Review: First Week on the New Job

The wide hallways make the school seem half empty during class changes, but it’s good the students are in fact there, or else I might not have nearly as much direction.

The county system’s orientation for new teachers a few weeks ago was helpful, certainly: a full quarter of the two days was a presentation by the school board’s attorney wowing us with his prowess, assuring us of his protective powers and teachers’ “sovereign immunity,” cautioning us to talk to no attorney but him, and describing the stupid things teachers do for which they get fired very quickly. The veiled threat was none too subtle.

My principal appears to be well loved and respected, on top of things, no-nonsense and humorous, and just downright professional. I hadn’t been sure I wanted to leave my old principal, I respected him so, but this new principal seems terrific, also. He conducted the seventh grade assembly about school rules with a microphone but without teacher support (I and a few others were there, unnecessarily so), and never once raised his voice above a sober, quiet talk.

And my new colleagues are very helpful. My pleas for an extra stapler, a clock, or other items did not go unanswered; my many uncertainties about procedures have been clarified by collegial neighbors.

All that said, however, by the time teacher work days had expired, I was once again agreeing with other faculty that school is boring without students. And, in fact, my students are the ones who have done the most to get me on track:

“Mr. C, are we going to have to count Reading Program points?”

I’ve never required this before. “No.”

“Oh, good. That is too much reading.”

Hmm.

“Mr. C, when do we get our reading logs?”

I’ve never assigned reading logs before. “I’m still working on those,” I said. “Maybe next week.”

“Mr. C, do you want us to skip lines when we write?”

I’d forgotten about that. “Yes indeed.”

And so on.

The students are already endearing themselves to me, too:

“Mr. C, how can that cow be related to you?” a boy in the back of the classroom wondered, not even sure he should be asking the question. It was the very first day, and I’d just pointed out my high school artwork, photography, diplomas, and other odds and ends I display to make myself appear more human. When I’d passed under the ceramic cow’s head I’d hung on the wall, I’d mentioned that it was a loving ancestor. A few students had giggled, but even they sounded uncertain.

“Through very complex genetic manipulation,” I told him. He still looked puzzled, but I moved on.

Another student asked, “Mr. C, is that logo on your bulletin board for [my church’s relief agency]? My mom works for their local thrift store.”

What else could I say? “Yes it is–and this year you’re going to see a lot of ties from that store.”

Later, as we were reading “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,” a girl gasped, “Mr. C, You scared me.” We’d just passed the shooting of Nag, and I’d emphasized the thunderclap of the shotgun by slamming my hand on my podium, which is made of light wood and is big and boxy, and quite noisy. I’d scared everyone, actually. It’s my favorite trick of all–regrettably already used up for this year–and it makes all the students’ little hearts skip a beat or two.

“Good,” I said.

Now I just have to figure out how to make the remaining 176 ninety-minute sessions as riveting.