Teacher Truth

As if this week weren’t enough with the late night Wednesday and the parents flowing freely through our classrooms the last two days, the good teachers of Pemberton must attend the Pemberton School-Year-Kick-Off Meeting today…a Saturday.  First of all, I feel exhausted.  Second, I’ve hardly seen my family this week.  Third, I’m not getting paid extra for this because I’m a salaried employee.  Fourth and finally, Saturdays are “survival days.”

They are essential to every working mother’s week.  It is the day on which you catch up from all the things that you missed the previous week and make all the preparations you can to survive the coming week.  Never mind house cleaning….who has time to do that?  Besides, what’s a little dust, anyway?  Nobody ever died from dust that I know of.  But dying from embarrassment because your kids are wearing the same clothes to school unwashed for the bzillionth time, or from starvation because you haven’t had time to buy food at the grocery store?  Those are distinct possibilities.  Without my fabulous, supportive husband, I would never make it.  He’s taken over the full management of laundry duty and grocery shopping, God bless him, while I sit here through one presentation after another at the very first Pemberton school building.

Unfortunately, it was quite a hike to get here, but Linda had kindly arranged for me to ride with teachers from another Pemberton school closer to my home.  It was so far for them (and me), that the owners gave them permission to take the school’s small bus.  I met with them in the parking lot of their school and introduced myself, feeling like a proverbial and literal fifth wheel.  They were nice enough, though, and I was grateful not to have to drive through unfamiliar suburbs and highways.  I was also cognizant that these might be my future co-workers, although they were not aware of that fact.  It was interesting to be able to sit back like a fly on the wall and observe the different personalities.

After slightly less than an hour, we arrived at the quaint old building.  Beverly has a knack for picking out the picturesque.  It’s a much smaller school than any of the others I’ve seen, but the building, a previous church school, has been restored and maintained beautifully.  It sits on Pemberton Avenue, which is where the owners say they got the name.  It was not, as I assumed, just a snooty, British-sounding name picked out for the elitism of it.  However, it works well for them in that respect, too.

The day proceeded with endless meetings and presentations of curriculum.  I’m lucky.  I’m a “newbie.”  This was all fresh and somewhat interesting to me, but I looked around at the faces of the veteran teachers I know.  They’re bored and wishing they were somewhere else.  The highlight of the day came when we were served lunch: sandwiches from Panera.

At last as lunch was wrapped up, we were given permission to leave.  From what little I’ve learned already about the Pemberton upper management, I’m surprised they kept us through lunch.  They could have pushed the start time a little earlier in the morning and avoided feeding us and paying the hourly staff for an extra thirty minutes.  Maybe I’m being unfair, though.  At any rate, I was glad to be going home.

My four-year-old class met for the first time this afternoon.  This is the one that I co-teach with Crystal.  She finally got around to doing the prep work for this class this morning.  She came to get me to help with the preparations, mostly cutting out construction paper shapes for the art project, but she also went over the components of the class.

We meet our students at the front door.  It is our job, as their teachers, to get them out of their cars in the drive-through lane and walk them to the benches just inside the front door.  Usually one teacher does the unloading while the other one stays with the children on the benches.  Then we walk the children to our classroom.  Each session begins with a trip to the coat room to hang their coats and tote bags.  (Every student is given a Pemberton green canvas tote that coordinates with the carpet, of course, in which to carry their papers and belongings, and they’re assigned a hook in the coat room on which to hang them.  The teachers check the bags as they come in for special notes or instructions from home.)

After a student has hung his or her belongings, they are directed to the bathroom to wash their hands.  Everyone has to be instructed on using the lights (which come on automatically—nice!), the step stool, the faucet, the soap, and the paper towels (as well as the automatic-flush toilet and the toilet tissue for later reference).  As a teacher of this age group, especially my younger class, you can’t take anything for granted.  Every step must be explained and modeled…to each and every child…over and over again.  Parenthetically, as nice as the automatic-flush toilet sounds, it is actually a source of concern for some students.  Many of them are afraid of the flushing sound when it happens on its own, and we have had to “override” the system after we discovered that the toilet terrifies certain students.

Once the students have finished those two steps, the next stop is the tables, where they are free to take whatever “table toy” they choose from the shelves and play.  There are puzzles and wooden dress up dolls and pegs and building blocks of various kinds and toy cars and lacing toys and dominoes.  It is the teachers’ responsibility to rotate those toys between the classrooms to keep a fresh variety on hand.  At this point, the students play fairly nicely on their own with little direction from the teachers, which allow the teachers to continue helping late-arriving students with their coats and hand washing.

