The Teacher

Hair thrown in a messy bun to disguise the shine of grease, Ms. Sato shuffled into her classroom. Dumping her backpack, binders and cloth grocery bag she exhaled, exhausted. If energy had existed within her body, she would have laughed at the overwhelming feeling of exasperation and isolation.

Four years at a university studying to be a teacher, and not one class mentioned the nearly unbearable obstacles of the first year. Seemingly, the only patient ear these last few months had been an empty wine bottle. Naively, she had pictured teachers as teammates, helping each other with lesson planning, the burdens of the administration, sharing tips and tricks; it had only taken hours for her to realize the reality: change was hated.

Ms. Sato had been a change; therefore, she had been hated from the start. The creativity of her lesson plans had brought improvement in her students' scores, while the others' students suffered: positive change resulted in abhorrence.

Every word of affirmation from the administration resulted in disgusted glances and words by tenfold. With a last-ditch prayer for guidance, Ms. Sato inhaled with eyes closed one...two...three...hold...release...open.

"Here we go," she whispered to herself and the empty building. Robotically, she placed each item she withdrew from the bags in their designated spot. Once the desk appeared spotless and cleared, Ms. Sato, with practiced hands, folded the recyclable bag and opened the bottom drawer to her desk. A black notebook tugged her from the automated movements.

Uncertain, she gently lifted the book from its' wooden nest. "How did you get here?" Though the book had maybe a hundred thin pages, it felt weighty and substantial in her hands.

A new energy coursed through her veins, fueled by excitement and intrigue. Adventure. Her brain had nearly forgotten the word.

Subconsciously, she held her breath as her thumbs opened the worn notebook. As she read the words on the pages, her shoulders lifted as invisible hands removed the burdens.

Before you sat here, I sat here, alone.

An outcast, unwanted because of my passion.

I write to tell you, I have experienced,

the same trial and tribulations,

yet I survived and excelled.

Flipping through the pages slowed time, like resin dripping over her mind. The similarities between the writer, who frequently compared herself to a wandering fire, chilled her spine, but also warmed her skin like a heated blanket.

Ms. Sato's phone clattering to the floor broke her trance like focus. With confident movements, she swept up her phone, pulled open a drawer, snatched up a broken compact's mirror and fished a tube of mascara from her backpack.

They win, when you're haggard and defeated.

To remain triumphant, you must appear like

an eagle during storms, unruffled and unimpeded.

The words had stitched themselves onto her brain, little raised threads of fiery color. The idea a stranger, a partner, a warrior who had burned her way through the dead forest of lifeless trees invigorated her soul. Time had passed, allowing the scorched earth to hide the trailblazers' path; however, even if a millennium had come and gone, there would still be clues hidden in the frowns of her coworkers, or readjustments after progressive comments.

A movement always leaves behind traces

tucked furtively in the discomfort of those working to erase

the changes of the enlightened.

For three days, Ms. Sato's brain swirled around the words of the notebook, hungry to devour more. When teaching her students, a vigor and passion she had thought dead, spewed forth, enriching the lives of her students. Suddenly, her students began to share in her hunger for the content; group work drifted away from gossip to the parts of persuasive essays.

During PLC time with her "cohort" of sophomore English teachers- Ms. Baxton and Ms. Brush -Ms. Sato sat analyzing her students' scores on the last unit test. Working to hide her content at the mostly green excel spreadsheet showing growth in all demographics of her classes, she aimlessly clicked around on her computer. Highlight. Undo. Highlight. Bold. Underline. Undo. Undo. Undo.

Lost in bliss, she missed the entrance of Mrs. Escu, the overseer of curriculum for English and Math in the district, and Mr. Greaux, the new principal. Frequently, Ms. Sato's generally silent empathetic heart, cried in sympathy for Mrs. Escu; her "teammates", Baxton and Brush, often criticized her accent and upfront manner of describing the data (which regularly resulted red, meaning the students' scores had worsened from the last test and last years' test results).

