“We’re already going out after the last panel, Elias,” she scoffs. “We can explore the city together.”
I stab at my sad excuse for scrambled eggs. “Fine,” I mutter. “But first we’re getting beignets.”
She beams, and it’s suddenly all worth it. “Deal.”
I know that whatever this speaker, Dr. Something or Other, is saying is probably really insightful, but I’m currently distracted by the fine blonde hairs covering Mia’s arm. I’m sitting to her right, and she’s been taking notes non-stop since we sat down, and her arm is right there.
“Did you hear that, Elias?” she hisses at me.
“…Yes.”
“Physical education can be student centered, too.”
“Right,” I try, wanting to impress her now. “My kids should be able to pick the activities that interest them.”
Her leg is bouncing up and down, and I’m mesmerized by how small her thigh looks next to mine. “Yes,” she whisper-shouts. “I’m thinking about the Olympics unit.”
“Kids should be able to pick the Olympic sport they want to participate in?”
“But even beyond that… what if we broke each sport into different activities?” She is silent for a moment. “Like, what if, for a long jump activity, we had some kids actually jumping if they wanted to?—”
I understand. “And some kids could be in charge of the measurement.”
“Right,” she squeals. “Some could graph the results.”
“We could get kids to record the jumps using your class iPads, and other kids could analyze the video. Measure the angles. Make recommendations on how to jump higher, or farther.”
Mia squeezes my forearm, and I can’t help but grin down at her excitement. “Yes, Elias. Kids could choose what part of the project they want to be a part of. Those are great ideas.” She squeezes my forearm again, clinically, as if she’s running an experiment. She frowns at it after I flex.
“I’m the best,” I agree.
“You really are a good teacher,” she winks at me, abandoning my arm, and I know she’s referring to last night.
Wanting to change the subject, I ask, “Do you have your unit plans somewhere? I can add to it right now, if you want.”
She pulls her laptop out of her bag, but it takes approximately four years for the shit ThinkPad given to all DOE employees to boot up. Finally, she pulls up the document and plops the now scalding hot laptop into my lap. Clearly, the device can’t even handle turning itself on. “Here.”
I type one letter, and it takes a full three seconds for it to show up on the screen. I raise an eyebrow at Mia. “How long exactly did it take you to write this up?”
She grimaces. “You don’t want to know. But this is my DOE one. My personal laptop is better. I can stream videos on it,” she says, oddly smug.
Sighing, I start typing. She tunes back in to Dr. Something or Other. I type, then wait. Type, then wait.
The day creeps by, and finally, we’re at the last panel of the day. Mia is armed with pages and pages of notes, handouts, resources, materials, everything. She’s made it a point to talk to every single one of the presenters after every single session.
It’s inspiring, seeing her like this. She genuinely cares. She’s genuinely good at this. As I watch her arguing with a panel member about the “accessibility” of scripted curriculum, I think about how lucky every single one of her students is to have her. How lucky PS 2 is to have her. She’s brilliant. I tell her all of this.
She grins in response, radiant. She knows.
Do I care about anything this much? My gym, definitely. My personal training business. Do I pour that same love into teaching? Probably not.
Everyone around me starts clapping. The speaker is finished. Finally.
Mia turns to me, a mischievous look on her face. “Let’s go out.”
“I need to get hammered,” I agree. “But first, beignets.”
We leave the conference center and head back towards our hotel to drop our stuff and get ready.