After table toys have been played with for about 10 to 15 minutes, the children are then taught to clean up their toys and put them back on the shelves.  Some need more encouragement than others.  Then they are directed to circle time.  Janie used carpet squares to give each student a special spot, but Crystal doesn’t use them.  I can see why it helps with the younger students, though, but this group is a year older and also has fewer students, and they seem to be very cooperative and good at following directions.  (Most students in this class didn’t sign up for it by choice; they had to accept this class when the earlier classes their parents really wanted were already full and this was the only way they could get into Pemberton, so it’s a little smaller than the average Pemberton class.)

Circle time differs slightly between classrooms in the presentation, but in all classrooms it contains the same basic components: the calendar, the weather, and the pledge of allegiance.  The calendar is a huge component in and of itself.  First there are the days of the week (presented in song), then there’s the calendar itself with the month and date and year.  With the date, we practice counting, and the numbers are presented on different colors and shapes, so we also practice pattern recognition and prediction.  Then there are the concepts of “yesterday,” “today,” and “tomorrow.”  Besides those elements, circle time is also used to introduce the craft of the day and any other curricular items, such as how to write a certain letter of the alphabet or an aspect of ethics we want to teach, like loyalty, or a particular country we’re studying.  Centers in the room are explained, books are read, poems are recited, finger plays are taught, and simple math and logic problems are shared.

Today, since it’s the first day of school for our students, we gave them a tour of the building, so they will feel more comfortable.  We took a look at the music area, the other classrooms, the office (and got a wave from Linda), the library, the enrichment room, the gym, the kitchen, and the “roundabout” (a circular, open area between classrooms at one end of the building) where we will go for our reading readiness program.  As we got back to our classroom, we had a guest today as well, who will be a regular visitor.  It’s the Spanish teacher.  She did a marvelous job keeping the children active and engaged while teaching them basic Spanish vocabulary.  (I’m learning along with the kids!)

Normally after circle time, we’ll go straight into free play.  This is where the children get to decide what they would like to play with in the room.  On the back side of the table toy shelves are more shelves with floor toys that they can use in the open area on one side of the room.  Every classroom has some sort of a climber, some have stairs and tunnels and slides, some are shaped like castles, others like boats. There’s a dress-up area with clothes, hats, and other accessories, and of course, an unbreakable mirror!  There’s a home area with a play kitchen, table, chairs, high chair, and doll cradle, complete with baby doll and clothes and blankets for the doll.  There are math and science centers with activities that change every month.  There’s a writing table with all sorts of papers, envelopes, pencils, crayons, markers, and stencils.  Then there’s a “pretend play” center that is rotated between classrooms each month.  Right now, we have the florist shop, complete with artificial flowers, plants, containers, cash register, and telephone.  Next month we might have the ice cream shop or the puppet stage.  When the teachers are feeling very brave (and energetic enough to clean up after it), there is a sensory table filled with anything from torn paper to sand to dirt to water to oatmeal to cotton balls.  The possibilities are endless, as are the possibilities of toys to use in those various media.  There is so much for the children to see and do!

While all of that is going on under the supervision of one teacher, the other teacher is working with a few students at a time on the other side of the room with the art project or handwriting.  Gluing, painting, stamping, coloring, cutting, it’s sure to be a messy, but fun time, although, some children don’t like getting their hands messy with the art and have to be coaxed a little more than the others.

Next is snack time!  The menu changes daily.  Today we have strawberry yogurt with graham crackers and juice.  When the students are finished, they may choose a book from the classroom library and look through it quietly while waiting for the rest of the class to finish and the teachers to wipe down the tables and clean up the mess.

Finally, it’s time to show the students the playground and give them a few minutes of free time outside before we pack up to go home.  They are so thrilled to go out the back glass doors and visit the playground equipment that they have been eyeing from the classroom.  It’s a welcome relief to Crystal and me, too.  It is a beautiful day, and although we have to watch them and make sure they follow the playground rules they’ve been given, it’s easier than directing them constantly inside.

Crystal makes her way over to a group of the teachers from another class standing out there already.  I circle the playground to check on some of the students that can’t be seen from the teachers’ vantage point.  All is well, so I work my way back to the teacher group.  Over the last few days as I’ve met more of the staff, I’ve come to realize almost all of the teachers at this school are significantly younger than I am.  In fact, if I were brutally honest, I’m old enough to be their mother.  They’re polite to me, but I don’t fit in.  They’re talking about boyfriends and what they’re all going to do this coming Friday night after work.  They wouldn’t be interested to hear about me going home to my husband and children, no matter how wonderful my family happens to be.

