8th Grade Substitute

I write with a pulsing head as if I had too much tequila last night when in reality it comes from substituting a full day of 8th grade yesterday.

 My admiration for middle school teachers has soared. They deserve Wall Street salaries, home masseuses, a comfort food chef, a stay-at-home therapist and a good quiet cat. Perhaps also a dark room stocked with a soft couch, chocolate and a box of tissue in case they need to bawl. Yes, 8th grade is tough. I would rather walk on burning coal than be a middle school teacher. 

Yesterday started with optimism. "I used to be a waitress!" I told myself, "Just pretend you are speaking to a big table of students." Two minutes pass as I drove towards the school recalling those middle school field trip tables where the good kids ate everything and the majority of them showed off by drinking from the ketchup bottle or putting straws in their nostrils. "Oh, but you are in your 30's now and have advanced degrees, you can inspire them!" Yes, I would inspire them like Woopie Goldbrerg in "Sister Act" like Sydney Poitier in "To Sir with Love." One day of substituting would change their lives as I would patiently set the example and speak kind encouraging words that would set the path. 

I parked. Then I blinked and during that second saw my principal from 8th grade chasing down a big boy and spanking him in the field behind the school. Matt then turned around and punched the principal and beat him up. The children cheered. He was tired of getting spanked every week at school (Sidenote: this was a Southern Baptist private school where spanking children was allowed.)

My blink finished and I gulped thinking how the principal then must have been at a loss for kind encouraging words. Matt ended up being the best drive thru cashier in Taco Bell. 

One hour into teaching and I was good. I went to the teachers lounge to get some tea and the teachers all looked at me with pity. "How are you holding up? I can give them extra math homework! If you need help bang on the wall! The red button calls the principal." No, I would not need help and affront these giant children with hormones with the grace of Jackie Kennedy. Hour two rolled in. Back to the teachers lounge for a 7 minute break. Baklava come here. I need sugar. My energy from speaking is gone. Baklava #2 come here. Yes, I need sugar. That's it. Only 5 hours left in the day. 

Hour three. They must be grumpy because it's almost lunch time. Why are two rolling on the floor? Get off the floor and pay attention! Wait, my tone isn't encouraging or kind. Off he goes rolling on the floor again. Oh my! Did that girl just pull up her skirt for him?! Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy. "GET OFF THE FLOOR OR YOU WILL GET MORE MATH HOMEWORK"  wow. That worked. Why didn't I think of that sooner? Only 26 minutes till their lunch. Only 23, 21. Yes! "Enjoy lunch, guys!" Did he just say 'Whatever stranger, I don't know you?" Yes, yes he did . Oh dear, here is a learning moment for him that I must take advantage of. Quick "chat" and learning moment with said student rolling his eyes. Apology accepted. Someone kidnap me please. Can I please get sick now?

38 minutes of lunch spent on the phone complaining with my mother in law in  Italian. When in doubt, call someone who speaks a language no one knows so to them it just sounds like one of many grouchy foreign languages. My mother in law is very understanding of horrible people and says bad words in my defense. Oh gosh, 6 minutes and they are coming back. Better go to the teachers lounge for a refill of lavender tea. The teachers there look at me with apologetic eyes. The kindergarten teacher puts a brownie and doughnut in my hand and pats my back like if I were one of her 5 year olds who got a boo-boo. I appreciate that pat on my back. Off I go, feeling regenerated and for a moment optimistic thinking that the next period class will go better. It goes better till a girl falls on the floor laughing like a hyena and a boy destroys his homework. 

Then New Jersey breaks loose. It was in there. Three years of Jersey will make a part of you get tough and blunt and terrifying to others not from Jersey. It makes you seem like the Mafia's hit man. In a matter of seconds after pulling Jersey out of me they were all quiet and terrified. The only word omitted from Jersey was "Fuck" but if I thought I could get away with using "fuck" I would have thrown that in  too. My skin feels clammy and cold. I'm done for the day. The rest of the day will be spent talking to them the way I would talk to the Jersey builders and garbage men. It worked. We phased from that to "Quite time" where they were commanded to read and not make a peep. Jersey worked. Thank you New Jersey. They hated me. 

At three the bell sounds. Desks get pushed to the floor. Smells of sweat and hormones rise into a cloud as the giant children full of hormones push each other out of the way yelling and screaming with joy and nusance to leave the class room. I go to the teachers lounge. They already have a plate for me full of sweets. They are having a wine bottle exchange. It happens frequently. Several chat about their drinking problems. 

I go home full of bad energy. I could win a boxing match at this moment. Only one way to get it out. I peel an eggplant, pour flour, heat oil, move about my kitchen at the pace of an olympic gymnast. eggplant dipped in flour egg, fry, eggplant flip, whip up a cake, beat eggs, mix in vanilla, sugar but not too much, bake, flip eggplant. Clean the mess. If only teaching 8th grade was as easy as cleaning your kitchen.

Husband comes home. He is impressed with what I cooked in an hour. Looks at me suspiciously. "How was your day?" Poor man for asking. At 6:30 I feel clammy. Is it too early for bed?

7 PM in bed. Fever rising. Chills, sweating. How did substitute teaching 8th grade give me a fever? Feverishly change pajama. Fall asleep at 7:30. Wake up twelve hours later feeling weak. Had nightmares of being dragged behind a boat in the water with the boat full of 8th graders and the mayor. Good coffee. Good cake I made yesterday. 

No more 8th grade. There is a reason people go to therapy to talk about the traumas in 8th grade. There is a reason middle school teachers are tough. I think some of them would do great as surgeons or warriors or gladiators.