WHY I TEACH-Part 5: Hello, I’m the devil

I went to the first teacher and faculty meeting Wednesday morning. A hundred or so people milled around the chairs lining the floor of the library. On a table by the entrance, pre-packaged danishes and blueberry muffins were neatly arranged next to mini cartons of orange juice and a large metal coffee urn.

I found Atticus and Samuel standing off to the side, between stacks of books. As I turned toward them, a woman stepped in front of me, “Hello,” she said, extending her hand, “I’m the devil.”

I shook her hand and I cocked my head, not sure I’d heard her correctly. She laughed and her blonde curls bobbed from side to side.

“Hello,” I muttered to her back as she pushed past me to the table.

Atticus and Samuel graciously accepted my offering of cookies, though Atticus seemed shocked and Samuel blushed.

Mr. Myers stepped to the microphone and announced, “The meeting will begin shortly, please find your seats.”

I sat beside Mr. Lories, the balding science teacher. “I wanted to thank you again for the tables and chairs,” I said.

“You are most welcome,” he replied in an overly cheerful way.

“Alright people,” Mr. Myers said, “let’s get this over with.” Several people murmured their agreement.

“First, we should be very proud,” Mr. Myers began, “only nine percent of our population got arrested this past school year.”

What did he just say? Proud? Arrested?

“That’s good news,” Mr. Lories said in a hushed tone, as he leaned toward me. “Last year it was twelve percent.”

I looked at him. My mouth dropped open. I noticed a man behind Mr. Lories roll his eyes. I heard him say, “Next he’ll announce the pregnancy rate.”

“It was 117 last year,” Mr. Lories whispered my way.

“Seniors got pregnant!” I exclaimed a bit too loudly.

The man behind us chuckled. “Yeah, seniors, you keep believing that.”

“They were toying with the idea of having an onsite daycare,” Mr. Lories said. “But they were afraid of the old ‘If you build it they will come’ mentality.”

“And the budget,” the man behind said.

“Always the budget,” Mr. Lories replied.

Surprisingly, Mr. Myers did not announce the pregnancy rate. Instead, he started rattling off a list of teacher requirements. “Bus duty, for one month out of the year. Substitute teaching, a minimum of once a week.”

“Wait, what?” Several teachers cried out. “What are you talking about? Substitute teaching?”

The room quickly fell into chaos.

“Quiet, quiet,” Mr. Myers barked. “That’s enough. Quiet down.”

It took several minutes, but eventually, the room was quiet enough for him to speak.

“Budget constraints,” he began. The room groaned in sync.

“Budget constraints,” he repeated, “and a shortage of reliable substitutes willing to work at this school, have forced my hand on this matter. Each of you teaches three of the four daily blocks, so it stands to reason, that you don’t need five free periods a week.”

“Free?” The teachers erupted again. “What about planning, collaboration, grading?”

“You will be required to substitute, at most, one block per week,” he yelled into the microphone. “Mrs. Orian will maintain a rotating schedule, based on seniority, and other responsibilities such as coaching.”

“So the football coaches won’t be subbing,” the man behind us said.

“That is correct, Mr. Brewington,” Mr. Myers said.

“What about the track coaches?” Someone called out. “And the soccer coaches?” Another called out.

“All coaches will be exempt from substitute duty,” Mr. Myers confirmed.

“What a joke,” Mr. Brewington spat out.

“It’s just one period a week,” I said to him, “I’m sure it won’t be so bad.”

“Yeah, just one, you keep believing that,” he replied as he crossed his arms and sat back into his chair.

The remainder of the meeting consisted of information about the counseling office, on-site police presence, call-box protocols, lunch schedules, and several other things that really didn’t seem to apply to me.

“Your homeroom students’ schedules are in your boxes,” Mr. Myers finally said. “You’ve got three more days before it starts again.”

“What a joke,” Mr. Brewington said to Mr. Lories.

“It’s the same every year, Mr. B.,” he replied.

“Hi, I’m John Brewington, but just call me Mr. B.” Mr. B. held his hand out to me. He lunged forward as the devil woman bumped into his chair.

“Devil woman.” Mr. B. swore under his breath.

She laughed and blew him a kiss.

“What’s the deal with that woman?” I asked. “She introduced herself to me as the devil.”

“She wasn’t lying,” Mr. Lories replied. “Her name is Ms. Keen and she teaches accounting. Just stay away from her.”

“Accounting?” I asked. “So she’s in the business department. My department.”

“Oh,” Mr. B. cooed with a slight southern drawl, “I’m so sorry. It’s going to be one hell of a year.”