Teacher lore, 2nd draft

by Eridania Rodriguez

“Teachers are students”

          Sometimes you learn from your students more than what you’re aware, you also learn how to forecast their result at the end of the school year and try to find all means possible to help them succeed in the school and besides that in all their daily life issues. I’d learned from my students, especially from Carlos, to be more empathetic.

I’ve learned that to be successful during the teaching and learning process, all the actors in the educational community should support the goal and depending on that, the result will be met.

During the first day of class in 7th graders classroom, the Physical Education teacher just said, “Good afternoon, do you want to participate in the activity we have in the yard today? without asking me permission to announce that in my class, and of course, due to the circumstances and students' feelings at the moment they agreed in going out (the last two periods of classes that day), but I interrupted the P.E. teacher and reflected with the students about my lesson planning, I explained to them that that was the first day of class for me and the only day I had to evaluate them for the first time in that school year and besides that the next week was the due date to hand in all groups’ evaluation results, and that I haven’t done it because the school activities haven’t given me the chance to do it before that due date.

 The P.E. teacher understood and left the classroom.  Even though I reflected with the students about this  the students didn’t; they got very mad at me instead, but I couldn’t let them go out anyway, because I thought that was fair for all of us. I learned that next time I have a similar situation I’ll use my plan B to evaluate them and help them reflect on the importance of learning foreign languages. What I didn’t know was that since that day I became the enemy for that group! And that didn’t help during the whole school year.

There was extensive interaction with all those 7th graders during the whole school year, the principal, the psychologist and other teachers; trying to give them (students who needed it) reinforcement workshops in content areas, having meetings with their parents (most of them never showed up, like Carlos’s). At the end five students out 31 had to repeat the level.

Several months later I found Carlos very angry, he said that he wanted to kill the homeroom teacher because she only gave 59% of the assistance. I sat across from him and recollected the story; I can’t decipher my emotions regarding it because at last, he understood the importance of being present and active with all the teachers. So, we reflected on what’s really important in life, trying to be a team next year can help him succeed, but at least, for the first time, he showed interest, he paid attention to my words!

I learned that even though teenagers and parents show that they don’t care and don’t make any effort to overcome their challenges, that’s when all the teachers and school management team, administrators, parents should not give up and leave them alone. We all, as a team, should sit together and formulate a better plan for Carlos and his next school year’s challenge, and  for all those students that are in a similar situation; all teachers must provide support to help them meet their needs even though it’s not a piece of cake, but it’s also our success as teachers.

A Diamond in the Rough by Gavin Kearns

By Gavin Kearns

A Diamond in the Rough

“He’s our diamond in the rough” my new principal said to one of the school board members. It was late August in Pembroke NH where first year teachers like myself and those new to the district were meeting members of the school board.  My principal calling me a diamond in the rough resounded with me.

Diamonds are priceless, brilliant, expensive gems; she must really see my true potential I thought when I heard her say that. After completing my yearlong internship where I also was a long term sub, I knew I was ready for my first teaching gig.  I even thought that I could take a friend of mine under my wing who was entering the teaching profession without any experience; how could I coach him to become a better teacher?

Teachers after their internship tend to model themselves after their cooperating teacher.  I set up my room exactly like his was, a horseshoe around the room.  I thought that if I took the same format for how he structured his class mine would go exactly the same.  But why did I have issues?  Students were throwing paper balls back and forth across the room.  They were stomping on empty milk cartons to make a loud pop.  They were folding paper so that it would make a loud snap when whipped through the air.  Through the connecting door teachers would come in looking to see what the noise was and why their classroom was being interrupted with noise.

I knew that how my classroom was working was not right, but I didn’t know how to fix it.  One of the solutions that teachers use is to send students to the office that are making it a non-productive work environment for the rest of the class.  How do you respond when the office staff says “please don’t” when I tell them I am sending a problem student to the office.  They do not want to deal with the student either. I know that the administration was not to blame, but where was the support?  During the post-observation meeting with the principal, I was not given any ideas for what I needed to improve upon, or even told that I was in danger of being non-renewed.

On a oddly sunny, April day over the PA myself and the rest of the class heard

“Mr. Kearns, can you come to the office?”

“I’m in the middle of teaching” I replied.