I circle back around and remind one of our students to go only down the slide, not up it.  I tie a shoelace and grant a request for help to reach the chin-up bar.  At last, it is time to go inside and get the students ready to go home.  Art projects, which thankfully are dry by this time, are put in their totes, and we all trudge down to the benches by the front door.  The process is reversed from the start of our class.  The teacher who was outside stays in and supervises the children, while the other teacher goes out and greets the cars in the drive-through lane, escorting the children to the appropriate car, getting the parent’s signature on the sign-out sheet, and chatting a bit about how their time went in class that day.  It’s 5:15 before we get them all in their cars and on their way home.  In 15 minutes I should have been able to go home.  I am ready.

Alas, however, it is New Parent Orientation night with programs at 6:00 and 7:30.  I would be lucky to be home before 10:00.  I certainly won’t be home before my son is fast asleep in bed.  So much for getting to spend time with him today!  Fortunately for me, his Back-to-School night was last Thursday, and my daughter’s in middle school is not until next week.  At least this did not conflict with either of those days.

The night drags on.  I smile a lot, but I suspect my eyes give away the secret of how incredibly tired I am and how much I’d like to be at home.  This meet-and-greet won’t be the end of it, either.  All of the parents are invited to “Meet the Teacher” days at Pemberton for the next two days.  It’s only just begun.

The next few days after my first on the job went progressively a little better.  I was getting used to the commute, which took between 45 and 60 minutes depending on how many of the 17 stoplights on Route 27 were green when I reached them.  I now knew not to expect a lunch break (although I still clung to the hope that I’d get to snatch a bite to eat and brought a little food each day).  I could let myself in the door.  I also met the two teachers with whom I would be working.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays in the late mornings to early afternoons, I was scheduled to teach a part-day class of three-year-olds with Janie Long.  Janie only taught that one class, and she’d been doing it for about eleven years.  She was slightly older than I and considerably shorter, with long, blonde hair and a feisty spirit.  She had more energy than most children I know!

She clocked in at Pemberton one day to get a little prep work done before our class began the following week.  That’s when Linda introduced us.  I asked her what I could do to help, and once again, was denied, but nicely.  She let me know that she had been doing this for a long time, had her own ideas about how to do things, and it would just be easier for her to go ahead and do them rather than try to explain it all.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, from 2:30 until 5:00, I am supposed to teach a part-day four-year-old class with a young woman named Crystal.  She’s a tiny, pale, freckled, little thing with long, straight, dark hair.  It turns out she was one of the teachers who helped assemble the prospective parent folders with me last week.  She was not happy about having to work on Fridays until 5:00.  Before this, she used to volunteer to go home early if Linda needed to reduce the number of staff when there were fewer children in the building than expected.  Now she won’t be able to do that.  She’d argued with Linda for another class assignment (I was trying not to take it personally), but Cate, the general area manager, was the ultimate authority, and this was the class Cate had assigned her, so apparently there was no use arguing.  Linda had given her the responsibility of teaching me “the Pemberton way.”  I’m to learn the proper way to run my classroom from Crystal.

I asked Crystal about what we needed to do to prepare for our first class, but she hasn’t found the time to work with me yet.  Our four-year-old students come tomorrow for the first time.  If she wants help getting ready for our class, she’d better find the time soon.  All of the teachers are supposed to present the same material to all of their classes at the same time, but I haven’t figured out how they know what to do yet.  From where do they get their direction?

I had my first three-year-old class today, all twenty of them.  My, they were a squirrelly bunch!  They are precious, though.  Even with this little contact, I can tell a lot about them.

Caden is a tow-headed little stinker, but he’s so doggone cute, you can’t stay aggravated with him for long.  He’s the tiniest (and possibly the youngest) of our group.  Ellen is quiet, but not necessarily shy.  Walker is our “tough guy.”  He’s not a bully; he just seems to be more mature than a lot of the others, and nothing is going to bother him.  Patty is used to getting her own way.  Anabelle is an absolute sweetheart.  Nancy is a forty-year-old woman in a three-year-old body.  Savir is a little ball of fire.  It’s going to take all the strength Janie and I have combined to keep up with him.  Anikait is quiet and gentle.  I suspect his mother dotes on him.  Allie is very strong-willed and stubborn.  Elianna likes to be a good helper.

