Chapter One: Georgia
Some emails require you to crack your knuckles before you begin typing them. This isdefinitelyone of those emails.
“All right,” I say to my class of seniors, stretching my neck side to side as I sit up at my desk and lower my fingers to my keyboard, “here goes nothing!”
Dr Lewis,I type.I hope this—
“Wait! Miss Anderson, you forgot to write a subject line!” Zoe, my third favourite student, points to the smartboard my laptop is projecting onto. “You told useveryemail needs one.” Zoe may be moving up in the ranks. Ornell, who is usually in second place, has been throwing alotof shade my way that is typically reserved for my older colleagues who can’t keep up with his chronically online references or quippy tongue.
“Especially because this guy has, like, zero clue who you are,” the student next to her, Drake, drawls, before scoffing. “He’s not going to open a spammy-ass email from some random chick.” Drake has made it abundantly clear that he’s only taking this elective because Zoe, his girlfriend, is. But he, like the fifteen other students in this class, has been participating more since I brought in my grandmother’s time capsule last week.
“Valid point. Still, we should probably not use words likechickto refer to women,” I say, lifting a brow at him. “Especially not your teacher.” I move my cursor to the empty subject box. “Okay, how about ...” I watch the text cursor blink, taunting me as seconds drift by without a single worthwhile thought.
How the hell would I summarise this? I click my tongue, leaning farther back in my chair as I allow my eyes to scan the room, finding several expectant stares. “Any suggestions?” I ask.
“I’ve got one,” Ornell says, his tone verging on mocking as he raises his hand.
“Okay ...” I narrow my eyes on him ever so slightly, bracing for impact. “What have you got?”
Ornell’s eyes light up with a subtle excitement that turns up the corner of his lip. “Happy Valentine’s Day! Did you know your grandma was avagitarian?”
I drop my chin, delivering him a withering stare, as a few of Ornell’s classmates grant him the snickering sort of laughter he clearly wanted. He smiles, smug, irreverent, and completely unfazed by my glare.
“Maybe something a touch more subtle?” I suggest pointedly.
Phaedra raises her hand before she speaks, which is one of the many reasons she’s currently sitting at the top of the leaderboard. Another reason is the essay she handed in last week. While most of her classmates submitted half-baked assignments, covering subjects I’ve already taught them this semester, Phaedra chose to write her paper about the arrival of the Vikings in Newfoundland during the eleventh century. I’m really hoping that she’ll take my not-so-subtle suggestions and consider studying history after her graduation this spring. She’s got a knack for research, and her reference pagesare simplydivine. I’ve never had a student practise such flawless MLA formatting—she nearly brings tears to my eyes with every assignment.
If she did choose to study history, Phaedra would be the first in my five years of teaching to do so. I’m not intending to keep track, per se, it’s just a fact I’m growing eerily aware of. My coworkers often talk about their past students who have gone on to study in their fields, and return to thank them years later. English teachers share stories about finding their names in the acknowledgements section of novels. Science and math teachers receive invitations to graduation ceremonies and donated classroom supplies. Drama teachers get shout-outs in playbills and sent free tickets to shows. As for history teachers? I’m not sure what we “get” just yet. I’d settle for my students showing up on time, honestly. Actually, if we’re making requests, having them not giggle when I say that the moon landing happened in 1969 would be great.
I’m beginning to worry that I lack the inspirational qualities my fellow teachers seem to have.
Every year, fewer senior students take this elective. So much so that I’ve had to quite literally beg my principal to continue letting me teach it with the ever-dwindling class size. I narrowly saved the class this year by agreeing to oversee the yearbook committee on Tuesdays after school, unpaid.
I can’t blame the kids for their lack of interest in the past. After all, how many generations have had to witnessthis many“once in a lifetime” events unfold from a screen that fits inside their pocket?
It’s hard to get them to care about history when their futures seem to be constantly hanging in the balance. Most of my students have constant unfiltered access to the internet and its infinite well of doom, gloom, and opinions that often get misconstrued as fact. It’s a terrifying reality, but they’regrowing numb to what led to their moment in time because so many of them are already overwhelmed by the times they’ve had to grow up in. Hell, my very first year of teaching was online because of the pandemic.
But every worthwhile professor I had in university taught me that studying history is really about gaining critical-thinking skills. It’s learning how to cut through the bullshit and research for yourself by using sources to gather evidence, recognise their individual bias, and identifywhyit’s there. So, whether they decide to go on to study history or not, I’ll be sure to teach them that. It’s a skill they’ll need to navigate this world that inundates them with information day in and day out.
“Great, Phaedra! What are you thinking?”
“How about,our grandmothers’ special bond?”
“Special bond,” Ornell repeats incredulously, rolling his eyes towards the panelled ceiling that I’ve decorated for the holiday. He glares at the red and pink paper chains and strung-up glitter hearts with such concentrated disgust that I wouldn’t be surprised if they began to shrivel up under his stare. Eventually, after a pouted lip signalling his repulsion, he turns his focus towards his classmate. “They were lovers, Phae, not—”
“Ornell, that’s a warning,” I say, bringing my hands back to my laptop’s keyboard. “That was a great suggestion, Phaedra, thank you ... but maybe something a little more specific?”
Ornell raises his hand while lifting his leg, crossing one knee over the other.
I sigh, silently pleading with him to be kind as I soften my gaze. “Yes, Ornell?”
“How about ...the G in LGBTQ stands for Grandma.”
I resist my laughter, running my tongue across my teeth. “I think we’re getting a bit carried away and—” I break off, my lip twitching into a grin.Damn, Ornell’s got me now.He knows it, too, I see it all over his face. His proud expression reads:Permission granted.
“Or ...” he says, practically giddy, “you can’t spell Granny without g-a-y?”
I shake my head as I lose the battle, letting out a breathy laugh. He’s a pain in the ass, sure, but he is clever, I’ll give him that. “Thank you,everyone, for your suggestions ... I’m going to go withTime Capsule Belonging to Martha Bennett,” I say, typing for all of them to see.