“Ok, come during your planning period” they said.  I thought it was odd they would try and call me down in the middle of my class.  But when I went down my principal told me I was not being renewed. That was a tough moment, mostly thinking what will the rest of today be like?  The rest of the week? The rest of the year? She told me “I think you know why” and that “the kids have your number”.  She was right, I knew why, but what I wanted to know was where the support was?  Where was the here’s how to improve?

The rest of the year went by in a blur as I’ve learned they do.  It’s embarrassing being fired from a job.  You do not want anyone to know and you don’t want to talk about it.  But it’s public, how can people not know? It was awkward when students would ask why I would not be teaching the following year.  I wanted to tell them it was because of them.

I thought I’d never teach again, I sent countless resumes and went on plenty of interviews, but none came to fruition.  A single year was all I was going to make it?  What would I do for a career.  I thought teaching was what I would do for the rest of my life.

The following June I’m interviewing at for the position I’m in now.  “What was the last book you read?” the language arts teacher asked.  “Teacher Man” I replied.  This was a connecting moment between myself and my future teammates, we would get along and have similar styles, similar goals.  This past June I just finished my 5th year at Paul School as the 7th and 8th grade science teacher.  It’s amazing seeing how myself and my classroom has changed from my first to my fifth year.  The math teacher and I jokingly compete with each other on who are the favorite teachers  and subjects.  I have become a leader in the school, something I couldn’t imagine from my first year.  I am the treasurer of our local union and also on the bargaining team.  I have led professional development both in my school and at regional conferences.  At my most recent assessment from my principals, I received high marks and am now a continuing contract teacher.

I was surprised in February to see a student from my first year teaching at a play in Rochester.  It would have been easy for her to not say anything, I doubt I would have recognized her.  What does it mean when someone you used to know goes out of their way to say hi?  To say “hey remember me”?  Even though my first year wasn’t a success for me, it made enough of a difference for her to come say hi.

 Tuesday, Week 5
A group poem by Chris D'Agostino, Diomedes Fernandez, Kim Paniagua, Ashley Nichol, Molly Campbell, Alexis Sebillian, Meg Petersen, and Michael

We are doubting the process
We imagine having more time
We hear common experience
We see diversity
We want more time
We are doubting the process

We pretend to know what we're writing
We worry that the end will come
We fear forgetting
We scar when we see injustice
We touch lives
We are doubting the process

We know absolutely nothing
We believe we might figure it out someday
We dream of next summer
We try to keep writing
We hope to be our best selves
We are doubting the process.

Teaching is Like Spreading the Seeds of a Dandelion

Teaching is Like Spreading the Seeds of a Dandelion

By Christina Lamson

A beautiful young girl stood at the top of a hill in the middle of a meadow. The wind blew her wavy, blonde hair as she sniffed the cool breeze. As she looked around she saw many wondrous sights: the tall grasses swaying, birds gliding in the horizon, and numerous flower buds peeking out of the ends of the tree branches. She closed her eyes for a mere second, then looked up to see the clouds drift by. As her gaze lowered, she caught a glimpse of something special. She ran to the edge of the hill, bent down, and carefully plucked a beautiful, yellow dandelion out of the ground. Astonished by its beauty, she gave it a quick, but careful hug and the corners of her mouth transitioned into an innocent smile. She had just found gold.

The girl quickly ran towards her house, thinking about how she could share its beauty. She dashed inside and placed the dandelion into a stunning, crystal vase that she pulled out from beneath the kitchen sink, and she displayed the dandelion in the sunniest window in her room.

Days went by and the beautiful, yellow dandelion turns into a fluffy, gray mess. She couldn't find it in her heart to throw it away. Knowing the beauty that this dandelion once possessed, she decided to look a little closer and she realized the new treasure within, therefore she took the dandelion out to the yard and blew on it. The seeds dispersed throughout the land. With the right conditions in her favor, the seeds were nurtured.