Faith is painfully shy and frightened.  She clung to her mother and screamed when I had to pull her away.  I would be frightened, too, if I had been brought up in China all this time and could speak no English and my mother was leaving me with total strangers who didn’t understand a word I could say.  (Consequently, she didn’t say anything, just cried…a lot.)  I held her almost the entire time.  (My back is now killing me, but if it brought her any comfort, it was worth it.)

Working with Janie is like working with a whirlwind.  She whooshes here and there and everywhere; she makes me feel like a snail.  It’s difficult to keep up with her.  Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to expect me to.  I told her from the outset to feel free to tell me what to do.  I may not know what she needs when she needs it, but I’m always willing to help.  Just tell me what to do and how.  I think we’ll work well together once I get the hang of the routine.

Finally, I got to start my new job!  Although, after I arrived, I wondered why Linda had agreed to it.  In fact, it didn’t look like she was expecting my arrival at all.  When I drove up to the school, I pulled around to the front to park.  I saw several parents entering with their children by a side door, but I didn’t have the security code to let myself in the door, and I wasn’t sure if there was a doorbell at that end of the building.  Besides, even if there was, the office was quite a distance from that door, and I’d hate to make someone walk all that way to let me in.

I walked up to the front door precisely at 8:30, excited and nervous, and rang the doorbell.  After a few minutes, one young woman came out and opened the double glass doors for me.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

I told her who I was and explained that it was my first day working there.  “Oh!” she replied in a startled way as she looked me up and down.  “I’ll tell Linda.”

I followed the young woman to the office.  She hadn’t invited me to, but she hadn’t told me to wait at the door, either.

The place was chaotic inside.  Carpet-layers were everywhere, either tearing up the old or already starting to install the new, identical, dark Kelly green floor covering.  It was hard to know where to step.  The off-gassing from so much new, synthetic carpet was overwhelming.  I could hardly breathe.  Before the morning was over, my throat was raw from sucking in the noxious fumes.  If it was doing that to me, what was it doing to the small children in the building all day?  Couldn’t they have waited to install on a Saturday when no one was here?

I stopped in the front office while the young woman proceeded to the back office.  In a moment, Linda poked her head around the dividing wall.

“Oh!  Hi, Annie!  Just put your stuff down anywhere.”  Then she disappeared behind the wall again and continued her conversation with someone else back there.

I looked around for someplace to put my purse and briefcase.  There was a coat stand behind the glass-paned office door with nothing hung on it, and I didn’t feel comfortable leaving my purse where it could be seen and easily snatched.  I wondered which of the three desks in the office would be mine.  (I needn’t have wondered; it turned out none of them were to be mine.)  I expected Marjorie, the office manager I’d met briefly during my tour of the school, occupied the one in the front office, even though there was no evidence of it, so I didn’t feel I should stash my things under it.  The only two other pieces of furniture in the room were a hutch and an armoire.  The former displayed the school’s operating license, lunch and snack menu for the week, and other pamphlets and newsletters of interest to the parents of the students; the latter stored instruction manuals, students’ medications, a first aid kit, forms, office supplies, etc., which Linda had shown me on my tour.  Neither of those was appropriate for my need, so I continued to stand dumbly by myself in the front office holding my purse and briefcase.

After a while, the young woman came out of the back office, passed me without looking at me, and disappeared down the hall.  Linda ended her conversation of a personal nature with the other person in the back office, whose identity I came to realize was Marjorie.  (I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the office is so small, one can’t help but overhear).  Before long, Linda, too, left the office without speaking to me, although she at least smiled as she passed.

For a moment or two, I continued to take up space in the front office without meaning or purpose until I decided to poke my head in the back office.  Since Marjorie couldn’t help but be aware of my presence in the front office, I had thought she would come out and say “hello.”

Marjorie is a tall, middle-aged woman with glasses and a very short haircut reminiscent of the way my mom used to wear her hair back in 70s, curly on top with a short, straight fringe of hair at the nape of the neck.  She reminds me a lot of a secretary I worked with at the University of Kansas about twenty years ago named Kay.  She so closely resembles her that I really have to struggle not to call Marjorie by the wrong name.  Because I had such a good relationship with Kay, and because Marjorie also reminded me of another secretary friend I had dearly loved during my employment at a music store back in southern Missouri, I felt an immediate connection with Marjorie and a level of comfort with her.

