My classroom is a petri dish and other truths about the teaching profession

My classroom is a petri dish.  

That’s how one friend describes her workplace. She’s not a science teacher. She’s not making anything up either.  In winter, when the weather outside plunges into single digits,  her classroom stays a humid eighty or so. The rest of the school year? Count on nineties at least. Come May, June, September, October, we’re talking close to or exceeding one hundred. We’re talking sauna. We’re talking petri dish.

My friend works with classes of twenty to thirty kids in a windowless cube on the top floor of an inner city school that was built back when the surrounding neighborhood was mostly farmland, back when the current boxy vinyl-sided tenement houses were stately one-families, their elegant facades swathed in patterned shingles, ornate dentils, flowery spindle work.

Other than the fan my friend bought for herself, there’s no source of air movement in that room, except for that provided by human breath. Six hundred coughing, sneezing, laughing, talking Sponge-Bob bedecked organisms incubate with her every week, little tornadoes twisting and churning the wet, rank air. It’s a miracle she’s not dead.  I mean that.

Kids come to school in all kinds of health. There are minor colds, but there is serious stuff too: lymphoma, heart disease, brain tumors, asthma, deadly allergies. Another friend, retired now, a teacher of fourth, fifth, and sixth graders,  contracted tuberculosis several years back, likely from a student who’d recently emigrated from a poor country on a distant continent. The student had no inoculation or school records showing he had tuberculosis or was a carrier of the disease, because before he came to the United States he’d never seen a doctor and had never attended school. We get lots of students like that, students with spotty or nonexistent records.

We get lots of students born here who come to school ill too. Sometimes they need to come to school because the parents have to work and have nowhere else to send them. Sometimes the kids choose to come to school sick because they'd rather be with their friends than be at home. Sometimes, they get sick after they've gotten to school. I always have at least one sick kiddo in my class. The norm is usually two or three. It’s just the way it is.

Germs spread easily in a school. One kid gets sick, we all get sick. Teachers develop little survival tricks to avoid being out sick all the time. For example, you learn pretty quickly to refrain from using any student writing implements. The wet of one chewed up pencil is all it takes. You learn to push doors open with your shoulder, rather than with your palm. You learn to never ever ever touch the stairway banisters.

Still germs spread. It’s one of the hazards of working with little humans who are still learning hygiene basics, like coughing into their elbows rather than in your face, like blowing their runny noses into tissues instead of wiping them on their hands or on your arm, like washing their hands after using the bathrooms, or sticking their fingers in their mouths and up their noses.  Kids can be gross.  

Working conditions can be pretty gross too. In my building, for example, we were recently told to not open our windows ourselves, but to get the custodian instead.  The windows are maybe eight feet high and several feet wide. Most windows in most classrooms open, but some in some classrooms are stuck shut. In one old classroom of mine, only one window opened, which was not very pleasant at all in warm weather, and downright dangerous in winter. Because my classroom had such minimal ventilation, I worked in a germ farm. We got air, but not much. Still,  I had it better than my friend in the windowless box.

This year we’ve been told to get help opening our windows because the windows have gone wonky. They’re only twenty years old, thirty years younger than the windows in my house and eighty years younger than the ones in the house I grew up in.  Yet these relative youngsters are getting dangerous.

Two years ago without any warning, one window, open at the time, fell off its tracking and smashed right onto the floor of a classroom. Luckily no students or teachers were injured. Staff was assured that the windows would soon be replaced. We still wait. This year, within the first few weeks of school, a window shattered while a teacher was pushing it open. Luckily, she didn’t need stitches though it took awhile to pick the tiny shards of glass out of her bloody palm. We’ve since been told that windows should be fixed or replaced this summer. I’m guessing the custodians will spend most of the May and June school days opening and shutting windows.

  

Though we’re not supposed to open our windows, I opened one the other day because the air in my room was killing me. See, a nasty smell has been wafting through our hallway since early December, supposedly a result of the old roof leaking onto whatever the attic right above our rooms contains – old insulation, books, furniture, dead bodies, who knows. We've complained about it -- teachers, parents, students, and were told it was being investigated.

