Teacher
By, Jeremy G. Butler
She stood there, at the head of the class, in the same spot she’d stood countless times over the years. In the past, the faces looking back at her had always maintained a certain predictability; some filled with curiosity, others with confusion, the rest with outright boredom, but she regarded them all with the same warmth, fondness, and determination that any passionate educator would.
But not today.
Today the faces staring back at her were faces she could barely even recognize as children. The features were right, everything was in its place, they were same faces she’d seen every morning. But it’s what stared back at her – or rather what didn’t - from behind those features that struck her cold.
Usually, whenever she stood up here, a book or piece of chalk in hand, she’d always felt like the captain of a mighty ship; taking the wheel of the SS Education, setting sail for wonder and enlightenment. Today, however, she stood in silence, diminished. The children stood too. Each one beside their little desks, hands at their sides, tiny faces calm and expressionless. But what she couldn’t see in those expressions she could feel in their gaze. Each set of eyes regarded her with what, to her, felt like contempt. Holding her in judgement, finding her guilty, the verdict of a nightmare trial to which she was never invited. No, today she was no longer the captain; her students had her standing firmly on the plank.
Their patience struck her; the calm, dispassionate, matter-of-fact way they each regarded the situation. The way they each regarded her. It made her think back to her first few years, before she really settled in, when every troublemaker or disengaged student made her question her abilities. How she found herself in tears in the faculty lounge after a particularly rambunctious group of kids played a prank that, while ultimately harmless, was just disrespectful enough that it left her wondering if she’d wasted her time and money on her degree. And it wasn’t the last time that she’d found herself asking those questions. Today, however, as she stared back at the children in front of her, refusing to give them the satisfaction of indulging the lump in her throat, she realized she missed all of it. Her eyes started to well as she found herself missing the sounds of distracted giggles, passed notes, and whispered requests for the answer to number four. Missing the energy, the spark, and the exuberance that made it hard for them to sit down and listen. Good, bad, or otherwise, those children were alive.
And as she stood at the front of this classroom, the dozen or so children remained in front of her keeping perfect control of themselves, their outward appearance of complete respect mocking every request she’d ever made for it. Her soul felt heavy, and she wondered if hers was the only one left in the room.
The bell rang and she jumped, covering her hand with her mouth to stifle a small, startled scream. The tears she’d been holding back started to fall as the children filed out from beside their desks, one row at a time, into a perfect single-file line. Her stomach pounded in her throat as she watched them make their way through the door and out of the classroom. When the last child in line, a boy with brown hair and what used to be a kind face, stopped and held out his hand, she just looked at it. She wanted to run, to beg, to pick him up and put him through a window, but somehow, she knew that it wouldn’t do any good. She finally sobbed as she reached out and took his hand, following the rest of the classroom down the hall toward the playground. They passed the other rooms, and she looked through the open doorways to see other teachers standing just as she did; found guilty, left waiting. They watched her as she passed. She was to be the first.
She thought that might be a blessing.