When it became apparent to me that Marjorie wasn’t going to come out and say “hello,” I boldly ventured back unbidden and poked my head around the wall.

“Good morning, Marjorie.”

“Oh!  Hi, Annie.”  (Why does everyone around here seem so startled by my presence?)

“How are you this morning?” I asked.

“Fine, thanks, and you?”

“Fine.  Is there anything I can help you with?” I queried further.

“No, thanks.  I don’t know what Linda wants you to do.  You’ll just have to wait until she gets back,” and with that, she returned her attention to the papers on the desk at which she was sitting.

In fact, she appeared to be heavily entrenched at that desk.  There were two desks facing each other in the back office, one of which appeared to be Linda’s, and now the other appeared to be Marjorie’s.  Okay, so I guess maybe the one up front is to be mine.  I wasn’t exactly comfortable with being the go-to person in the front office, but people would just have to be patient with me until I became familiar enough with the school to field most of the questions.  Still, I didn’t want to presume anything, so rather than stand like a department store dummy next to Marjorie’s desk or sit presumptuously at the front office desk, I sat in the visitor’s chair on the other side of the front desk and finally relieved myself of holding my briefcase and purse any longer by placing them on the floor beside me.  I was glad to have them out of my hands!

I waited and waited…and waited…until Linda burst back into the office, headed straight for her desk at the back.  The phone rang.  Marjorie answered it and handed it off to Linda.  Linda hung up and hustled out of the office again without a word or glance in my direction.  So I waited some more…and waited…and waited.  The phone rang again.  Marjorie answered it again and took a message.  Students, parents, and teachers came and went past the office, and still I waited.  I occupied myself by looking at all of the brochures and newsletters for parents on the hutch, returning each to its precise, picture-perfect position when I was finished lest I mess up the carefully arranged display, and still I waited.

Okay, I get it.  You don’t want me here, for whatever reason.  I’ve been forced upon you by Beverly, the owner, and you don’t want to deal with me.  Obviously, this was an unusually chaotic day with the carpet layers here, and I probably shouldn’t have started today, but how was I supposed to know?  You had me pick the date and didn’t like my first choice and forced me to pick again.  You could have just told me it was a bad day, or better yet, suggested a start date that was best for you.  That’s just it, though, isn’t it?  There isn’t a good day for you, because you don’t want me here.  I get it now.  You’re too busy to be bothered with me.  You’ve made that clear.

Now what do we do to get past this?  Just put me to work doing something, and let me help you.  I’m a nice person if you give me a chance and get to know me.

At last, Linda returned once more and went back to her desk.  She called up front to me, “Sorry, Annie!  It’s just so crazy around here this morning, but when isn’t it, right Marjorie?”

A chuckle emanated from Marjorie.

“Well, that’s okay,” I replied, “just put me to work.  What can I do to help you?”

“Well, mostly I thought you could just observe today, but if you really want to help, I need some folders put together for the prospective parents.  We could set you up in the enrichment room.”

I followed her with a pile of papers to the room and waited while she spread them out on the small tables that the children used for their crafts and projects.  She showed me what order they needed to be put in the folders and how she wanted the folders labeled, then she bustled off again to whatever task was waiting for her attention next.  I felt a little better as I began to assemble the folders.  At least I was doing something useful, and I was no longer in the cramped office feeling like a fish out of water.

I settled myself on a tiny chair meant for a much younger and smaller bottom than mine and set to work.  I enjoyed the sunny solitude of the enrichment room until one of the young teachers came in.  She didn’t introduce herself or acknowledge me in any way but went straight to work on the folders.  Before long, another of her co-workers came in.  I knew they were teachers, because they were wearing the obvious dark green aprons with the Pemberton logo embroidered on the bibbed top.  I wondered if I would have one, too, eventually.  While we took turns pulling papers to stuff into the folders, they began to chat with each other about personal things as if I weren’t there at all.  Well, at least they weren’t startled by me.  Apparently now, I was merely invisible, not startling.

I was a little sad when the folders were completed so quickly.  I wanted to stay in the cheerful enrichment room, but I felt obligated to go back to the office for more direction.  I consoled myself with the thought that it was almost lunch time anyway as I made my way back.

There was as little notice or direction given to me as before.  I asked Marjorie if it would be okay if I sat in a chair that was next to a folding table beside the desks in the back office.  She nodded that it was okay but cautioned me that the back of the chair was broken.  “Just don’t lean back and you’ll be fine.”

