Shit. I forgot. But even so… I frown in response. “You know, technically, it’s against the union contract for you to request consecutive days of my lesson plans.”
His answering frown is somehow deeper than mine. “You were the one who offered it, Ms. Baker. I am merely holding you accountable. Send what you have, so we have somethingto work off of during our coaching sessions, which will begin this week.”
“I apologize, Mr. Flores. I’ll get that to you right now,” I reply, already turning around, moving away, annoyed that my morning is starting off like this.
“And Ms. Baker,” he says behind me.
I make a big, dramatic deal of stopping and turning around once more. “Yes, sir?”
His pupils dilate. “I dare you to go to your Union Representative over this,” he taunts. “Try it.”
My mouth is hanging open, shocked at the absolute audacity. I sputter, about to retort, when he gives me a toothless smile, accentuating a dimple I didn’t know existed. He steps into his office and slams the door behind him.
Upstairs in my classroom, I am taking my irritation out on my laptop, the shit ThinkPad given to DOE employees, aggressively clicking the trackpad, attaching weeks and weeks of lesson plans to an email.I am competent. I am prepared, you stupid fuck.
Meanwhile, Class 302 are all still getting to know one another. Slowly, like the blind date that nobody wanted, all parties involved still hesitant in the way that “this is your forced family; prepare to spend every waking moment together in this same small room for six hours a day, five hours a week, for the next nine months” tends to be.
Kyrie starts the next book in his series. I manage to keep Dorothy and Max from killing each other.
I begin teaching our multiplication unit, in the conceptual way that teachers are forced to teach now, so at odds with the way we learned as kids. Times tables and algorithms are pushed aside in favor of “conceptual math”. I am armed with manipulatives as my shield, terms such as “arrays”, “groups”, and “commutative property” as my sword, kids scratchingtheir heads as if they are in a foreign language class in Medieval Times.
“But… three times three is… nine,” Kyrie says. “Like that’s it. That’s the answer,” he says, perplexed.
“Yes, but do you knowwhythree times three equals nine?” I push.
“Why do I need to know why?” Max calls out.
“I… well,” I try. “It’s like having a superpower that helps us… think creatively. Figure out solutions to all kinds of math puzzles.”
“But I know the solution to this math puzzle,” Kyrie offers gingerly. “It’s nine. The answer is nine.”
“Well, this way gives us a deeper understanding?—”
“But I understand that the answer is nine,” says Nevaeh, another little girl in the class.
“Just draw three groups of three apples,” I snap. “Make sure you draw circles around each of the groups.”
I hate teaching math.
What I do love teaching currently, however, is our unit on culture and identity. It’s a new unit I’m trying out, my lesson plans still in draft, but I think it’s a great, multidisciplinary way to teach several subjects all under one umbrella, especially at the beginning of a school year, when we’re all getting to know one another. Fiction and non-fiction reading and writing, social studies, themes such as diversity, tradition, inclusivity, respect, and community, all taught in a hands-on, immersive, engaging, and age-appropriate way. Taking Mr. Flores’s initial feedback into account (I am adaptable), I make sure that I punctuate their reading with explicit instruction, lessons about how to digest a non-fiction text, how to take notes, etcetera.
My students are in the middle of exploring different texts in small groups, wandering around the classroomand taking notes in their inquiry notebook about each culture they learn about, when we hear the door to our classroom open.
I am taking that particular moment to convince (read: threaten) Max tonothighlight every single word in his book, as it defeats the entire purpose of highlighting to begin with. Max hears the door, and when he looks up and sees Mr. Flores, he very calmly caps his highlighter, something I had been attempting to convince (read: threaten) him to do for ten minutes.
I look at Max, likeare you fucking serious?He smirks in return.
“Good morning, Mr. Flores,” I sigh.
“Good morning, Mr. Flores,” my class chants chorally after me.
“Good morning, 302,” he greets them, eyes already moving around the room. It reminds me of an eagle searching for prey, able to spot poor teaching practices from a mile away. “Please carry on,” he continues as he circulates the room. I am observing, yet again, the irritating way in which his tall and obviously muscular body wears a suit, when he announces to the class, “I’m just here to see the excellent work you are all doing.” His honey whiskey eyes finally meet mine. He gestures his head to the back of the classroom.Come.
Shivering, I stand up to meet him. “Here to tell me what a terrible job I’m doing?”
He frowns at me, a recurring response I’ve grown used to. I wonder what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a smile from him. “Contrary to what you may think, Ms. Baker, I am not merely here to find ways to ding you as a teacher.”
“Funny,” I respond. “Considering that in every conversation we’ve ever had, you’ve done just that.”
