About Face

by Carrie Pålsson

All the years of hard work had finally paid off. Four years of college, two years of substitute teaching, numerous interviews and a move across the state had finally yielded the one thing I had always wanted: my own classroom.

I received the keys to the room a mere four days before students would be arriving. I savored my first introduction to my new domain, even if it wasn't quite what I imagined. Instead of the smell of chalk dust, the chemical twang of dry erase markers greeted my nose. Instead of wide open spaces with plenty of room to creatively arrange desks into the ultimate learning configuration, the room was cramped and confined. Instead of clever teaching posters that would colorfully decorate my room, I had blank white walls that were mine to cover. Not a problem if you have money or creativity, but I had neither. It wasn't the most auspicious start, but it was my start and I was happy.

For years I had been planning my entrance into the world of education. I'd be the most creative, brilliant, demanding teacher that a group of high school English students could ever imagine. I'd coax profound and pithy works from the nimble minds of fifteen-year-olds. Or, at the very least, I'd teach them how to write a kick-ass five-paragraph theme.

I'd wow my students with Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. They'd fall in love with the writings of Flannery O'Conner. Mark Twain's clever humor would pervade the classroom.

My lesson plans for the very first day of school were not what I had hoped they would be. The other teachers of junior American literature informed me that 11th grade English always starts with the study of "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson. Though it didn't fit into my planned chronological study of American literature, I found a way to become excited. What student wouldn't love a morbid story involving a senseless and bizarre death?

Yes, I had finally arrived. My dreams were about to come true.

Some dreams fade away, some crumble into dust, and some are destroyed with the force of a wrecking ball.

My dream? Wrecking ball all the way.

After a mere year in the classroom I was ready to move on to a new career. I hadn't signed up for lawsuits from parents, hypocrisy from the administration and utter and complete apathy from students.

I wasn't prepared for the mountains of paperwork.

I wasn't prepared for the hours upon hours spent in fruitless meetings that had little to do with me or my classes.

I wasn't prepared for the demands that I take on more, do more, be more.

I wasn't merely a teacher of English. I soon became a ticket-seller at football and basketball games. I spent three hours each afternoon driving around with my foot plastered on the brake of the driver's education car. When I took my check to the bank, I became an expert on teenage discipline and was roped into trying to work out a strategy of behavior for my teller's son, a boy in one of my classes. I was even asked to coach cheerleading. Me! I'm as geeky as they come. People like me don't coach cheerleading.

There was very little love for To Kill a Mockingbird. Instead of serious discussions about prejudice and assumptions, my students were more concerned with the state of affairs between Calpurnia and Atticus. I blame it on Jerry Springer. Mark Twain, that master of wry humor, couldn't garner a single giggle. Works of staggering genius gave way to essays that didn't include periods or capital letters. The best and brightest knew how to indent a paragraph.

On the last day of school I received a phone call from an enraged parent, accusing me of refusing to teach his seventeen-year-old son how to read. The father decided that I knew his son was illiterate and wanted to keep him that way. Frankly, I have no idea if the boy was illiterate or not. He rarely came to class, he never turned in an assignment, and he never spoke to me. I called his home many times throughout the school year and never got a response. I sent home progress reports voicing my concerns. His grade throughout the school year was a consistent F. Suddenly, on the very last day of school, it's my fault he can't read?

It was all too much. I tried to live my dream for three very long years. I kept telling myself it would get better, and it did to some extent, but it didn't ever become fun. After much heart ache and angst, I made one of the hardest decisions of my life. After all the years of schooling and all the money paid in tuition, I walked away from my dream and my career.

"Will you ever teach again?" people asked me, over and over.

"Nope," I replied, "I'll never set foot in a classroom again. NEVER."

A few years later found me in need of a job that didn't require a long commute. I scoured craigslist and monster.com, and couldn't find anything that fit my needs. I wanted a job that wouldn't require any weekend or evening work. I wanted something that would let me arrive home in time to cook dinner and throw in a load of laundry. I wanted a job that didn't have the stress associated with a career.

After a few weeks of pondering, I did my research and came to the conclusion that substitute teaching would give me the most bang for the buck. I'd never work evenings or weekends. In fact, if I was having an off day or just needed a break I could take a free day and no one would care. There would be no boss to report to, no after hours work to drag home, and no sense of responsibility overload.

I gathered up the paperwork I needed, attended a training session, and was soon working five days a week. Never say never, as the old saying goes.

I soon learned that I don't hate teaching. I just hate overly demanding parents, useless administrators and repetitious bad behavior. I love teaching.

Subbing gave me the chance to teach to a different group of students every day. I didn't know their problems and they didn't know mine. I was able to go in to each new classroom with fresh enthusiasm and take care of the business of the day. I never had to worry about planning the lessons or grading big piles of papers. Parents didn't call me at home, demanding that I pass their lazy kid so he could play in the big football game. If I didn't like a group of students I never had to see them again.

I spent my year of subbing focused on the elementary grades, a group I thought I would never get along with. Turns out little children are a whole lot nicer than teenagers. They want hugs and attention. They love to learn. They are willing to take risks that might diminish their cool factor. They get excited about new information and love listening to the teacher read a story.

Why did I ever want to teach high school?

Maybe, just maybe, I should become an elementary school teacher. Then again, maybe not. Maybe I should just keep on subbing and getting the best of both worlds--easy work doing what I love.