The worm has turd.
So we had one of those situations where we were short on substitutes, and they were asking us to cover during our planning period. Usually I don't like doing such a thing, but when you need the money your standards tend to take a backseat. It was the worst decision of my life.
I walked into the classroom and it’s half-full because, you know, it’s still the passing period between classes, and the previous teacher had already left because she had to get back to her room before the next class started. On the way to the desk there is a human- sized turd in the middle of the floor.
The scene muted me. I couldn’t even hear my heartbeat; I was that shocked. This isn’t a life skills class either. It’s geometry! I stared at the kids in the room, and they just did the same back. It was like we were on the same wavelength, “We’re just going to stare our way out of this.”
The rest of the class came in, and they acted like nothing was different. Is this a usual thing? Did a student do this? A teacher who?! How long had it been here?
Well, the tardy bell knocked me out of my turd trance, and I just backed out slowly and closed the door to go get somebody—anybody. I knew I wasn’t supposed to leave the kids unattended, but there’s a reason that apes are on one side of the cage, and we’re at the other at the zoo.
My search brought me to the clinic because this whole situation seemed like a health hazard. When I told the nurse, she calmly smiled, picked up this walkie-talkie and called for somebody named Ricky to announce, “We’ve got one of those incidents.”
I just sat there, dazed, while she headed out the door coordinating with Ricky for intercept and neutralizing. By the time I made it back to the class, Ricky was leaving. He just tipped his hat, smiled and said he would be back to finish as he passed. What was I to do?
I went back in, stepped over this powdery mound, read the teacher’s assignment to the class and then spent the rest of the period standing in the doorway ready for a quick getaway. Never will I do something like that again. There isn’t enough money in the world. I’d rather sell my kidney.
I walked into the classroom and it’s half-full because, you know, it’s still the passing period between classes, and the previous teacher had already left because she had to get back to her room before the next class started. On the way to the desk there is a human- sized turd in the middle of the floor.
The scene muted me. I couldn’t even hear my heartbeat; I was that shocked. This isn’t a life skills class either. It’s geometry! I stared at the kids in the room, and they just did the same back. It was like we were on the same wavelength, “We’re just going to stare our way out of this.”
The rest of the class came in, and they acted like nothing was different. Is this a usual thing? Did a student do this? A teacher who?! How long had it been here?
Well, the tardy bell knocked me out of my turd trance, and I just backed out slowly and closed the door to go get somebody—anybody. I knew I wasn’t supposed to leave the kids unattended, but there’s a reason that apes are on one side of the cage, and we’re at the other at the zoo.
My search brought me to the clinic because this whole situation seemed like a health hazard. When I told the nurse, she calmly smiled, picked up this walkie-talkie and called for somebody named Ricky to announce, “We’ve got one of those incidents.”
I just sat there, dazed, while she headed out the door coordinating with Ricky for intercept and neutralizing. By the time I made it back to the class, Ricky was leaving. He just tipped his hat, smiled and said he would be back to finish as he passed. What was I to do?
I went back in, stepped over this powdery mound, read the teacher’s assignment to the class and then spent the rest of the period standing in the doorway ready for a quick getaway. Never will I do something like that again. There isn’t enough money in the world. I’d rather sell my kidney.
- H.T. at 7:00 AM
