explained that he was looking for a language arts teacher for one class each for grades 6, 7, and 8.
Oh dear. That’s three separate lesson plans every day.
I knew that was a tremendous amount of work. I had taught five different ability levels of one grade for one subject, and even that was a challenge. But I smiled and indicated I was still interested.
At one point, Mr. Z read from the contract I would have to sign if I took the job. It was a list of qualities he was looking for in the teacher he was hiring, and one of the items said, “Displays Christian values.”
“I’m not Christian,” I said.
“Yes,” he responded.
Yes? Does he already know? How? I know by law he’s not allowed to ask what my religion is. I’m going to keep my mouth shut. I think it’s better if I don’t say anything. I really want this job, and if I tell him, then I may not get it even though that’s discrimination. Am I making a mistake? Perhaps I should tell him and get it out in the open. No, I don’t think so. I’m not going to volunteer that I’m Jewish. Although I think he knows.
Perhaps it was my last name. Or perhaps it was my curly hair and long nose. Maybe he and his staff could sniff us out like detection dogs they use for drugs. Maybe he was descended from Nazis, so it was in his blood to ferret us out. Or perhaps it was all in my head and I was imagining that he already knew.
“That won’t be a problem,” he answered. You don’t have to be a Christian to display Christian values.”
“Oh,” was all I could muster. I’d have to let that sink in.
“How many applicants do you have for this position?” I asked.
“Two others,” he answered. “One is a social studies teacher, but she would be okay teaching English. The other is an elementary school teacher.”
“You don’t want them; you want me!” I declared, more boldly than ever in my life. “I’m the secondary English language arts teacher you are looking for.”
Did I really just say that?
Honestly, I didn’t think that neither a social studies teacher with no experience teaching English nor an elementary school teacher would do well teaching English in a middle school.
Perhaps it was my declaration that helped, because he offered me the job at the end of the interview. I accepted right away, even though the salary was a mere $17,000 a year.
He sent me to the school office with paperwork to complete and told me to see the secretary. She wasn’t hard to find, as there was only one. She stopped typing on her brown IBM electric typewriter to ask me how she could help. I told her what I needed, and she directed me to pull up a chair to her desk.
After a few minutes of filling out forms, she pushed her reading glasses down her nose, looked at me, and said, “I noticed that you aren’t Catholic.”
How does she know that? Maybe the principal checked off “none of the above” under Catholic religious denominations.
“I’m as far away from Catholic as you can be,” I replied, thinking that Judaism was the opposite extreme since I knew absolutely nothing about Catholicism.
“You’re Jewish?”
I nodded. She must have drawn that conclusion from my previous statement. The question itself was making me perspire even more.
“Jews actually have a lot in common with Catholics, more so than some other religions,” she said smiling. “You’d be surprised.”
I felt somewhat relieved, as this could have gone several different ways — She could have shredded my paperwork and told me to leave, marched to the principal’s office and asked if he was insane, or interrogated me and asked if I knew what I was doing, which I was beginning to wonder at this point.
Instead she said, “Don’t worry. We’re glad you’re here.”
This made me feel welcome. It wouldn’t take long to find how mistaken I was.
Chapter 2
Hallowed Be Thy Name
It was a week before school started, and I sat at a science lab table in a faculty meeting with all the teachers from pre-K to the upper school. I was acquainted with the middle school teachers since I would be working the closest with them. It felt as if we were paired up like Noah’s Ark since there were two homeroom teachers for each middle school grade. The two eighth grade homeroom teachers appeared to be best friends, and the two seventh grade homeroom teachers were both former nuns and seemed well-acquainted.
Most of the teachers had been teaching there for years and, at some point, had their own children enrolled. They would get a steep tuition discount which sounded like a good deal. Mrs. A’s son had graduated the previous year.
Mr. Z led the meeting. He was a tall, dark-haired, clean-cut, suited gentleman who looked to be about the same age as Mrs. A. He had been the principal for the past several years, was well-liked, and had a good reputation. As I had learned, Mrs. A was friendly with him and was frequently in his office.
There was a lot of chatter, so he asked everyone to quiet down. He made the meeting brief, as it lasted only a half hour. Within that time he gave us our official schedules, student lists, and miscellaneous information about how the school year would run. As I held my list of students, a wave of anxiety washed over me like someone had just poured cold water down my back.
How am I going to get everything done before the first day of school? Now that I finally have the names of my students, I need to assign textbooks, set up my grade book, and create seating charts. I haven’t duplicated handouts and gathered supplies for the first week of school. We were cutting it close.
These experienced teachers had worked together for many years, and the questions they asked reflected that, such as if procedures for tutoring kids after school would remain the same and is such-and-such kid still receiving medical treatment for this or that condition. Of course, I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about.
Mrs. G was a teacher in the lower school, and her son, Wayne, was in Mrs. A’s sixth grade homeroom and English class. He had diabetes, so she gave everyone a brief lecture on how to handle if he had an episode. I was glad he wasn’t in my class because I freeze in an emergency. If somebody is standing in front of me bleeding profusely, I watch the blood pool on the floor.
One day before Christmas, Wayne was in my class for a special holiday activity, and he had an episode where his blood sugar dropped and he came close to passing out. He sat in his seat with his eyes closed and his head on the desk.
He uttered, “I don’t feel good.”
“Ms. B,” one of his classmates called. “Wayne needs help. It’s an emergency!”
My mouth dropped open, and I stood there looking at Wayne.
“Ummmm...,” I uttered.
“We have to do something,” another child said.
“Tracy, run across the hall and get Mrs. A,” I directed.
I’m