When the clock showed that it was 12:30 and nobody had mentioned anything about lunch yet, I waited for an opportune moment and asked what they did about their lunch break.  Linda looked at Marjorie, and Marjorie looked back at Linda, and then they both gave a snort of laughter.

“We don’t get a lunch break.  Oh, but you can take one if you want to today,” Linda answered.

“Well, I didn’t bring a lunch.  I wasn’t sure if there was a refrigerator for the teacher’s use, and I didn’t have anything that could sit out without refrigeration.  I thought I would grab something close by.”

“That’s a great idea.  Go ahead.”

“How long do I have?”

“However long it takes.”

I wished it could take the rest of the day.  This was so awkward!

I drove to a nearby Whole Foods grocery store where they had a salad and soup bar with stools at the front of the store for eating your purchases if you wanted.  I ladled a cup of crab bisque, paid, and sipped it slowly from my stool, watching the people walking by outside.  I mulled over my morning.  What do they mean they don’t get a lunch break?  If you work an 8-hour day, by law, you get a lunch break.  Right?

I reluctantly drove back to school, had to ring the doorbell to get someone to let me inside, and asked Linda for the code to the door when I got in the office so that I didn’t have to keep bothering people when I needed to come in.  That also led her to show me the computer (in another Pottery Barn hutch) at the end of the hallway where I was supposed to punch a code to sign in and out for the day.

“Don’t worry about it today.  I didn’t have the code for you yet when you arrived this morning, but I put your arrival down on my report, so you’ll be paid for today.  But tomorrow when you come in, you want to make sure you punch in your code first thing.  I don’t really have much for you to do this afternoon, but Mrs. Saber’s room is just about finished with the new carpet, and she could probably use a hand putting everything back in her room, so why don’t I introduce you to her?”

That sounded great…anything to keep from having to twiddle my thumbs in boredom sitting around the office with nothing to do!  Mrs. Saber had been with Pemberton for several years and taught a couple of classes of part-day preschoolers.  She was medium height, slim build, had brown hair, and spoke with a kind of breathy voice.  Yes, she would be glad of the help, and she put me to work immediately, giving explicit instructions for reconstructing her classroom.

After a while, it was evident that Mrs. Saber reveled in giving direction and instruction, but I didn’t mind.  It made her happy to have someone to order about and listen to her, and her constant chatter was a relief to me.  I could happily work at my chores without having to make much conversation.  An occasional sound of agreement from me seemed to suffice and keep her talking.  Besides, before the end of the day, she taught me how to run the laminating machine.  That was something useful, and it had been a machine that the “lowly” teachers of my previous school in Virginia were not allowed to touch.  Only the aides were trusted with that valuable piece of equipment.  Now I had the secret knowledge!  Bwah, ha, ha!  Not a bad way to end a very long, trying day.

My son, Mike, who should be starting third grade, missed school today.  He’s home recovering from a weekend of vomiting and fever.  It’s a good thing I wasn’t supposed to start working at Pemberton today.  Linda didn’t want me to, because she isn’t going to be at work tomorrow, and she didn’t want me to be unsupervised my second day on the job.  In any case, it would not have made a good first impression to miss the first day of a new job.

It’s also a good thing that the new job caused me to cancel all of my substitute teaching assignments.  Paula, the sub scheduler for the Kingland school district, had me booked every day for the next two and a half weeks.  It was a shame to have to break off with them just when they were getting to know me and send more work my way, but even if they kept me busy every day of the school year (which they couldn’t), the job still wouldn’t pay as well as Pemberton, and I have to do the best I can for my family.

Wow!  The drive to the Netherville Pemberton school was even farther than my husband’s commute.  It’s a good thing I started out as early as I did.  This school appeared just as charming as the St. Peters school, but it was laid out much differently.  I went to the front door and rang to be admitted.  I smiled to myself as I discovered the familiar dark green carpet and lattice-patterned wallpaper again through the glass door.  I was met again by a young woman and handed another clipboard with yet another ridiculously lengthy form to fill out.  Really?  I have to go through this again?  But she’d already left me at a tiny table, too quickly to question whether I must go through the futility of completing another form.

I took a moment to look around me.  I’d been ushered into a light, airy, large room with a beautiful hardwood floor.  The ceiling was high and the walls were covered with beautifully decorated bulletin boards, each one featuring a particular area of study, such as cooking or sports.  I would later learn that they were “enrichment” classes offered above and beyond the normal curriculum.  The St. Peters school never had a room like this!