Upon the growth of the first, two, new dandelions, the girl became overcome with joy, for in that moment she realized that a small part of this new growth was due to her guidance.  Overtime many more beautiful, yellow dandelions appeared. Many of which also turned to gray fluff. The girl took enjoyment in blowing each collection of seeds further and further across the meadow. This enjoyment did not come without disappointment though. Some dandelions never fully transformed and no matter how hard she blew, the seeds never detached. Some dandelions were taken away by the wind before she even got a chance to spread them herself. Some seeds were intentionally blown in the direction of the wind to spread in the open land where they are able to find sufficient sunlight, but some seeds were blown sporadically throughout the land, ending up in places that they were not able to flourish. She viewed success in these failures, just as she did in her achievements. The girl was often told that she was wasting her time with the dandelions because they were just weeds, but that is not what she saw as their truth. Defeat was not felt by these setbacks, rather she accepted every dandelion as it came, and cherished each.

One day, the young girl discovered a whole new area of dandelions beginning to grow. With eagerness she headed home to share the news with her mother. Upon entering, she found her mother sitting at the table with her head bowed into her arms as she slumped in despair. The girl immediately retreated to the meadow, picked the biggest and most beautiful dandelion and carried it back to her home. She quietly approached her mother, and looked down at the small treasure she held clenched in her hand. She delicately moved the dandelion out in front of her, and then placed it into the hands of her mother. Her mother’s head rose, for she wondered what treasure she now possessed. Then she glanced to where her eyes met her daughters, and she quickly realized the power of what she now held in her hand. She immediately rose to her feet, and embraced her daughter in a hug.

On the day that this special dandelion transformed, the mother looked at her daughter and nodded. Together they walked slowly into the meadow and ascended to the top of the hill. They both put their heads back and let their hair blow free in the wind. 

Then they held up their fluffy, gray dandelion. Both of their hands carefully gripped the soft, green stem. Then they gave one last glance in each other's eyes and together they blew.

I'm a Terrible Person (Most of the Time)

by James Smith

My teacher lore, which I fear to post here for the possibility that I find my way, once again, onto the No Fly List through name alone carries me through an interaction with one of my youngest students -- a privileged girl who had just returned to her Korean homeland from three years abroad in Thailand where, essentially, she lived like a princess. This was a tough pill to swallow -- for years I lived in South Korea, teaching outside of the main city because I felt that even those who cannot afford to go up into Seoul deserve a competent English language instructor; I spent weekends volunteering with North Korean refugees to provide them the basic tools they needed to function. Serving this young student hearkened back to my first year in South Korea teaching at a high-end kindergarten when a five-year-old snapped at me during lunch and said, "More soup" and successfully ended my tenure at that school when I decided submitting my resignation would be more reasonable and less work than razing the entire nation to the ground.
      That's my bad. If prejudice goes down, it can certainly go up, too. I struggled to remind myself of this and fought day by day to keep it at the forefront of my mind. Moreover, she was a brilliant girl with a good soul who only wanted to help others. This made everything worse and more painful for me. I listened because it was all I could do.
      On our last day, two surprising things happened: she asked me about my religion -- a question I sidestepped as best I could (her family are fairly radical in their beliefs and, according to my student, had physically assaulted those who did not serve the same gods as they). In a moment of reflection at realizing authority figures in her life did not adhere to the same systems in which she had been indoctrinated, she confessed to me that she did not think she believed what her parents believed -- the knowing risk she took, the trust and faith she placed in me that I had not returned... that guilt still burns.
     As I recovered from that shock, she told me about her weekend activities... which included putting dry ice into a plastic bottle out of boredom/curiosity. Given Koreans' lack of free time for trouble making activities, even her parents probably had not realized what may well have happened. Telling her was dangerous; kids love explosions, after all. So do adults. Not telling her was at least as dangerous -- turning it into a mystery would have forced her curiosity to be sated. And then probably exploded. Faced with the dilemma, I knew what I had to do. What I had to teach (or not, read the story! Ask me for it!)
     And having unleashed an awakened/disillusioned middle schooler on the world with the curiosity and awareness of a young McGyver -- and taking a measure of pride in it -- I reflect on what a terrible person I might be.

Elizabeth Renaud

Easter Eggs

When Sharon came into our lives, we were living in the modern colonial house with the huge front lawn, about a half a soccer field big. In that expanse of lawn, I saw Sharon for the first time. She was small, five years old, and I couldn’t miss her sitting on the lawn watching. Her big, round, brown eyes missed nothing. Watching me walk towards her, she gave no reaction, just those brown eyes taking everything in. Smiling, I greeted her, and asked if she wanted to come inside. Just watching. A few more feeble attempts on my part to get a conversation going, I left her on the lawn - watching.

