Fish Face
I want to scream. Since the first day of class – exactly 42 school days ago, during which time the salmon have been jumping and I have not been photographing them or writing about them, because my dissertation is done – I have been out of my depth.
It is Jared who in this moment is making me want to scream. He is making his fish face at me. He had me pegged from day one, but who in this building didn’t? I read 36 Children when I was in seventh grade. To Sir With Love came next. Up the Down Staircase. And the movies, oh my god, the movies. Stand and Deliver. Dangerous Minds.
I became a teacher to save all the underprivileged students, like the heroes in those books and movies had taught me I was supposed to.
Does Jared want saving? Mostly he seems to want attention. Laughter. Adulation. From his classmates, I mean, not from me.
This is what I have learned this year: 1. There is no end of paperwork. 2. I do not create lesson plans, I carry them out. 3. If I deviate from the lesson plans, the class falls behind. 4. If the class falls behind, Assistant Principal (“the assistant principal is not your pal!”) Agnew sits in the back of my classroom and takes notes. 5. Assistant Principal Agnew’s notes create more work for me.
This is what I have not learned this year: 1. Whether Jared wants saving. 2. What Jared might need saving from. 3. Why Jared is standing inches away from me, sucking in his cheeks and moving his lips up and down, making an inside-out kissing sound.
I push him away. It is instinctual. Just a slight tap on his shoulder with the palm of my hand.
He probably would not have even noticed if I had not frozen.
I have laid hands on a student.
A 6-foot tall, 180-pound 11th grade student who has me beat by six inches and 40 pounds. The thought flashes through my mind that it is racist for me, a white teacher, to think that about him, a black student.
“Ms. Green,” he says in a fake shocked voice, spreading my name into three syllables, and for a second I think that he has read my thoughts about racism. But no, it is the touching thing. I flinch, and then he knows he has me. He turns and saunters out of the room, leaving the door to the hallway open behind him.
I turn to the rest of the class. They know something is up but most of them had not been paying attention to the interaction.
Charlotte raises her hand. She is pretty, with delicate features and skin that is just a little darker than mine when I am tan. She has new extensions and her braids go down to the middle of her back. I nod at her. “Is it almost the end of trout season?” she asks.
Naturally word has gotten around all my classes that I am easy to distract, especially with questions about salmon. Does Charlottes say trout on purpose, or does she truly not make the distinction? Another question I will probably never know the answer to.
I ignore her and point at the frog poster. I was relieved when I learned that the kids in my classes would not do actual dissections. When I was in tenth grade I refused to dissect animals, and spent the time shelving books in the library. Of course, my school had a library. And funding for dissections.
Today’s lecture is on the frog’s abdomen area – the intestines down through the cloaca. Since the cloaca involves both pee and sex I think the class might find it interesting. But most of the students are texting under their desks; the rest, doodling. Then suddenly they are all looking behind me, at the door. Assistant Principal Agnew stands there with Jared.
This is it. I’m going to get fired. I am an incompetent teacher who can’t stay up with my curriculum, who causes more work for the administration, and who doesn’t have the sense not to bop a student on the shoulder.
Behind Assistant Principal Agnew Jared makes the fish face again. Suddenly I no longer want to scream. I am no longer fed up. I am no longer embarrassed. I am just curious. “Jared,” I say, “Why do you make that face?”
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