A pert, perky, not-as-young-but-younger-than-I woman briskly approached me and held out her hand.

“Hi, I’m Linda!  And you must be Annie,” she announced.

I returned the handshake and acknowledged the identity as I feebly held out the clipboard, explaining that I’d already completed the form the other day and asking if she needed another one.

“Pfff!” she blew through her teeth and lower lip.  “Of course not!  The girl who showed you back here didn’t know better.  Would you like a tour?”

“Sure!” I replied and wondered when she was going to start interviewing me for the kindergarten position.

It was a lovely school, much brighter than the St. Peters school, not in the way it was decorated but in the use of sunlight and higher ceilings.  It would be a nice place to work in, I decided, even though it was so far away from home.  Linda took me from one end of the school to the other, pointing out all of the fine features of her school, evidence of the curriculum that was taught, and her personal philosophy of managing her teachers and what she expected of them.

She rattled off the names of the various classrooms, as I struggled to distinguish the difference between the four-year-old classrooms and the “transitional kindergarten.”  Then there were full-day classrooms and part-day classrooms through all ages from kindergarten all the way down to toddlers.

“So Pemberton is also a daycare facility,” I tried to reason.

“Oh no!” came the brusque reply.  “Don’t ever let Beverly hear you call us a ‘daycare.’  We are a school.  Pemberton Preschool.  We are not like a typical daycare, although some of our other facilities do offer nursery service as well; we actually teach the children.  Beverly is very emphatic about that.”

As we neared the kindergarten room, I saw two women inside, both busily preparing materials for the students, who were to arrive to start the new school year in a couple of weeks.  Strange!  I thought their kindergarten teacher was gone.  Linda brought me back to the enrichment room where we had started and said, “Well, I guess that’s about it for me!  Can you wait here a minute?”

Now I was really confused.  I thought Linda was supposed to interview me, and this was nothing at all like an interview.  I thought I was still being considered for a kindergarten position, but it seemed this school did not need a kindergarten teacher.  Just why am I here?

After a few minutes, the young woman who greeted me at the door announced that “they” were in the library and would see me now, and did I remember where the library was?  Yes, I did, but who will see me now?  I turned the corner into the library and found Beverly seated at another throne and behind her, the ever-faithful Cate, her rotund second-in-command (official title: general area manager).

“Welcome again, Annie!  What did you think?”

“It’s a wonderful school.”

“Can you see yourself working here, do you think?”

“Absolutely!”

“Good!  Have you thought any more about what we talked about last time, about directing a school?”

“Yes, being a school administrator is something I’ve considered before.  I just didn’t see myself in that kind of position this soon.  I thought I would need to teach longer.”

“Well, we think you’d make an excellent director, but like we said, we don’t have an opening right now.  Just how difficult is it to get a teaching position in this area?”  (Translation: How desperate are you, and how much can we string you along?)

Are you kidding me?  If it weren’t impossible, I wouldn’t be sitting here in front of you asking for a job.  But of course, I couldn’t say that.

“All of our directors go through a period of training anyway, and we send them all to Linda to be trained.  This is our largest school, and she does a marvelous job for us.  We want all of our directors to learn the Pemberton way of doing things, and Linda does a great job of modeling that.  We’d like for you to serve as director-in-training with Linda while you’re here, and of course, you’ll teach a couple of classes for us as well.”

They proceeded to confer over various schedules of classes deciding where to put me.  It had become clear that I was not going to be offered the position of kindergarten teacher as I had expected.  I was a little discouraged to find out I’d be teaching a class every single day.  Not that I mind teaching preschoolers, but how can I learn to be a director if I’m in a classroom that much?  Shouldn’t I be in the office shadowing Linda full time?  But I need the job, so I don’t argue.

“How much did you make at your last teaching job in Virginia?”

I hated to admit, “$36,000 a year.”

“Would you excuse us a moment?”

I took my dismissal and left the library as they put their heads together again whispering furiously.  I had to wait several more minutes before I was summoned once more before her majesty and her lady-in-waiting.

“We’d like to offer you the position of director-in-training, along with some teaching duties, for $36,000 a year.”

I had been hoping for a raise with the administrative duties on top of the teaching, but I needed the job, so I didn’t argue.  I reasoned that I would start off at that salary because I was training and I was still teaching, but I’d expect more when they moved me into the full responsibility of a director.