My parents had adopted Sharon. They wanted to give a home and loving family to a “hard-to-adopt” child. Sharon had been in eight foster homes from the time she was born. Five- year olds shouldn’t have trust issues. Our family had sort of become two families. My brother and I were 15 and 17 respectively. My younger sisters were Lynn at nine and Jennifer at eight, with Sharon rounding us all out at five. I know the adjustment period was challenging and long. Sharon had built a wall better than any mason could, and it seemed as though she would never trust us.

Easter was a big deal in our house. The yearly spring shopping spree was mandatory, especially for the little ones. My mother loved frilly spring dresses, Mary Jane shoes with ruffle ankle socks, a spring coat (which may or may not get worn; it was Buffalo, NY after all), and an Easter bonnet. There were Easter baskets hid around the house for each of the kids on Sunday morning, and egg dying on Saturday afternoon. This particular year was no different, although being older, I did not have to go shopping, but my mother expected me to help the younger ones with the egg dyeing.

I admit, I was not very generous, I think my mother even used all three of my names to impress upon me egg dying would be my responsibility with my younger sisters. Seeing Lynn and Jennifer excited about dyeing eggs helped dispel my grumpy mood. They dropped each of the dye pellets in separate cups, I poured in the boiling water and vinegar and we were ready to dye. Sharon was quietly watching, watching all the preparations with a bit of a detached interest. She didn’t seem as though she really wanted to dye eggs, but she wasn’t leaving the table.

Then it happened. A little bit of that wall began to crack. As Lynn and Jennifer pulled their first eggs out of the dye, Sharon was shot through with excitement, disbelieve, and wonder. Her body, literally, shook with excitement. She couldn’t control herself. Her hands were shaking, and she began to laugh. I was stunned. For a moment I didn’t realize what was happening in front of me. “Have you ever dyed Easter eggs before?” I asked incredulous. Sharon, still not able to speak, shook her head no. My heart melted. I couldn’t even imagine a childhood that did not include such delights as dyeing Easter eggs. At first, Sharon was content to just watch Lynn and Jennifer, but I made sure that didn’t last long. “It’s okay, you can do one yourself.” I put an egg in her hand, and when she had pointed to the color she wanted, I guided her hand and she gently dropped the egg in. She couldn’t take her eyes off that egg. Her whole face lit up when her first egg emerged from the dye. Now the floodgates were open. Giggling like a five year old should, she picked up another egg, and there was no stopping her.

Sharon Renaud 1964-1988

I had thought I wanted to be a teacher, but that Saturday, showed me the power and magic of helping someone else learn something new; the gratifying experience of having the privilege to open up the world to someone else. That day opened the door to a fleeting possibility I could actually have that kind of effect on children. I experienced the pure joy of education and learning.

It would be many years before I stepped into my first classroom. Teaching is fraught with far too many failures and disappointments, yet littered throughout are those magical moments I experienced with Sharon. Every school year is quietly dedicated to Sharon, and I am forever in her debt. (I love you baby girl).

The Nest

 "The Nest"
by Anthony P. Vasko 

            I can’t lie.  I stole the nest concept from the movie Old School, that crazy comedy about early 30’s guys forming a non-sanctioned fraternity.  Amidst the debauchery, Frank goes to therapy with his wife in an attempt to save their marriage.

            “This is a safe place,” the therapist begins.  “It’s a place where we can feel free sharing our feelings.  Think of my office as a nest, in a tree of trust and understanding.  You can say anything here.”

            With a look of skepticism Frank says, “Anything?”

            “It’s okay honey,” his wife says.  “It’s why we came.”

            Frank goes on to tell an embarrassing story about his wandering eyes during their date night at Olive Garden.  It’s an honest admission that upsets his wife.  It’s something he probably should have shared with another audience.

            “What?  I thought we were in the trust tree with the nest?  We’re not?”

            My friends and I have talked about this scene many times, usually while throwing back a few cold ones and laughing off life’s worries.  I never thought I’d take that scene, that nest, and bring it into a classroom.  I guess the brain has a funny way of making connections in mysterious ways that I’ll never understand.

