“Hm,” he replies, his mouth a firm, flat line. “Well, I guess this is not the best time to tell you I looked over your lesson plans.”
“Why? Because you feel humbled and inspired by the true innovation and magic and wonder of the new unit plan I wrote up?” I stretch my smile from ear to ear, showing all of my teeth and most of my gums, a tragically beautiful Cheshire Cat.
“That smile makes you look more unhinged than your lesson plans, Ms. Baker,” he says, unaffected.
I drop my smile. A strange feeling of disappointment washes over me.
“After translating your plans—” he continued.
“Huh? I wrote them in English,” I cut him off, wondering if there was a mysterious and accidental ‘Translate to Spanish’ button I clicked.
“Ms. Baker, you used three different fonts. Each line of text was of a different size. Sections of little to no meaning were randomly highlighted, in a different color, or italicized. It was as if I were translating cuneiform.” He shakes his head, bemused. “I don’t know how you can function?—”
“Very well, thank you very much.” My manic smile is back. I hold his eyes. “But it was good, right?” I inspect his face, searching for any sort of reaction. It was a good unit plan. I know it was.
Something behind his eyes flickers.
“YES!” I jump up and down, gyrating and fist pumping like I am on the Jersey Shore. A cast member on the show, The Jersey Shore, that is. The Situation, okay? I am dancing like I’m Mike the Situation. Before he got sober (bless).
My students look up at my outburst. Dorothy rolls her eyes. Max jumps up from his seat, sprints to me, and imitates my dance moves. “Not to worry, 302,” I say, as I bodily move Max back to his desk. “Mr. Flores was just telling me you’re the best class in the entire school. Keep reading…let’s keep it up!”
I turn back to Mr. Flores once my students are back ontask. “Sorry,” I say, unable to contain my smile. “What were you saying?”
He looks at me as if I’ve said that I organize the books on my bookshelf by color. “I will admit the unit has some good…perhaps excellent ideas, but I still want to talk to you about the organization. However,” he says, glancing at the students reading, “I think we should finish this conversation after school. It seems like they’re about to finish up, so let’s plan to meet at 3 PM.”
“Aye aye, captain,” I tell him with a salute and a grin on my face. “Hasta luego.”
When the door shuts behind him, I start my gyrating fist pump routine again. This time, I let the entire class join me.
NINE
Oliver
I am tapping my foot,glancing at the 3:09 written across my watch, thinking about Ms. Baker’s unit plan. It was unique. Unconventional, yes, but there were some real opportunities for student learning. That sort of creativity is supremely difficult, nearly impossible to teach teachers. Many teachers in our building would actually benefit from observing her. With a bit of fine tuning, the unit could even be excellent. Walking into her classroom, seeing her students grappling with content productively, it was… good. Almost… irritatingly so. I can begrudgingly admit that. Surprising, for sure. Am I being too hard on her?
It’s 3:11 when Ms. Baker bursts through my door, not bothering to knock.
“OhmigodIamsosorry,” she exhales, wheezing. She throws her backpack on the floor and herself into the chair across from my desk.
I raise an eyebrow in response.
She pushes her hair from her eyes and pulls out a water bottle of unknown brand and color, unknown to me because she’s covered every square centimeter of the bottle in a stickerof some sort, texts and colors overlapping in places. Black Lives Matter. Trans Lives Matter. Brooklyn Public Library. Planned Parenthood. ACLU. A holographic rainbow with “What a beautiful day to smash the patriarchy,” written in pink cursive. One that simply says, “But her emails.”
I cringe at the permanent chaos she is so comfortable with and straighten my black coffee mug and black stapler so they are perfectly aligned on my practical and bare dark wood desk. I do, however, watch the perfectly symmetrical lines of her throat as she chugs from her bottle.
She finishes with a tiny burp and deposits the bottle back into her bag. “I’m sorry. Max’s dad is being difficult. He accosted me outside in the schoolyard about an incident that Max totally made up. We were out there arguing for twenty full minutes. Max said that Dorothy shoved?—”
I hold my hand up. “Ms. Baker, stop. Breathe.” I commend myself for only glancing down at her chest for half a second as it shifts when she takes a deep breath. “First, we do not refer to PS 2 parents as ‘difficult.’” I cut in again as she prepares to retort. “I know Max’s dad, and he is, indeed, difficult, but please refrain from calling your parents that to your immediate supervisor. It is profoundly unprofessional.”
She harrumphs.
“Second, we do not ‘argue’ with parents. We have conversations. Discussions. Because we are in service towards the same goal…the well-being of their children.”
I can tell it takes everything in her to not roll her eyes at me. She doesn’t.
“Ms. Baker, do you have children?” I ask, glancing down at her ring finger.
She notices and hides her hand under her thigh. “I could have children and not be married, you know. And even if I were married, I wouldn’t have to wear a ring. I wouldn’t have to have kids, either. Smash the patriarchy!” she announces,waving her fist in the air. I know the verbal diarrhea will continue, so I remain silent. “But no, I don’t have them. Kids, I mean. Or rings. Or marriage, really. Or anything resembling a situationship?—”
