Smoothing the Wrinkles

The other day I ran across a student from my first year teaching at a CPS high school.  Although we were too far away from each other to have a conversation, we both lit up and smiled.  Nearly eight years have passed since Steve was in my class and the fondness I had for him still smoothes me inside.  I believe this must be true for him.

Seeing Steve brought up a whole slew of memories about my first day at CPS.  I like to compare it to my first day at the private grammar school where I taught for the seven previous years.

Two weeks before school started, the principal, the pastor and we eight teachers met in the little library around a wooden table for some kind of religious prayer session that I politely sat through as the token heathen teacher.  Then we carpooled our way to Ann Sather for breakfast.  I remember sitting over coffee and cinnamon rolls, turning to my principal and saying, “Cushy job so far.”  This was the first day of our paid two week preparation time of morning meetings and full afternoons free to get our classrooms set up and our lessons and materials copied or laminated and ready to roll. 

The day I said good-bye to all the teachers seven years later, I cried saying, “I’ll miss the laughter shared with students over being accidently called mom.”  One of the teachers reassured me, “They may not call you mom, but they’ll probably call you what they call their mothers.”

True.  Check out this first day at CPS.  On Monday of the second week of school, I climb the steps of one, two, three entrances before I finally find the right door.  I was hired the Friday before in spite of sending my resume twice over the summer and making several follow up calls.  But let’s put that behind us.  I am told I’ll be teaching algebra and geometry in self-contained special education classes.  I pull together some materials for my first day since there are no books suitable for the special ed kids, according to some of the teachers.  When I get to school, the principal hands me some dry erase markers so I’ll be prepared.  I ask where the copier is and set off to the teacher’s lounge to make copies.  I push buttons but nothing happens.

“You have to get your code entered,” a teacher says.

“How do I do that?”

“Ms. D. has to do it.”

“Who is that?”

“She’s down in the main office.  It takes a day or two.”

“Is there any other copier?”

“What are you teaching?”

“Math.”

“You can try the math department.”

I find the math office and ask the department chair if I can use the copier.

“No, I’m sorry.  This is just for the math department.”

I’m confused.  I’m pretty sure I’m teaching math.

“This is for a math class,” I explain in case she misunderstood.

“Sorry.  What can I do?  This is just for our department.  You need to go to the special ed department.”

The special ed department doesn’t have a copier for the teachers’ use, but the case manager understands my predicament and lets me use it this once.

I enter my first classroom, nervous and disorganized with copies in hand.  Five students, three boys and two girls, show up in an afterthought of a classroom.  They’re mad that Ms. Taylor is not their teacher anymore.  I hand out my precious copies and begin to explain the lesson.  One girl keeps talking.  I tell her repeatedly to stop talking.  She keeps talking.  I tell her she needs to stop or leave the classroom.

She says, “Well, I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

I’m shocked.

She walks out.

I push the security button to report the student.  No one responds.  It’s broken.

I turn back to the remaining students and begin again.  I hear the girl whisper, “What a bitch,” to the boy beside her.  There it is.  I’m sure that’s what she calls her mother.  I’m not laughing.  I don’t know what to do.  I need help.

It’s now my prep period and my department chair informs me that she’s my mentor.  Oh, good.  Here’s someone to help me.

“You need to turn your lesson plans in to me today.”

“Lesson plans?”

“The forms are on the CPS website.”

I don’t know what that is.

“You have to include the state standards.  You’ll see where they go on the form.”

“Where do I get those?”
“You can find them on the ISBE website.”

“ISBE?”

My next class has twenty one special ed students and no aide.  Four of them should be on Ritalin and I wonder why the principal didn’t hand me any duct tape.

I’m in over my head.  I want to go to Ann Sather and eat cinnamon rolls.  Instead I go to the bathroom to cry.

I cry now remembering how hard that was.  That second floor bathroom holds a lot of my tears and a few powerful kicks at its walls. But I remember too how I found my first friends at CPS and how we helped each other through the worst of it.  And I remember Steve, one steady student in a class full of goofy, dishonest, lazy and disruptive boys and I feel lucky to have been a part of something warm and lasting.

You’re probably thinking cinnamon rolls.  Too much trouble to make them; it’s faster to go to Ann Sather.  But here’s a delicious mid-morning snack that’s a bit healthier and sure to smooth out your insides.

Healthy Cinnamon Toast

1 piece of your favorite whole grain bread

2 t. coconut oil

1 t. organic raw honey (That’s the healthiest but if you like sugar, use organic evaporated cane juice.)

½ t. cinnamon

A sprinkling of hemp seeds

Before you toast the bread, have everything else ready, including a cup of matcha tea.  Matcha is supposed to have something like 30 times the antioxidants of other green teas.

If you use coconut oil, you’ll need to flake off slivers with a knife so they will easily melt on your warm toast.  Spread the honey or sprinkle the sugar, then the cinnamon.  Sprinkle the nuts on top and place it under the broiler or in toaster oven for just a minute to warm it.

When you take your first bite, think of someone fondly and feel your insides smoothing. Stir in a sip of antioxidants and you’ve got a lasting recipe for a healthy warm heart.