            I’m not sure if it was the first class of the semester, but I know the nest was introduced very early on.  In my attempts to show them voice, authorship, and topic freedom I shared some of my writings.  Short stories I’ve published.  Short stories I’ve never had the courage to publish.  Memoir clips from my travels.  Journal entries from some of my lowest times.  The one thing I made sure all of these readings had was raw and unashamed honesty.  If they were going to trust me, I had to trust them.

            “This is a nest,” I said as I opened a journal.  “It’s a nest in a trust tree.  Everything we share in here stays in here.  We keep it in the nest.”

            They looked at me the way a roomful of 18-year-olds have always looked at the authority figure who’s trying to win them over, who’s trying to coax them into self-incrimination.  And then I read.

            Before I knew it, 12:05 had come around and not one of them was antsy to go.  “I can’t make you guys stay here any later,” I said.  Not one of them moved.  “But I’ll try to finish this in the next five minutes if you want to stay.”

            When I finished reading my very personal tale of debauchery, a tale from when I was trying a little too hard to emulate Hunter S. Thompson, I was worried I had gone too far.  They’re college kids, I thought.  They’re adults.  They can go to war for heaven’s sake.  They’ve heard stories worse than this.  Or my career as a teacher is coming to an abrupt end in its first week.

            Mike was the last of the students to make his way towards the door.

            “Was it too much?” I asked.

            He shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  But I do think you should close the door from now on.”

            The nest was born.

A Letter to my Younger Teacher Self

By Ashley Nicol

Dear Ashley Jean,

Congratulations for surviving the first four years at UNH.  I know it was not easy - your best friend and roommate discovering she was pregnant the first weekend you arrived, being away from home for long stretches of time, not feeling like you fit in with the "party" atmosphere and how that made you an outsider not to mention all of the actual school work you had to do - Please, be proud of yourself for this accomplishment; it is worthy of praise.

Now, though, as you embark upon your year-long internship and your first experience with teaching, I would like to offer you some advice.

First - when looking for a Mentor Teacher you will attempt the path of least resistance, either because you are lazy or because you're afraid of talking to adults (or both).  Rest assured, though, that even though you waited until the last minute and chose the only available Mentor teaching, things will still turn out OK.

Next - Forget everything you learned in your English Teaching classes during undergrad.  Yes, it was "valuable" work, but no, your perfect-world lesson plans are no match for real, live 6th graders.
Remember - Don't let them smell your fear!  You will be anxious the ENTIRE time you're teaching that these students will realize you have no idea what you're doing and run you out of the building.  Accept this fear and bury it deeply.  If they smell weakness, they will pounce.  So - speak with authority and hope they don't question you.

Lean on the Interns - you will not survive this experience without leaning on the other interns.  Together you will learn about what it means to be a teacher, how to develop a relationship with students, and that it's OK to falter.  Soak up all you can from them.  Appreciate the relationships you'll build.  They are wonderful people and your time with them will change you.

Mike and John are Invaluable - Your adviser, Mike, and Mentor Teacher, John, will be essential to this first year.  They will guide you through all of the ups and downs that happen in teaching.  Mike will be the calm, sturdy presence who challenges you and supports you at the same time.  John will lead by example - watch him closely as he leads the class, interacts with students, and collaborates with his colleagues.  You will learn more from those observations that you can ever know.

Even when you don't think so, you will make it through this alive.  There will be issues in your personal life that make teaching seem unimportant.  It will be exhausting - emotionally and mentally - to deal with everything that comes your way.  I want to warn you that December and January will be particularly challenging, but know this:  Aunt Andy will survive her heart attack and she is still alive and well today.  Dad and the dog will make it out of the fire alive, and while he may lose all of his possessions, he does not lose his spirit.  Vertigo is horrible, but it will pass and you'll only be left dizzy because of your blondness.  And Matt - oh, Matt - he will survive his snowboarding accident and he will walk again.  In fact, the two of you will realize just how important you are to each other and the world will find it's center.

You are happily married today, and he is the best thing in your life.

Trust the process, Ashley Jean.  Life will throw you curve balls and obstacles, but you will find a way to persevere.  With the help of your friends, fellow teachers, Matt, your family - the community that surrounds you - you will make it through and be better for it.  You will even stumble into the amazingness that is the National Writing Project which will only add to your journey of self discovery.