Up until the other day, the smell was more of a stupid inconvenience to me than anything else. Up until the other day, I'd come to school healthy. Monday I went to work feeling at about eighty percent, which is not unusual for any teacher at any school anywhere. Not unusual for most of us worker bees, I'm guessing.

I walked onto my hall and was dying within just a few seconds of breathing in that fetid familiar rankness. My throat was on fire, my lungs had gone cottony. I threw open a window in my class but I'm pretty sure that whatever was swimming through that air had already nestled into my lungs. I worked a full day, but I'm out sick the rest of this week.  Doctor’s orders. I told the doctor about the bad air. Turns out, bad air can wreak havoc on lungs already fighting off a virus. Doc says to stay home until I'm healthy. If I go back to school too early, I'll likely get sick again.

So I'm home until Monday. Hopefully, my lungs will be well enough by then to fight off not only the usual dust, dirt, and kid germs, but any moldy smells as well.  

Meanwhile, I rest, read, blow my nose, cough. I think of my friend in her petri dish room, and the students and teachers with asthma and worse. I wonder about sick buildings and MCAS scores. I drink my antioxidant tea and take my meds. I wonder if my sub has opened the windows in my classroom. I wonder if any of the kids are out sick. I think of fresh air and fairness. I think of basic rights and wonder where mine have gone. 

On making a difference, one weight bully or starfish at a time

When I started writing this, it was going to be a rumination on how this asshole a few towns over, a former state rep for god’s sake, had made the news for insulting in his so-called political blog a town school committee chairperson’s weight, and how this woman, Lauren McLoughlin, then took a stand for herself because she wanted to be a role model for her thirteen year old twin girls. 

She made the front page of the local paper by talking frankly at a public meeting about the guy’s blog post and about how bullies come in all shapes and sizes. Every anonymous commenter out there then felt compelled to put in their two cents about women, weight, crappy schools, parenting, how it’s Bush’s fault, Obama’s fault, etc.   

For days since this made the news, ideas have been growing in my head. I wanted to respond. My knee jerk reaction was to talk about my own hurtful experiences with weight bullies. How in grammar school I was the chubby quiet kid who never got picked for anything. 

How I remember a particular incident in fourth grade when I was the last one, the odd one out. We were in the school yard and there were two groups of girls, one to my right and one to my left. In the middle, it was just me and the gym teacher.  I started crying. When the gym teacher asked me what was wrong I said I was crying because I had flat feet and they hurt.  It's been forty-three years, but that memory still makes me sad.

  

How I matured early. I’d grown boobs by age ten and endured getting my bra strap pulled on all the time at recess by creepy boys half my height and weight. I hid my mortification by laughing about it, along with everyone else. 

How by the time I hit junior high I had the lush body of an eighteen year old. Grown men would whistle at me as I walked down Main Street to my after school piano lessons in my plaid Catholic school skirt. How more than once, I got my butt pinched at the local mall. How high school boys hit on me at the public library. How this all frightened the shit out of me.

How I've spent most of my life trying to fix my flaws. How I thought about how much more I could write, did, then hit delete because I’d never finish. Like most women my age, I could write books on this subject and never get to the heart of the matter,  which is that there was always something about me that was just never good enough.   

For me, I suspect that this is partly rooted in my Catholic upbringing. We are all born with original sin. We’re stained from the start. Though I don't believe in sinner babies anymore, I do try my best to be my best, and I am quite aware that I am imperfect. 

For instance, why, with all the awful things going on in the world today --  the teaching to the test world we educators and our students live in, our abused babies, mistreated elders, starving world citizens, the multitudes of lying bags of crap Governor Christies out there – our state reps, mayors, presidents, princes, queens, neighbors, corporate executives – why am I focusing on this judgmental weight thing? How superficial am I, to talk about this stuff when there are so many more serious, life and death issues that I could be writing about instead?   

My guess is it’s because weight and bullying are things I know about and can act upon to some extent. I’ve been bullied. I’ve been a bully.  

