To My Teachers (And for Aunt Laurie)

Dear every teacher I have ever had: I am sorry. I am sorry for any problem I ever caused. I am sorry for eating Doritos in Spanish class junior year of high school, for pushing down Sam Hudson in fifth grade and for sticking my gum to the bottom of my desk in seventh grade science. I shouldn’t have written my name on the wall, I took far too many bathroom passes and throwing wads of paper instead of listening to the lecture is not OK.

From the bottom of my heart, from the greatest depths of my soul and with every tiny cell in my body I apologize.

Teaching is hard – really hard.

I wish I had a better way of saying this. Teaching is like solving a math problem but every time you take your eyes away for a second all of the numbers change. Teaching is like getting to a party too early or telling someone about your favorite book at a basketball game. People nod, pretend that what you say makes sense and then want to get back to their lives already. They’ve got parties to prepare for and games to watch.

Some days are great, don’t get me wrong. Some days I am the funny teacher, and I get through to the kids and we all laugh and go home feeling fuzzy. A lot of times though, that just isn’t how it is. Kids cut class, trick you into saying cuss words in Marshallese and cheat on tests.

It can be very frustrating. For section D, getting to my class on time is a struggle. I am clueless as to why because I am literally right next door to the class they have the period before. They need only to stand up and walk next door. For many of them, mainly the boys, this proves too difficult because of the alluring pull of the stairwell.

Don’t ask me why the stairwell is appealing. It smells of urine, it is dark and I get the distinct feeling it is haunted.

On Thursday I got fed-up and I told my kids that if they came to my class late the next day, then I was not going to let them in. They didn’t believe me and the next day there was a group of six boys who knocked on my door 20 minutes after the bell had rung because they had been hanging in the stairwell.

“No,” I told them in my best impression of a no-BS voice.

“Mr. Tim, what about the spelling test?” they asked me.

“Sorry, I told you yesterday you need to be on time.”

For the next ten minutes the kids I would not let in for class exhibited all of the signs of a 60’s peace rally. They sang unifying songs against me, they rattled my windows and even went so far as to yell out how words were spelled during the test.

“Well, it looks likes the guys outside are giving you all free answers,” I told the class. “That is going to make their zeros seem even worse.”
The yelling of answers ceased.

When class ended the group of renegade students were waiting for me as I walked to lunch. Their leader, a boy named Kersey, told me he didn’t like me and then unleashed a fury of grammatically incorrect English cuss words.
I was shocked and taken aback. I wanted to shout back and show him how real English speakers cuss. Instead, I did the first thing that popped into my mind and I blew him kisses.

Kersey went home for lunch without cussing again.
I felt happy that I had won the battle, but exhausted and worn-out. I didn’t want it to be like this. I wanted to peruse stories at leisure with willing and eager students as we discovered the joys of English.

Now I know that it is not going to be like that. I am sorry, teachers, I know I could have behaved better for you all.