WHY I TEACH-Part 28: Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

I lost three days of my life at the Industry Certification required 3-day training. The training occurred in a technical college in the middle of the state. I had to get up at 5 a.m. each morning and drive the 2.5 hours to be there by 8. Mr. Myers refused to pay for a hotel as it “wasn’t that far to drive.”

Day one began with breakfast from the college’s culinary students. Served by, not prepared by. The store-bought donuts were nicely displayed on fancy plates and served by students in their culinary whites.

The next three days consisted of the facilitator reading verbatim from the 219-page manual. Literally. She read every word to us, for 8 hours each day, in the most monotone, dead voice. When we asked questions, she’d give us the most disagreeable look and tell us that she’d just read that part.

Luckily, we were all given our own copy of the manual. At one point, I found myself highlighting the words as she read them, only to realize I’d highlighted the whole page.

I figured she had to be new at this kind of training and was horrified to learn she’d been doing this for five years. She was also the person who would be coming to our school to pre-certify and check our requirements.

“It’s not you,” the man sitting beside me said when we dismissed on the final day.

I shook myself from the stupor of complete unbelief and said, “I’m sorry, what?”

“This training, it’s a joke.”

I stared blankly at him.

“Another school in our district went through it last year, it’s really not that hard.”

I blinked a couple of times. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s impossible.”

He handed me a business card, “Email me when you get home and I’ll send you the checklist the other school used. Seriously, it’s not as bad as it sounds, she just read it to us like we were second graders.”

I laughed. “I know, like I can read, but that doesn’t mean I understand it.”

“Exactly, but luckily it’s easy once you understand it.”

True to his word, Bill emailed me the twelve-page checklist neatly broken down into monthly goals and requirements. He was right, it was easy. I laughed when I saw the equipment requirements: every classroom needed a Smartboard. I was getting a Smartboard!

Three weeks later, Mr. Myers’ stood proudly in front of my state-of-the-art, brand spanking new, Smartboard. “Here it is,” he said in an arrogant self-centered way.

I looked up at the ceiling at the non-existent projector. “When will I get the projector?”

Mr. Myers scoffed. “The requirement is for a Smartboard, NOT a Smartboard and a projector.” He gave me a patronizing smile and walked away.

I stared at the Stupidboard, totally Uselessboard, unable to use Dumbboard. The following week I came down with a nasty bug and had to stay home. When I returned to my classroom, I found the words “Mr. Smart” written on my Smartboard, in permanent black marker.

“Terrance, what happened?”

“Mr. Smart subbed yesterday. I tried to tell him not to use the marker on the board, but he didn’t listen. I tried to get it off, but nothing worked.”

“Did you ask Atticus?” Generally, the wizard of a custodian could right any wrong.

Terrance shrugged. “He tried a bunch of things, but nothing worked.”

“Well, my Dumbboard is officially useless.” The eight-inch tall, twelve-inch wide “Mr. Smart” was smack dab in the middle of my Smartboard.

“Oh well, not like I’ve got a projector anyway.” I gathered up my Industry Certification materials and assembled binders for everyone in my department. I put name stickers on each of them and smiled a bit when I didn’t have a name sticker for Ms. Keen’s. That did mean, however, that I had to depend on a long-term sub to meet the requirements and provide the required documentation. Which really meant, I’d be doing most of it myself. I sighed.

I’d requested no subbing for the next three months, to which Mr. Myers actually agreed. My first stop today was Mr. Bouda in the immaculate 107A. When I got to the part about renewing every five years, he let out a sigh of relief.

“So I only have to do this once,” he said.

When I looked confused he responded, “I’m retiring next year.”

My heart jumped. “Retiring?”

“Yes, it’ll be 25 years next year, I’m done. I’m buying a condo in Florida and enjoying the next how many years of my life.”

“Have they posted the position yet?” I blurted out a bit too forcefully.

“They’ll post it in April. I gather you’re going to apply.”

I nodded enthusiastically.

“You might want to hold on to that thought, there’s going to be a few more retirements coming.”

I looked confused.

“Myers.”

My jaw hit the floor. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He’s retiring next school year. He’s got 30 years under his belt and he’s leaving.”

I let the words sink in. I wanted to jump for joy, but instead, I started to cry. Big, wet, stupidly happy tears streamed down my face.

Mr. Bouda reached out and patted my hand, “I feel the same way. Just keep it to yourself, OK? He hasn’t announced it to everyone.”

I nodded. I grabbed my notebook for Ms. Keen’s long-term sub and floated out of the room. As I entered Ms. Keen’s room, I was met by a man in wrinkled khaki shorts and a polo shirt with a tear on the left side.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Mr. Smart, how can I help you?”