Joke: What Makes Dry Erase Boards Special?

I've no idea what Michael is like as a father. I only know him as my students do.

I know him as Coach.

Coach is a short, squat man with monk-pattern baldness and a few thinning strands combed across the top of his head. In the morning, as bleary eyed teenagers saunter through the hallway, Coach stands in front of his classroom door. Every morning.

I can't claim to do the same. I catch glimpses of Coach's stunted cross-arm stature as I flit from task to task, copy machine to computer, in frantic preparation for the day's lessons. Sure, administrative emails ask for all staff members to stand in front of classrooms and monitor hallway behavior. Most of us ignore the request.

But not Coach. Every single morning; every single passing period; every day after school he stands in front of his classroom door and polices with single words and hand gestures.

"Hat."

"Coach." A student nods, and stuffs the hat into his back pocket.

"Arms-distance."

"Coach." Two enamored students undrape their arms from around necks and step a significant distance apart.

"Language."

"Sorry, Coach." A crimson blush fuels a group of rowdy students. They scurry by with heads down.

---

I've no idea what Coach is like as a father, but I know what Coach is like as a teacher. A lot of information can be gleaned about other colleagues by eavesdropping into students' conversations as they enter or exit the classroom. I know who the hardest grader is, who gives too much busy work, who plays favorites.

I know Coach tells jokes.

Terrible jokes. And he delivers them with zero affect. The jokes are legendary among students. I've been privy to overhearing Coach tell a joke or two in the office. It's difficult to discern whether he's delivering a wisecrack or a drill sergeant command. Nothing happens after the punch line, either.

"Hey Coach," a teacher cuts into line at the copy machine.

Coach nods in return.

The teacher pulls a stack of warm paper from the machine. "What do they got you teaching next year, Coach?"

"The same."

I felt a pang in my gut as I shifted in line and pretended to count the packets clutched in my hands. I knew Coach's teaching assignment year after year. Remedial Algebra and Foundational Math. Two subjects the rest of the department refused to teach. Two subjects that historically housed the school's most challenging students. Silence permeated the copy room.

"Tell me, why was the math book sad?" Coach asks. His small, penetrating eyes sharp and black.

"I don't know, Coach. Why?"

"It had a lot of problems." Coach crosses his arms, his beady eyes stare the teacher down. The teacher gives and affable groan. A reluctant grin pulls at the corners of my mouth. Coach nods to everyone, grabs his stack of warm paper, and strides away.

It's unspoken knowledge why he teaches the same classes every year. Coach works magic with the school's most difficult students. Some of those students are athletes, and the respect forged on the field or court carry into the classroom. But many of the students in Coach's classroom are disengaged and disconnected from high school with truancy rap-sheets and even a few ankle bracelets.

It’s not easy on Coach. There have been times when a low, deep bellow from across the hall interrupted my lecture. My slumped and doodling students perk up and everyone, including myself, dart looks between each other. Then all of our heads turn, ears perched like meerkats, to the classroom door.

"Ooooh. Coach is mad." One student whispers.

"How you make Coach mad?" Another waves hands in indignation. Several others nod and agree.

"You don't mess with Coach. The man deserves respect," a student declares.

"He's my favorite teacher," a small girl, hidden behind black hair and eyeliner, whispers.

I've heard that comment many times before. Year after year. He's my favorite teacher. However, the compliment is usually followed with a list of grievances for the jokes he tells in the classroom.

---

I have no idea what Coach is like as a father. According to social media, Coach has two daughters. They seem happy, well-adjusted. In pictures they wear tidy bows. The older daughter is in park district cheer and the younger draws rudimentary penguins. Plenty of pictures display Coach's arms corralling the girls in close. All are grinning.

According to students, however, Coach never smiles. Early in my career, I believed them. After years of working together, though, I can attest he smiles. It's rare.

I witnessed this smile once in the lunch room. A group of teachers, lining a long cafeteria table opened Tupperware and peeled soggy lettuce from pre-wrapped sandwiches. I never sat near Coach during our shared lunch period. He clustered on one side of the table with other coaches and discussed the foreign language of sports and athletics. I clustered on the other side to discuss alpha particles, Darwin, and periodic elements.

