THE DECISION

                      THE DECISION

​ It was June in 1975, and I had just graduated from Northern Illinois University in DeKalb, IL. My degree was in elementary education, and I was “gung-ho” to start my new teaching career.

Unfortunately at that time, teaching jobs were scarce due to a nation-wide downturn in the economy. I needed a job andmoney badly. After my widower father had died the year before, we were forced to sell our house – with all of its furniture and appliances in it – for less than $9000. This sum was divided equally between my two sisters and myself. I was also awarded a poorly maintained 1969 Chevy Nova, which my father had driven. I was living now at various friend’s apartments – a week here, a month there -- because after paying off loans and bills from college, I had precious little cash left.

              After exhausting all the school districts in my area without any hiring success, I went back to NIU and sought help at their job placement office. There was just one possibility. It was in a place called Grand Ridge, in the north-central part of the state between Ottawa and Streator. It was a farming community with a population of about 500 people. They needed a seventh & eighth grade English teacher. The pay was $5600 a year, whereas the average salary I had expected was closer to $10,000. Still, what else could I do? I asked the job placement office to call and set up an appointment for an interview with the principal.

​ Driving down to Grand Ridge in my light-blue Chevy, I passed flat open prairies and farm lands growing corn. The weather was hot and humid, typical for that time of year in Illinois. I arrived just after 5:00 p.m. at the school principal’s house. The town was very small and deserted and quiet except for the crickets. I parked in front of a modest white house.

​The principal opened his screen door to let me in. School had let out for the summer a few days before, and he was in a sleeveless white t-shirt, unshaven, balding, with a can of beer in his hand. “Ya wanna beer?” he offered, then sipped. We shook hands as I introduced myself, but I declined the Old Style. “We’re gonna eat dinner in a few minutes if ya wanna pull up a chair.” His wife was in the kitchen, and I could smell something cooking. His eyes were rather bloodshot and he was sweating in the heat. A box fan wheezed with futility from the back of the living room. His ample gut sagged over the belt of his pants. And he was barefoot.

​“Well, John…” he said after scanning my credentials and paperwork for what must have been all of ten seconds, “…the job is yours if you want it. I can call the school board and we can meet them at the school and you can sign the contract. Classes start up again at the end of August.” He smiled and showed his bad teeth. I stood there in disbelief. Shouldn’t I get to see the school first? I thought. Was there a place for me to rent to live? Can’t I meet some of the staff?

​But the principal was headlong into calling the school board immediately. He stepped into another room, and I could hear the telephone dialing and voices talking. “There”, he announced when he rejoined me. “They will meet us at the school in a half-hour. It’s just down the street. Unless you want to eat something here, I’ll finish my dinner and meet you there at 6:00 p.m., O.K.?”

​I didn’t really know what to say in response. Yet I felt in my soul that this was a disaster of unknown proportions, waiting to burst my life into less-than-positive smithereens.

​“Umm…O.K.,” I replied. I thought fast. “But can I talk to just one other teacher in town before I sign the contract? I have some practical concerns to ask about. If you don’t mind, of course…”

​His demeanor instantly changed from affable to suspicious. “Well, if you have to…” he muttered. “Pauline lives the closest, so I’ll call her and see if she’s home. Hurry over then, and don’t forget – six o’clock! The school is a block from her house.” He went quickly to the phone again, chatted briefly, then returned to me. “She’s home,” he announced. Did he seem somewhat unhappy with that discovery though? He told me her address, waved in the general direction from his front porch and dismissed me. Rather than walking, however, I decided to drive my car over the short distance. It felt really great to be back into my familiar vehicle again.

​I found Pauline’s house without any difficulty. She was waiting for me at her door. She was friendly, in her mid-40’s I assumed, with brown hair, brown eyes, and she wore glasses. She offered me a glass of iced tea, which I gladly accepted, because my mouth was parched and I was still nervous. 

​ After we sat down on her couch, I got straight to the point, explaining the scenario and my frustrating time limit: Did she like teaching here? How long had she lived in Grand Ridge? What was the community and the students like? What were the average class sizes? Did she like the principal? Why did the previous teacher leave? I practically begged her to trust me, and I assured her that our conversation and her candor would never be divulged. I was not yet 24 years old, and her answers might help determine my life’s career choice.

​ Bottom line – Pauline admitted that she hated teaching and living there, and that she had been trying for three years to get out, but because her husband had a good job in Streator, they were not able to move away just yet. The previous teacher left after only one year, as did the one before her. The serf-like conditions with the administrators was awful, and the pay was paltry. If I was you, she advised, I would not move and teach here. Wait and trust that something better will open up. 

“I know nothing about you, John, but you seem to be a bright young man with your whole life ahead of you, and I would hate to see you stuck in a place like this,” she counseled.

​I glanced at my watch. It was 5:55 p.m. I had five minutes to walk the 3 minutes to the school and sign my contract if I wanted the job. What should I do??

​ I thanked Pauline profusely for her time and her advice. I walked back to my car, got in, and closed my eyes and thought. Oh, God…please help me, I prayed.

​ Suddenly, I knew I couldn’t do it, and I shouldn’t do it…and I wouldn’t do it! I started my car engine and escaped the sad little town. I never looked back. I never saw the principal or Pauline again. Would the school board be surprised when I didn’t show up? Would Pauline be blamed for my actions? I blasted my car radio up loud when I was far enough away. It was the Beach Boys song, “Don’t Worry Baby.” I was ecstatic to be free! I had awoken from a nightmare…

​ Two weeks later, I got a job offer in the affluent western Chicago suburb of Glen Ellyn, IL at a modern, well-equipped junior high school. My 30-year teaching career had begun…                                                            

​       The End

​by Jack Karolewski