“I accept.”

“Wonderful!  We’ll turn you back over to Linda and have her set up a time for you to start.  Cate, go tell Linda the good news.”

I was handed over to Linda, who asked when I’d like to start.

“Anytime.  I’m flexible.  As soon as possible.”

She handed me her business card and wrote her personal cell phone number on the back.  “Why don’t you go home and think about it and call me?  Call me anytime!  If you have any questions, just feel free to call.”

And with that, I was ushered out the door.  Yippee?  I think.  It was a little anti-climactic.  I had signed nothing.  They had signed nothing.  I didn’t even have a start date.  Did I really have a job?

It was generous of her to give her personal number, but there was no reason to bother Linda on her own time, so I called her at work later that afternoon.  I asked to start the 25^th.  She said, “How about the 27^th?”

The 27^th it is.

I walked through the double glass doors and rang the doorbell of the little red brick schoolhouse, so charming, so filled with horrible memories from the time my daughter was a preschooler here at Pemberton.  That was one reason I applied for the kindergarten position.  I knew I couldn’t do a worse job, and I’d probably last longer than the teachers my daughter had had for preschool the short time she had been a student here.

Nothing had changed…from the dark green short pile carpeting on the floor to the wallpaper with green vines in a lattice pattern on a white background.  Even that preschool smell of crayons and finger paint was still indelibly hanging in the air.  Everything was crisp and clean; everything made just a little too perfect in order to impress prospective parents.

A young woman greeted me, handed me a clipboard, and instructed me to complete the (ridiculously lengthy) forms on it.  I sat on the benches just inside the glass doors and obediently copied the information from the résumé in my hand to the form on the clipboard.  I was not alone.  A couple of other women were with me, neither looking as though they had dressed for an interview.  I wondered what position they were seeking.  I remembered the meticulously groomed owner of the school and knew their appearance would not please her.

I handed in my clipboard and was told to wait.  The other two ladies were ushered into the tiny school office around the corner, one at a time, and ushered out almost as quickly.  Then it was my turn.

As I rounded the corner and was able to see through the glass doors to the office, I recognized a face other than the owner’s standing there.  Oh, yes, I remember now.  I think she was the school director’s boss.  A very round woman with a very round face smiling ever so welcomingly, standing at attention like a footman behind the chair, or should I say “throne?”  Seated at the desk was the owner of Pemberton, Beverly Martin, reigning as regally as always.  She was an odd mixture of the dramatic and the conservative.  Her olive skin was accentuated by heavy-handed but skillful makeup and heavily-arched eyebrows that always appeared disapproving.  After all these years, she still wore the same page-boy hairdo, though, swept back by an Alice-in-Wonderland headband, and her suit was conservatively styled and of the highest quality.

They greeted me warmly, didn’t remember me (I didn’t expect them to), and ushered me to the chair across the desk from the owner.  Beverly went over my application and then sat back from the desk and stared at me.

“I don’t see you as a teacher,” she announced.

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t….What would you think about directing a school?”

I was taken aback.  I didn’t expect that.

“You have the educational background, certainly, but you also have a master’s degree in business administration.  I think you’d be perfect as a director.  I can’t promise any openings right now, but would you think about it?”

Of course I’d think about it!  I need a job, and the public schools aren’t exactly banging down my door to give me an interview, and the substitute teaching, although it has been pretty steady lately, can’t be relied upon and doesn’t pay much.  Maybe an administrative job would pay even more than the pathetic salary of a private preschool teacher.  They shook my hand and told me they wanted me to come to a second interview with the director at another one of their schools in Netherville.  Netherville!  That’s quite a drive.  I thought the kindergarten opening was here at the St. Peters school.  Hmmm.

My name is Annie Baker, and I am a teacher.  I want to share some of my experiences with you.  I hope to encourage you and make you laugh and fan the flames of your sense of justice and righteous indignation all at the same time.  The stories I am about to tell you are the truth, although the names have been changed to protect the innocent.  (Unfortunately, that also protects the guilty as well.)

I’ve been a teacher for several years now.  In fact, if you counted all of my experiences, I’ve been a teacher for many years, instructing every age from toddlers to adults.  (Sometimes, there’s not a lot of difference.)  I have a wide variety of experiences from teaching private lessons to teaching in a public university and everything in between.

I’d like to start my story, though, with the time I spent directing and teaching in a private preschool.  Please, enjoy!  (And if you do, please share this with others who might also need a laugh at my expense.)