During a lull in overall conversation, I overhead a PE teacher ask, "Hey Coach. How are your kids?"

"Good." Coach's tiny eyes flashed and a large smile spread across his face, revealing well-worn crow's feet and a slight gap between his front teeth. "Gloria's entering third grade next year, and Ellie will be in first. Hard to believe."

I stared from the other end of the table, crumbs of white bread falling from my mouth. I lingered on the warm smile spread across his face as he shared the successes of each child. I imagined scenarios of Coach as a father, pictured the squat, curt man rolling on the floor in explosive giggles and tickles. The whole table listened to his telling of Ellie's refusal to wear anything but shorts.

"So I asked," Coach gave a dry chuckle, "How do you stay warm in any room?"

Everyone shifted in their seats and exchanged knowing glances. Coach crossed his arms. Waited.

"I don't know. How, Coach?"

"Stay in the corner where it's always 90 degrees."

---

I have no idea what Coach is like as a father, but after years of teaching across the hall and sharing the same students, I learned Coach's repertoire of jokes in quips and fragments. What did the triangle say to the circle...a math teacher at the beach is a tan-gent...make time fly by throwing a clock out the window.

I tried to participate in the comedy earlier this year. As students entered my classroom, I witnessed a tall, pock-marked boy shoulder close to his friend. I overheard the words Math...This morning...No Joke whispered in disconcertment. Naturally, I assumed they were discussing Coach's dry comedy bits. The tall boy lowered his eyes.

"Why wasn't the geometry teacher at school today?" His friend asked.

I jumped in front of the two boys and waved my fingers. I sing-songed, "Because he sprained his angle! Get it?" beaming, proud of my hawk ears and clever timing. "I know jokes, too. Now take a seat and pull out your lab notes."

"No. Why wasn't Coach at school today?" The student repeated, ignoring me. His eyes locked on his lanky friend.

Another student interrupted. Her face void of color, "You didn't hear?"

"There was a fight in the cafeteria this morning," another student interjected. I looked around and could feel an almost combustible energy in the room. The faces of my students registered--furrowed brows, anxious side glances. Some appeared agitated and angry. Some looked as if on the verge of tears. I set down my own notes. Turned off the projector.

"What happened?"

Approximately 15 minutes before the first bell, a fight erupted in the cafeteria. Several boys lurched over tables and chairs toward another group of boys. Rumor says it was over a girl’s picture. Students screeched and scurried to form a circle around the fight. Cafeteria attendants hollered frantically for help. Cellphones appeared. Fists flew. Administrators barreled through the crowd with rattling keys and buzzing walkie-talkies.

Coach barreled into the crowd, too.

A student threw a punch. Blood splattered across the table. Another student picked up a metal chair and threw it in return. The chair struck coach across the head. He went down. A girlfriend of one of the assailants let out a high, drawn out howl. Reports after that became frantic, sporadic in detail. Boys wrangled apart by the elbows, an assistant principal on her knees next to Coach's body. Ambulance sirens infiltrating. Students disperse in funeral procession silence.

No one joked.

Why wasn’t the geometry teacher at school?

Because he was violently assaulted.

---

I don't know what Coach is like as a father, but I watched him return to work a week later. He resumed his station in front of the classroom door, the yellow and green remnants of bruises across his cheekbone. I witnessed him shake the hand of one of the boys involved in the cafeteria brawl. In single words and short gestures, he reminded students how to behave in the hall.

"Coach." They all nodded.

I thought of Coach and his daughters again on May 24th, 2022 when I received a text message asking, "Are you ok? I heard about the shooting in Uvalde." I thought of the warm smile spread across Coach's face as he shared his daughter's third grade play and his first grader's artistic masterpiece. After collapsing in grief and rage over the Uvalde shooting, I questioned if I could return to teaching...ever. Then I recalled coach telling a joke to the student who hurt him. I heard the echo of an amused groan and then the whisper.

"Aww Coach. I love him."

I have no idea what Coach is like as a dad.

But I do know he is a father to many, many students.