I think many folks think this: Why do anything if, in the grand scheme of things, if, in the long run, it won't matter? I think that too sometimes, and sometimes keep my mouth shut.

  

Then I remember my college friend Janet, who goes to Africa every year to give a piece of herself to others. She was motivated by a story called the Starfish of Moshi. Google it. It’s about how, while we can’t help everyone all the time, we can still make a difference. We can start with one starfish at a time, or one child at a time, or one law at a time, or one marathon step at a time, or one kind word at a time, or one public meeting response at a time.

I think we judge each other and ourselves because judging is part of our human collective conscious. I think putting others down has to do with early survival instincts. That’s what I wanted to spend today writing about. I was planning on writing about survival instincts and why we do what we do and how we can be better than that if we just step back and take a few seconds to think about our words and actions, like the cruel blogger didn’t, before we go public, like Mrs. McLoughlin did. 

  

If we want to change the world, I guess we have to start with ourselves. In the end, that’s all I meant to say.

When you're slightly scrambled, talking helps

I was scrambling some hamburger on the stove. Scrambling. That’s a word my Nana, my dad’s mom, would use to describe the act of breaking up a brick of ground beef and frying it until it was almost black. I was just about to add in some spinach and diced onions when the phone rang. 

It was my mom. Disconcerting. She rarely calls. Last few years, she hardly calls anyone anymore. She used to be a huge phoniac. I like that. Nana gets scrambling and today I get phoniac. Works for me. 

She, my mom, would sit at the kitchen table, light up one butt, then another and so on, and chat on our harvest gold phone for hours with one of her sisters, or her friend Meg, or one of the Marys, or God knows who else. Then one by one the sisters died, then Meg, and now there’s just one Mary. 

My mom avoids phone talk with her and everyone else because it brings forth her craving for nicotine. Smoking and talking on the phone went hand in hand way back when my mom’s lungs were clear. Then came her cancer diagnosis. She quit smoking, and pretty much gave up anything remotely connected to cigarettes, particularly reading and extended phone talk.   

When I heard my mother’s voice, I went into high alert mode. Also, there was the shaking.  

“Hey, mom. How are things?” 

“Well.” Pause. “I don’t know.” Wow. That shaking in her voice came through loud and clear.  

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know whether to call 911 or not.” She started to explain.

I interrupted. “Call now. Hang up.” 

She continued.  It was my dad. As she described what happened, I heard him yelling at her in the background, telling her he was fine and to get off the phone.  

I stopped her. “If you don’t call, I’m calling.”

“Would you?” 

“Yup. I’m calling and I’ll be right over.” 

I dialed 911 and got a busy signal. I looked at the phone and said, “What the fuck?”  I dialed again. Busy again. “Shit. What the fuck?”

My daughter took the phone from my hand, which wouldn’t stop shaking.  “You didn’t hang up first,” she said. She hit the off button.

I punched 911 again. She hit 911 on her cell phone too. We both got through right away. 

I grabbed my coat, keys, phone charger (always bring the phone charger because you don’t know how long you’ll be gone) and sped off. I got to their house just as a group of our city's finest was loading my dad into the ambulance. They said his vitals were good and to take our time getting to the hospital. 

While my mom changed her clothes, I called my kids and put away the dinner fixings. Like me, my parents had been getting supper ready too.  

We went to the hospital and all was fine. Maybe I should say all was typical. Nobody died. There were some IVs, some med changes, a few overnights for him, then home, then follow-up tests and appointments. 

That’s the way it was most of 2013. That’s the way it will be for awhile, I’m guessing.  Things aren’t likely to get better. Hopefully, things will level out for a few weeks or maybe months. Fingers crossed. 

I’m not writing this for pity. Not writing this for praise either. I’m writing this because I want to put it out there. I think both praise and pity could diminish or falsify the situation or make people think I’m something that I’m not. All I’m trying to do here is record things as honestly and respectfully as I can.

I adore my mother and father and respect them more than I could ever put into words. Maybe that’s why this is how I interpreted my mother’s call. It took me just two seconds to figure out that my mom was calling me out of love and respect for my dad. She knew he didn’t want her to call 911. She wanted to honor his wishes. She knew I would take the burden off her. She knew I’d call 911. 

