Teacher of the Year (Understudy)

Here’s a little secret. I have no idea what I’m doing. How is it they don’t know? After all these years? 

I placed my travel mug of hot coffee (and only a little Bailey’s) on my desk and checked the time. It was 7:45am. I had fifteen minutes until my class of adoring students filed in, took their seats, and performed whatever tasks I found on the pages of the yellowed lesson plan from the closet. 

I took a sip of coffee and opened my school email. Trainings, new sign in procedure, nothing exciting. I noticed an email from my principal directly to me, not to “faculty” like all the others. 

Josh, 

We finally filled the 9th grade English position, and he starts tomorrow. You are being assigned as his mentor. No better man for the job than the Teacher of the Year, in my opinion. Please touch base with him tomorrow morning. He’s a little green since he just graduated, and never having taught before, he’s a little nervous. Most importantly, he’s Joe Potsko’s nephew so we need to send a warm welcome and help where we can. You know what I mean. 

Gary 

Wait, what? Mentor? A fresh out of college nephew of the school board president? No. This couldn’t be. Did I mention I have no idea what I’m doing? 

Here’s how I’ve operated since I was accidentally hired ten years ago: 

Go to work. Drink coffee. Assign a page from the antiquated lesson plan book found in the closet. Drink coffee. Collect (but do not read) assignments. Give the kids I like an A, give the kids I don’t like arbitrary Bs and Cs, choose one F for good measure to serve as an “example” to the others. Done.

Somehow this merited Teacher of the Year status on more than one occasion. I still don’t know how that happened. 

Oh, back to how I was accidentally hired. Funny story. I was trying to get into the school gym to shoot some hoops since my gym membership expired. Security stopped me cold, told me only authorized personnel would be permitted inside. I bit my tongue, though I wanted to let fire a few choice words. I mean, I pay school taxes! Isn’t that pretty much the same thing as a gym membership for the school gym? 

As I walked away, I saw a suited man approach security and tell him he was there for his interview. Without even a second thought, he was let inside and to his own devices. 

I walked off and hatched an idea. I’d show up the next day wearing a suit over my gym clothes. Tell security I was there for an interview, then once inside sneak over to the gym and lose the suit. 

The next day, I did just that. Security bought my story, let me in, and I headed for the gym. 

My path was blocked by an anxiety ridden woman clutching a clipboard and directing me to the main office for my interview. I barely had time to respond as she clutched my elbow and half dragged me into the principal’s office. I had flashbacks of my teen years where the same thing happened just about weekly. 

I figured I’d go through the motions because how long could it take? Then I’d get to the gym and unwind. 

Well, a perfect storm of my charm and their desperation lead to yours truly being offered a position effective immediately. And I didn’t really have much else going on since I was in between jobs (enjoying unemployment) so I accepted and started the next day. Figured I could sit in a classroom and babysit during the day, then shoot hoops at dismissal because a school schedule is pretty sweet. Did I mention I have no idea what I’m doing? 

So. Now I need to mentor this kid, with all the knowledge I found in the classroom closet in a box marked “Mr. G’s English Lesson Plans - 1988”. Why reinvent the wheel? I just followed what he wrote and somehow that earned me Teacher of the Year status on more than one occasion. Papers on the “The Pearl”, an autobiography assignment that took up three weeks, sprinklings of grammar tests…it was gold! I found out from some ancient coworkers that Mr. G was school legend, and passed away recently. In a way, I was paying tribute by using all of his well-thought out work. Or so I tell myself.  

***

I walked into the 9th grade hallway the next morning, made my way to the new kid’s classroom and found him standing terrified at his desk. The look on his face and sweat on his forehead screamed “walk all over me”. I rolled my eyes and introduced myself. 

“Pleasure to meet you sir,” the kid squeaked as he shook my hand with what felt like a wet trout of an appendage. 

“Pleasure’s mine, kid. Listen. You’ll do just fine. Any questions before the herd crashes in?” I asked. 

“Um, actually yes, actually, I..”

“Great! Ok! See you at lunch then! Good luck, kid!” I said and parted the sea of incoming freshmen, ready to feast on the fresh meat cowering in front of them. I did my part. I “touched base”, now it was up to him to hit a home run. 

*** 

I decided to check on my mentee at lunch. I had heard the whispers and hallway talk about the “new teacher”, and it wasn’t good. First period convinced him it wasn’t actually English class, but Breakfast and he was supposed to take them all to the cafeteria. Which he did. After the entire class grabbed trays of waffles and fruit cups, the cafeteria worker remarked how kind he was to buy his class breakfast on the first day. His teacher account would be billed. Strike one. 

After that, he was wiser second period. No trips to the caf, but his Honors English class had him believing they weren’t issued grades due to their past history of outstanding academic achievement. Attendance was optional, as well. And eight students excused themselves to sit in woodshop instead. Strike two. 

Period three went a little better. The class stayed in the room, but they didn’t stop talking and walking around the room long enough for any amount of teaching to occur. Someone had written on the whiteboard “Mr. Dork” instead of “Mr. Dorn”, and that somehow went unnoticed in the chaos of the 42 minute class period. Strike three. 

“Out to lunch?” I asked as I walked in and saw him gathering his things and packing his bag. 

“Out for good. I’m done. Leaving. This is not for me. It’s been awful!” he said as a tear formed in his defeated eye. 

I grabbed his bag and dumped it out in front of him. He gasped as his shiny new Teacher Planner and ballpoint pens danced across the fake wood of his desktop. 

“No deal, kid. You aren’t leaving yet. Not today, not tomorrow, and we’ll see about next week. Eat lunch, steel yourself, and know you can do this. They’re just kids. They’ll see what they can get away with, but if you squash that right here and now, they’ll relax.” 

“But I don’t know how to squash anything! I don’t even squash bugs!” he said, as he slid his glasses firmly up his nose. 

“Straighten that awful tie, eat your PB and J you undoubtedly brought for lunch, and try again. Nobody here had a great first day. Teachers are giant balls of nerves whether it’s Day 1 of your first year, or Day 1 of your fortieth year. You got this, kid.” 

As I walked away and left him shaking with his fruit snacks, I knew he’d be ok. Getting past the first day would give him courage for the next, and so forth til summer break. And against my better judgment, I’d see to it that he stuck it out til then. Note to self: search closet for “Mr. G’s Mentor Box” today. Can’t hurt to check.