Great things are waiting in your future.  Just trust the process.

Your older and slightly less anxious self,

Ashley "Sarcasmo" Nicol

Dante

by Fanny Fernandez

First day of class, senior year, We, were all excited to be back, wondering what this final year may bring. We, gathered around each other, talking about our summer adventures, waiting for the first period to begin. Boom! The sound of the door being slammed shot, came rushing through our ears, leaving us paralyzed. We, were slowly descending into the first circle of hell. A man, average height, dark nappy hair, and orange peel texture skin, entered, with a fashion sense taken directly from Cuba’s golden 50’s. We, squinted, as another loud boom filled the air,   coming from his silver metal briefcasebanged on the teacher’s desk. All seats were occupied promptly; We, could hear our own hearts beat, when, a couple of knocks interrupted the thick silence. He, opened the door and observed three smiling faces requesting if they could  come in. We, perceived how those smiles vanished when the  following statement was pronounced: “Were you having fun out there? Keep at it!  He, closed the door right on their noses. Tension kept building up. We, did not dare to blink, worried about our fate. He, proceeded to write his name on the blackboard. We, noticed how the chalk residue created an aura as portrayed in the movies when, Satan himself, makes a grand entrance. “I’m Dante, your new world history teacher.” He, continued to enumerate the do’s and don’ts required in his class. After first period was over, We, were all outraged. He, shouldn’t be teaching kids, We, all agreed.

Next history class, We, were quiet and stoically seated. No one was missing this time. He, arrived and asked us to take out our history books. We, obeyed without hesitation. “Lesson one, pre-Columbian history, chapter one, page five.” We, followed the instructions almost in unison. He, pointed out at the map of the American continent and read the introduction. “Rip up pages six, seven and eight” We, were perplexed, unable to act by this command, He, repeated his request a second time We, timidly complied. The following statement was pronounced: “The information on those pages are lies”  He, proclaimed and proceeded to explain why,referencing some time to a beat up notebook. We, listened attentively. “History has been written by those in power, thus, you need to develop critical thinking, learn to ask the right questions, be eager to listen to different voices.” We, were astonished, no one has ever talked to us with such honesty. The final message was blunt. “Societies should know and understand their history not to repeat the same mistakes from the past.  Individuals must learn how to question atrocities such as the ones mentioned in this textbook.” Dante’s teaching became instrumental in shaping how we, viewed the world. He, planted the seed of seeking different perspectives in a time when our textbooks were the only source of information. In the end, Dante was our Virgil walking some of us through the purgatory of ignorance into the realm of better understanding the complexities of the world around us. For this, we, will be eternally grateful.

Ugly ducklings

By Nelly Mejia Marti

  The clock was ticking, at least the one my mind had built and housed inside my head. Drops of sweat running down my face from all the running around and the unbearable heat Santo Domingo has to offer even early in the morning. Parents were coming in, I could see the smiles on their faces. As they kissed their kids to wish them good luck I could only think to myself “Why on earth are you doing this again?”

  “Guys, this month’s project is going to take a lot of hard work, but I am pretty sure you will enjoy it and do a great job,” I found myself saying to my 9th graders. This was, without a doubt, my favorite group, although like parents, one is not supposed to have favorites. I couldn’t really help it, I had them when they were in 7th grade and now, two years later, I had them again and was flabbergasted by the change and growth they had experienced. Back in 7th grade they were certainly not my favorites, although there was a strong connection between us. They were really smart and so funny, but God knows they just wouldn’t behave. Jaime wandered around the classroom nonstop, providing a new excuse every time I would ask what on earth he was doing; Ilsa would ruin my Anastasia Beverly Hills eyebrows by putting her hands on my face as if she were modeling clay. Sergio wouldn’t stop talking to the boys and every time I scolded him, he would wink at me and play suave using his cute accent. It never work for him though. I don’t even want to start talking about Giovanna not being able to enjoy silence and especially not about Raymond and his constant need to talk about sex and try -but fail miserably- to make me feel uncomfortable. Now, two years later, some of them continued to be the sweet hardworking children they had always been, others had blossomed from ugly ducklings to beautiful swans, both physically and mentally. Others continued being the same, but had coated themselves with layers of maturity, others had withered because of the rejection that was inflicted on them, broken by the excruciating pain that sometimes comes along in the process of discovering that not all friendships are meant to last.

