WHY I TEACH-Part 2: Room 107B

The first day of a new school year was exciting. I carried the post-it note with the number 107B scrawled in purple sharpie, my laptop case, and my lunch box. As I turned the corner, I spied 107.

I opened the door to find a small room with a classroom door and an insanely large window ahead and a dark shadowy space to the right. Peering inside, I saw brightly lit, new computers sitting in beautiful, neat rows, and not one, but two smartboards adorned the walls. I believed it to be the most beautiful classroom I had ever seen. Then I noticed the number in the corner of the window: 107A.

I turned to my right and saw what appeared to be a hallway. A dark hallway. I didn’t see a light switch so I felt on the wall for one. With my left hand on the wall, searching, guiding, I walked into the darkness. As I walked, the light from the glorious 107A’s window faded, the darkness became heavier.

Finally, I felt a nub on the wall and pushed it up. The sad, yellow overhead lights flickered and hummed. The hallway I’d just walked was lined on one side with floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves stuffed with boxes and garbage. The classroom had clearly been hit by a tornado. Chairs and desks were up-ended. Computer monitors were everywhere, though I didn’t see an actual computer tower.

The stained yellow walls and trash-strewn floor completed the look of a disaster site. I walked toward the door marked “Teacher’s Office” and stopped abruptly. The smell of rotting meat emanating from the office made me gag. I saw a dimly-lit exit sign above a back door, ran to it, and vomited on the grass.

This has to be some kind of mistake, I thought. Like when you rent an apartment based on only seeing pictures and then you find out the pictures are 50 years old.

“Hello?” a voice called out.

I grabbed a rock, propped open the back door, and went back into my classroom.

“Mr. Myers,” I said to the tall, graying man.

Assistant Principal Myers made a wide berth around the office door. “I’m glad you were able to find your classroom.”

“This place is a disaster,” I said.

“Well, yes,” Mr. Myers began, “Mr. Joseph quit a couple of weeks before the end of the school year and the kids just took over the place.”

I looked around the room. Clearly, the damage took longer than two weeks, this was years of neglect. “So who can come help me clean this place up?”

He laughed. “This is your classroom now.”

“But you’ve got janitors and cleaning staff,” I replied.

He shook his head. “You’ve got all of pre-planning to get this place in shape.”

“A week, by myself? And when do I have time to plan for my classes?”

Mr. Myers stared at the floor and rocked on his heels. He sucked in a breath, “I’m sure you’ll figure it all out.” He reached out and patted me on the shoulder. “Oh, I wanted to give you these.” He handed me a keychain with three keys. “I suggest you figure out what’s going on in your office, first.”

I swear I heard him chuckle as he walked down the hallway.

I put the keys down on one of the only upright desks and I headed out the back door toward the teacher parking lot.

As I sat in my car, a group of bedraggled teenagers walked by. The kind with hunched shoulders and downtrodden faces. Exactly the kind of kids who would end up in my classes. The misfits, the loners, the losers, the ones who can’t get along with others, the ones no one cares about.

With my car key in the ignition, I started it up. At the stop sign, I had a choice: left was home, right was Home Depot. I pressed the blinker up and turned right.