or dad pick you up?" But one of those nouns is irrelevant. It's Mom. Mom, Mom, Mom, even in Manhattan, even in 2018. The mothers will give a brief, alarmed expression to the fatigued male substitute at the front of the room: Is everything OK with Mrs. X? Which is code for: What the fuck are you doing here? Smile. Mention the migraine. Pack your bags; have warm, secret thoughts about your television.
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