  “We are presenting a play and we have five weeks to do it” I said, expecting a quick negative from them that wouldn’t even let me finish my sentence. To my surprise, my words were received with a standing ovation, shrieks of happiness invaded the room. “Miss, I love you” said Angie as she gave me a hug and swiftly took a place in front of the board, marker in hand. “Ok guys, first things first, which one are we doing?” asked Angie in that bossy yet sweet tone of hers. Names of different movies, plays and books were flying in the air like fireworks on the 4th of July. After short discussions and two voting sessions, it had been decided that they were performing Hamlet. Now it was time to divide the class in groups and assign responsibilities according to their preferences and what they considered they were good at. When it was time to choose the actors I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Jaime, who would constantly fail to submit homework, his notebook or any other type of assignment, wanted to be the lead. Jaime had won my heart with his vibrant personality and smart interventions, despite not being what one would consider the best of students and not being able to leave the F word alone. “Are you sure about this?” I asked, with a wide smile, but a worried heart. “Miss Nelly, I am sure. You have nothing to worry about, I would never let you down,” he answered as he winked at me. Although he was a great kid and I saw in him great potential, I wasn’t so sure he would make time to learn his lines, especially during the last month of classes, which is sometimes the hardest.

  “Ok! So the script is ready! Thank you Anna, Angie, Giovanna, Jaime and Enchantress” I said in front of the class the next Monday. “You are more than welcome” replied Enchantress, which was the nickname I had given Ilsa due to her striking resemblance to Cara Delevingne. I was quite surprised by the fact that they had taken the weekend to work on the script when I had promised time for them to do it in my class. Since the script was ready, it was time for auditions. I was dying to see what Jaime had to offer. To my surprise, he had already memorized a couple of lines and when it was his turn, he completely nailed it. The whole class went crazy over his performance! He was, indeed, perfect for the role.

"We are three weeks away people! How are we doing?!" I shouted from the center of the room." As soon as I finished talking the group leaders approached me and showed me their progress reports. Everything seemed to be going great. For the little time I had provided them with, they had made great advancement. It was the first time I had given my students full control of everything and stepped back to watch. Some of them had taken their responsibilities very seriously and some just waited for me to be near to pretend they were doing something. I did my best to let their peers make them reflect on the negative effect it could have on the play instead of doing it myself. It worked perfectly. They seemed to be very committed to doing this right.

We were two weeks away and we hadn't practiced in the auditorium where we were presenting. I noticed at that moment, that I had forgotten to book it in advance and that probably we were not going to be able to practice there. I was right. I only managed to book two double periods but that wasn't enough. That's when I saw staying in the afternoons to practice as my only option. I could already hear their complaints, the negatives and their favorite disrespectful question: "Miss, uté ta locaaaa?!" To my surprise, it was not the case. They immediately created a WhatsApp group to make sure everyone received information pertaining to the play and that everyone could make suggestions and comments throughout the process. Once again I found myself expecting the worst of them, but was slapped in the face with the gentlest yet shocking realization.

During those two weeks we practiced three times a week for periods of one hour and a half. It still wasn't enough. We never got to practice the play nonstop nor were able to time it. The theater teacher changed the light's gels in three different occasions, so the team in charge of the lights would frequently get lost, or wouldn't have the colors they had already set up. Our background fabric was taken down and was nowhere to be found. I saw myself deleting scenes from a script that had already been approved in order to make things easier and shorter. We were two days away from our presentation and everything seemed to be going downhill. I knew it was all my fault. I should have never assigned the project. I only gave them five weeks, forgot to book the theater and had them learning lines in their last weeks of classes.

"Teacher pleaseeee! Let's leave it for Friday instead of Wednesday!" They would all scream in unison as if they were part of a choir. "We can't. The theater won't be available and exams are next week" I answered back. "Listen guys, we either do it tomorrow or we don't do it. I know you guys will pull through and do a great job." I found myself saying without actually meaning it. I could only think of the disaster that would take place on that day.