"Alright, I have already set up the projector," Mrs. Escu stated turning off the lights, "the data does not show good news." Glancing from her computer to the two women sitting across from her, Ms. Sato caught the shared visages of annoyance.

"We will start with you Ms. Brush, since you are the head of the department." A few taps later and the wall shone with blocks of red, low numbers and inadequacy. Immediately, Brush opened her mouth to speak, "The poetry unit is difficult, my students did not--"

"Ms. Brush, please wait until Mrs. Escu has finished." Ms. Sato nearly jumped in her chair when he spoke, his voice emanating from somewhere behind her. Fuming, Brush shut her mouth, her fair skin-stained red.

Unphased, Mrs. Escu continued, "the students' scores are not only lower in the poetry TEKS, but in TEKS cover basic reading comprehension and diction. Those TEKS have been covered since the beginning of the year. One of the lowest performing TEKS is synonyms; are the students using their dictionaries?"

"Well, I can't force them, but we do practice drills for Bell Ringers."

Neither Mrs. Escu nor Mr. Greaux said a word for a few beats.

Ms. Sato hoped Luck stood on her side, and she would go unnoticed.

Unfortunately, Luck had abandoned her, as did her bravery which had been a side effect of reading the notebook.

"Mrs. Escu, please show Ms. Sato's data."

The room hummed with hatred and despise. Ms. Sato's shoulders slumped forward, as she tried to hide behind her computer screen.

"She has Pre-AP students," Baxton hissed.

Sato felt words bubbling in her throat.

Baxton continued, "Of course she is going to have higher scores."

Like lava the words built pressurized by the months of rejection and dejection from the two women across from her; they could hardly bear to flick their eyes in the young woman's direction.

Simmering. Boiling. Lava, erupting.

With cold, controlled infuriation, Ms. Sato began, "True, I do have a couple periods of Pre-AP students, who are competing with predecessors who scored 100s on this test. Because there is not improving a one hundred, it is extremely difficult to show student growth."

Slowly she spoke, as if controlling rabid animals.

"I also have class periods with Inclusion students, and those classes have shown improvement over the unit tests and compared to last year's scores. We all have on-level students, yet mine still rise above, so what is the argument for those results?"

Silently, the creatures before digested the information.

Mr. Greaux, the first statue to break, cleared his throat.

"Well, Ms. Sato thank you for clarifying the data."

BRRRRRINNGGGGG! BRRRRRINNGGGGG!

The bell ringing shattered the silence into a thousand pieces. The two women scurried out of the conference room in a blur of muted colors and bags.

"Ms. Sato, if you would stay back, I have a question for you."

Mr. Greaux's face, hardened from his time as a soldier, remained stoic. Silently, Sato nodded as Mrs. Escu waved a goodbye, and the door slammed shut.

"Ms. Sato," Mr. Greaux said the words, his eyes far away seeing someone else, not her, "you remind me of someone...a teacher I had about thirty years ago..."

He trailed off, lost in his own memories.

"Her name was Elizabeth Moreno, and she...she taught me how powerful words, written or spoken could be." As Sato watched, the man's face reversed time, she could see a young man, without wrinkles, without a stonewall defense, without gruffness. Unconsciously, she smiled.

"You remind me a lot of her. Ms. Moreno was brave and passionate; she elicited a response from all of us to do and be better." Unfortunately, time could not remain frozen forever, and his shield pieced itself together across his face.

"Anyway, I wanted to ask you if next year you would be the English Lead?"

"Yes."

After she responded, an image appeared before her eyes.

Mountains of dried dead wood stood before her; branches entangled her legs. Unbothered, she reflexively swept her right hand before her, and the sticks broke releasing her. An enlarged machete gleamed in her right hand, and in her left, she held a torch a flame with a burning fire.

We together, stand united, passing the torch from generation to generation, so our fight against the mundane continues. We are trailblazers; we bring forth change.