The Sinking Sub

by Carrie Pålsson

I've had many jobs in my life, but none of them scared me quite the way my first day of substitute teaching did. Taming dirty dishes, selling books and gabbing on the phone just don't have the same impact as being stared down by a class of 25 ten-year-olds.

I was trained to be a high school English teacher. In college I spent time in all levels of junior high and high school, mainly focusing on upper grade college prep students. I liked high school students. They could be reasoned with, talked to or even ignored.

So imagine my surprise when the phone rang at 6:30 in the morning the day after I signed up on the district subbing list. I groggily answered the phone and said I could work that day.

My grogginess promptly vanished as I heard the next sentence:

"Great! You'll be doing fourth graders at Conger Elementary!"

Click. No chance to question. No chance to say no. No chance to do anything but freak out!

Fourth graders!

I've read plenty of Judy Blume in my day. I knew exactly what to expect from fourth graders. They'd put tacks on my chair, throw spit wads when my back was turned, release some slimy, grimy creature into the room after recess, tie me to the desk. . .

I was not prepared for fourth graders.

I called my mom in a panic. I didn't even know where the school was located so I had to have directions. I also just needed to talk to my mommy. She gave me directions and asked what my problem was. How could I possibly be scared of fourth graders after successfully managing teenagers during my student teaching months? But those teenagers had all been college prep kids. They had a reason to behave. They had a future to think of. Fourth graders only had one thing on the brain--"sinking the sub."

I dressed in my finest new power suit, purchased on the occasion of finally receiving my Oregon state teaching license. I carefully applied make-up to give me added confidence, packed a lunch full of comfort foods, and headed out the door.

The principal must have sensed my terror. He took one look at me and asked if I'd ever done this before. Could it have been my bright red neck? Or the shaking hands? Or maybe my outfit. I was completely overdressed. The other teachers were wearing nice jeans and cutesy teacher sweaters. A dress isn't exactly the apparel of choice among elementary teachers--not unless it has the alphabet appliquéd around the hem.

I had to admit it was my first day, even though I tried not to let him see my fear. He gave me one piece of advice before directing a knee-high little personage to take me to my room. "They can sense fear. Dial 220 if you need me."

I turned ten shades of pale and followed the helpful second grader to the classroom. She was cute, with perfectly plaited hair and a toothless smile. She didn't seem bad at all. She gave me a hug when she left me, telling me she wished she could be in my class forever.

After working with high school kids I was completely taken aback. High school kids don't give hugs.

I found my lesson plans for the day and read them over several times in an attempt to steady my nerves. They didn't seem so bad. Worksheets and reading, math and P. E. But would it be enough to cover a whole day? There would be no bell to rescue me after an hour. I'd be stuck with these children all day. If things went badly it would be the longest day of my life.

The kids started streaming in about fifteen minutes later. They'd see me and shout to each other "A sub! A sub! We have a sub!" I knew they wanted to sink me. How practiced where they at the art?

The bell rang and it was time for me to begin. I couldn't rush out and puke or sit down and cry. They could smell fear and I had to exude perfect calm and control or all would be lost.

I was winging it, all right. The biggest flight of my life was taking place in a dingy room plastered with bright motivational posters. "If you never try you'll always fail."

I had no choice. I cleared my throat, looked straight into the 50 staring eyeballs and introduced myself.

My life did not end. I wasn't shot down. I was flying and the kids loved me. I quickly found out that fourth graders love everyone, or at least this group did.

They knew I was new, so did everything they could to make my day easy. They listened when they were supposed to. They answered questions. They lined up straight. They didn't have secret stashes of tacks or frogs or rubber rats. They didn't try to sink me. They tried to love me. I went home with an empty lunch box, 25 drawings declaring various stages of like or love for me and the confidence to face my new career.