Every teacher knows about interruptions. They come with the territory. Usually it's the sudden variety like an announcement, or the classroom door swinging open for a late arrival, a note for a student, or some sort of summons that just couldn't wait until the class arrived at a crucial juncture in a well-planned lesson.
Teachers complain, they ignore, the whine, and they emote, but as sure as yearly layoff notices come by the end of March, classes will be interrupted.
Sometimes the interruptions are memorable. Two stand out for me in the scope of 34 years. The first occurred on a quiet afternoon just before my last class for the day ended. In that two minutes when books are returned or stored away, backpacks are re-packed, and conversions turn casual, I calmly strolled over to my classroom door to open it before the period ending bell rang. I would often stand by the doorway as classes changed to say farewell to one group and check out the happenings outside before the next group took their seats. On this day, my seniors were quietly chatting when I approached the door. I got it about halfway open when an ominous figure appeared.
Close the door now!
A SWAT team member in full regalia was barking orders to me.
Heads popped up as I locked the door.
"I think I just got dissed," I told the class.
"That's the biggest gun I ever saw," said a squeaky adolescent male.
Short after this initial shock, an announcement blared to the entire school. An armed suspect in a robbery was loose, possibly on our campus. We were to await further instructions.
It was a long afternoon. After about 3 hours, the threat ended and everyone walked out unharmed, if not drained. No suspect emerged, and the robbery was solved within a week. Fortunately I had a few lightweight videos on dream interpretation that my students liked to get us through. Many were late for their after-school jobs. Missed rides, a shattered sense of security, and new knowledge of our
vulnerability remained.
II.
Twenty years earlier, near the end of my first morning class, the door opens. All eyes turn left. We instantly recognize our Principal. A collective thought remains invisible: "Somebody's in trouble."
It's too late in the class period for an observation, so something is definitely up. The class turns silent. He walks toward me and I move to a corner of the room simultaneously.
"I hate to do this now," he says. But I've got to get these out before the end of the day, so I had no choice."
He hands me a white envelope. It's layoff season and I am on the bottom of the pole. I expect this, just not this way. He smiles and leaves.
"What was that about," says Kevin, still not sure that someone, perhaps even himself, is not in trouble.
"It's not about you guys," I reply. "It's for me." The lesson is over and only four minutes remain. Backpacks emerge, lunch is just minutes away. I open the envelope and see a legal looking document. I scan the page and see the hearing date and that I will have the right to attend. It's not my first time. Before I replace the notice in it's envelope I notice the title of the document.
Notice of Accusation
So that's what they call these things. A small smile forms at the corners of my mouth.
Kevin again, "What's that paper say?"
"It's a notice of Accusation; at least that what it says"
Kevin persists: "What are you being accused of?"
Of wanting my job. Period ends.
Teachers complain, they ignore, the whine, and they emote, but as sure as yearly layoff notices come by the end of March, classes will be interrupted.
Sometimes the interruptions are memorable. Two stand out for me in the scope of 34 years. The first occurred on a quiet afternoon just before my last class for the day ended. In that two minutes when books are returned or stored away, backpacks are re-packed, and conversions turn casual, I calmly strolled over to my classroom door to open it before the period ending bell rang. I would often stand by the doorway as classes changed to say farewell to one group and check out the happenings outside before the next group took their seats. On this day, my seniors were quietly chatting when I approached the door. I got it about halfway open when an ominous figure appeared.
Close the door now!
A SWAT team member in full regalia was barking orders to me.
Heads popped up as I locked the door.
"I think I just got dissed," I told the class.
"That's the biggest gun I ever saw," said a squeaky adolescent male.
Short after this initial shock, an announcement blared to the entire school. An armed suspect in a robbery was loose, possibly on our campus. We were to await further instructions.
It was a long afternoon. After about 3 hours, the threat ended and everyone walked out unharmed, if not drained. No suspect emerged, and the robbery was solved within a week. Fortunately I had a few lightweight videos on dream interpretation that my students liked to get us through. Many were late for their after-school jobs. Missed rides, a shattered sense of security, and new knowledge of our
vulnerability remained.
II.
Twenty years earlier, near the end of my first morning class, the door opens. All eyes turn left. We instantly recognize our Principal. A collective thought remains invisible: "Somebody's in trouble."
It's too late in the class period for an observation, so something is definitely up. The class turns silent. He walks toward me and I move to a corner of the room simultaneously.
"I hate to do this now," he says. But I've got to get these out before the end of the day, so I had no choice."
He hands me a white envelope. It's layoff season and I am on the bottom of the pole. I expect this, just not this way. He smiles and leaves.
"What was that about," says Kevin, still not sure that someone, perhaps even himself, is not in trouble.
"It's not about you guys," I reply. "It's for me." The lesson is over and only four minutes remain. Backpacks emerge, lunch is just minutes away. I open the envelope and see a legal looking document. I scan the page and see the hearing date and that I will have the right to attend. It's not my first time. Before I replace the notice in it's envelope I notice the title of the document.
Notice of Accusation
So that's what they call these things. A small smile forms at the corners of my mouth.
Kevin again, "What's that paper say?"
"It's a notice of Accusation; at least that what it says"
Kevin persists: "What are you being accused of?"
Of wanting my job. Period ends.
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