Silent Night

Thirty seconds until the bell rings. Just one more period. I can do this.

I give myself the once-over in the bathroom mirror and head back down the hall. All around me, students are rushing to beat the bell. I walk slowly, enjoying the last few seconds of solitude before I enter my room. Once I cross this threshold, I am Miss. Ka'eo. And like my namesake suggests, I am strong. At least, I pretend to be in front of my students.

I can hear the soft murmur of my tenth-graders in the classroom. They know at any moment, I will pop through the doorway with a big smile and chalk-covered slacks. And once I’m in the room, all eyes remain on me. It may be an introvert’s worst nightmare, but it’s my daily routine.

I take one last steadying breath and stroll confidently into the classroom. I quickly scan the students while being careful to avoid eye contact. I greet them, instruct them to turn to page 103 of their textbooks and click on the projector. Ah, the projector. I use it frequently, not just for its technology, but because it gives me an excuse to turn down the lights. A little less light shining on me makes presentations more comfortable. Must be an introvert thing.

As we move through the lesson, I repeat the words I practiced the night before. Every night, I run through my lectures for the following day. Being prepared gives me confidence and allows me to feel comfortable spending hours in the spotlight. The thought of presenting without the words already running through my mind or visual materials to divert attention makes my heart flutter. Each time I run through my lessons, I sound and appear more confident. Not only am I practicing my public speaking, but I am practicing my extroversion. Or, rather, the extroverted facade I display while on school property.

After forty minutes of my voice echoing through the classroom, the lesson comes to an end, and I am right on schedule. I pause, taking another look at my pupils. They are fading, and I’m not surprised. It’s Friday afternoon, and the last thing on their minds is structural functionalism in a society. I lock eyes with one girl, Sama, sitting in the back row. She keeps to herself and doesn’t participate in class discussions. But based on her essays and test scores, I know she is following along. Sama is like me, and while other teachers may demand her to be more vocal, I let her remain comfortable. I know that going to school and spending hours with her peers exhausts her, and I know not to confuse her silence with carelessness. But when Sama does raise her hand and contribute, every ear listens. When she chooses to speak, she picks her words carefully, and she brings up excellent points. And because of that, I let her be. If there is anyone who understands the difficulties of an introvert living in an extroverted world, it is me.

I glance at my watch to see there is less than one minute of class remaining. The students are getting restless, and they want to start their weekend. I don’t blame them, as I’m looking forward to a solo kayak venture myself. I ask for questions just as the sound of the dismissal bell emerges from the intercom. The students jump up, even Sama. Before she leaves, she waves softly, and I nod back. Within moments, I am alone in the classroom. Finally.

I sit down at my desk, lean my elbows on the worn-down wood, and gently rub my temples. It was a long week filled with volunteer events, assemblies, and lectures. Physically, I’m fine; mentally, I am drained. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my classroom phone blinking red. I have a voicemail from Mrs. Saetang, the mother of one of my below-average students. She wants to come in around four o’clock to discuss her son’s academic performance. It’s already quarter to four, which means it’s too late to cancel. 

I scurry out of the classroom and down the hallway to the teacher’s lounge. It’s empty, and I release a soft sigh of relief. I quickly fill a cup with hot water and gently drop a green tea bag into it. I cradle the cup in my hands to not spill a drop as I briskly walk back to my desk. Two minutes of solitude remain, and I settle into my desk to sip my tea. The steam feels good against my lips and the hot liquid makes me feel warm. I hear authoritative footsteps moving towards my door and brace myself for Mrs. Saetang. She’s a nice woman, but she’s the opposite of me in every way.

Mrs. Saetang does not knock; she lets herself straight into the classroom and plops down at the desk closest to mine. I smile warmly and she immediately launches into a story about a woman cutting her off on the drive over. She uses explicative language and talks with her hands. I nod and shake my head appropriately, letting her go on. She continues for nearly three minutes, and I can’t help but wonder if she notices that I have not spoken one word since she arrived.

Finally, after nearly five minutes of storytelling, she pauses long enough for me to get a word in. I point out some of my concerns for her son’s academic scores and areas he needs to start working hard to improve. But I can tell she is not listening; Mrs. Saetang is nodding along, just waiting to interject. As soon as I stop speaking, she chimes in with more unnecessary chatter.

The minutes drag on as I listen to Mrs. Saetang overshare the personal details of her life. I offer a few words of advice, but I know she won’t hear them. Mrs. Saetang scheduled this meeting to talk, not listen. So I let her.

As our time dwindles, I hand her a learning guide and tell her to look it over when she has the opportunity. She asks if she should come back next week to review the information, but I quickly tell her my schedule is full. Instead, I jot down my email address and tell her to contact me that way. She nods, then exclaims she is late for dinner with her girlfriends. I wave as she hustles out the door, gently closing it behind her.

By this time, it’s nearly five o’clock and time for me to head home. I gather my belongings and pull out my AirPods. Wearing earbuds tells the world you don’t want to talk, and after an hour with Mrs. Saetang, I need the AirPods to be my shields. Whoever invented earphones was definitely an introvert, I think to myself as I wiggle the devices deep into my ears. 

I walk briskly down the hallway, listening to Coldplay’s tender harmonies flood through my ears. I fly down the stairs and rip open the door leading to the back lot. I am just about to reach my car when I hear, over my music, someone shouting my name. I whip around, and my heart sinks. It’s Aran, president of the teacher’s association and chairman of catching me at the worst possible moment. I already know he’s going to ask for a favor, as that’s the only time he seeks me out.

I was right: they want to recruit me into helping put on the school’s upcoming spring dance. According to Aran, they could really benefit from my creative eye in coming up with this year’s theme for the school dance. And, of course, they are always looking for more chaperones for the dance floor. They thought I would make the perfect fit since I get along so well with my students.

I’m smiling politely at Aran as he babbles on, feeling tempted to agree just so I can escape. Finally, he pauses and I let him know I’ll have to peek at my calendar before committing. He nods excitedly and says he’ll track me down on Monday. By then I’ll have decided to suck it up and help or have come up with a valid reason to decline. Satisfied with my answer, Aran waves goodbye and shuffles away, saying something about needing to find another teacher for the fine arts committee. The moment his back turns away, I slip into my car and lock the doors.

I drive in silence, feeling overwhelmed by the day’s unexpected activity. I need moments of solitude, even if they are brief, to collect my thoughts and recharge. But today, the silence was scarce, and I’m feeling depleted.

My apartment feels cool and dark, and I immediately flop down on the couch. I lay there peacefully, thinking about the day’s events. As my mind wanders, I decide to treat myself to dinner-and-a-movie night. And by dinner, I mean ordering Gaeng Daeng online from my favorite restaurant. And by movie, I mean finishing the true-crime novel I’ve been working through for the past three weeks. To others, this type of Friday might be called “lame” or “low-key”. But to me, it is perfect.

I sit up and grab my phone just as my stomach starts to grumble. As I glance down, I see a row of text messages. It’s a group chat with the teachers from the school, and they are all at a local pub celebrating Katina’s birthday. Katina wants to know when I’m arriving, and she’s saving me a stool at the bar. My heart sinks, and I let out a soft groan. Katina is a good friend, and I don’t want to be rude or disappoint her. So I stand up from the couch and decide to reschedule my introverted Friday night. Instead, I run a brush through my hair, slip into a leather jacket, and pop on a fresh coat of lipstick. 

I can do this.