The phone call to me cost us just a matter of seconds which, luckily this time, didn’t make a difference. This time. 

The three of us had a frank discussion later on about calling 911 even in doubt.  I was harsh. I stayed respectful, but my tone was hard. I told both of them about a friend’s relative who died in circumstances just slightly different from the one we’d just gotten through. I spared no detail. I hope my dad heard me. I’m not sure he did. 

I know my mom. I think she wanted me to say what I said, wanted me to say it in front of my dad, and wanted me to be as angry – softly angry? – as I was.  

“Dial 911 first. Always. I get the second phone call. Right?” 

She nodded.

  

There’s a creep factor here I guess, because I’m making this public to a certain extent, and some folks might think this is too much information to be sharing. I can see that. I sort of feel that way too.  

But I see this too: There’s a void out there for those of us dealing with this stuff. For lots of reasons, including privacy and respect, people are reluctant to share when they’re dealing with ill elders.  I notice many are quite willing to share well after they’ve gone through this process, which I deeply appreciate. It makes me feel less alone.

There are so many members of my generation, the baby boomers, coping in private with terribly painful things. Due to concerns about protecting and respecting our loved ones, we mostly don’t come right out and talk about them. Some people have supportive family members who are going through this with them. They can all chat together and share stories.

As for the rest of us. Well, we keep it to ourselves or type online, or talk quietly in passing at the gym or sometimes over coffee or wine. There’s a lot we feel compelled to keep hush hush.

  

Why I’m writing this today is because I don’t think we always need to, and sometimes, I have to tell. I don’t think it’s a sign of disrespect to put out there that we’re struggling or that we feel weak, or that we forgot to turn off the phone before we dialed for help. 

I think it IS a tough line to walk, showing respect and staying private for our loved ones while at the same time sharing what we need to share. I think it can be done though. I hope I have today at least. I know I left a ton of details out. Yet I want to be frank about the challenges I face. 

I’m not complaining. I’m not looking for a pat on the back. I’m sharing. It helps me to write things out. It helps when I "talk" like this. The way I see it, when we help ourselves we’re ultimately helping everyone who depends on us.  

Well, will you lookee here. I started off scrambled and got to exactly where I needed to be.

Giving back: S'no big deal

We are finishing up a weather event. S’no big deal. It’s January. It’s Massachusetts. Plus, it’ll be nice in a few days. There’s a reason Mark Twain wrote “If you don’t like the weather now in New England, just wait a few minutes.” 

We’ve had snow the last eighteen hours, and temps aren’t likely to get above the single digits today. Heck, with the wind chill factor, we’ll be lucky to get out of the double digits. Below zero I mean. I’m already looking forward to Monday, when we’re predicted to hit the plus-thirties, which always feel summery in January, though downright polar when we get that low in September.

Due to the weather, I had yesterday and today off. Like most of my colleagues, I was thrilled, but not because I could sleep in, or clean the house or maybe get an extra workout in at the gym before the heavy precipitation hit.  Yesterday I needed to do the single sibling shuffle. In other words, I had to drive my elderly loved ones all over tarnation. 

Before the work cancelation phone call, I was worried about how things would transpire if I wasn’t available to help. I was worried that I might have to call in sick, which is never a fun thing to do the first day back from vacation.    

  

The one who isn’t supposed to drive had two medical appointments, and was planning to get a ride from an equally elderly friend. The one who CAN drive was having minor outpatient surgery after which there was a possibility she wouldn’t be able to drive. She was, of course, planning to drive herself both ways.  

Worst case me spent most of the hours before the cancelation announcement creating highly imaginative, remarkably specific scenarios on how all that would pan out, given the predicted nasty road conditions.

I read everyone’s joyous facebook reactions to the no school announcement and thought, “You have no idea.” 

I left the house at 9 a.m. yesterday, while the roads were only somewhat glassy and the snow was coming down in teaspoons rather than buckets, and returned back home a little colder but much calmer nine hours later. It helped that in between a couple of driving sessions I managed to get in a fifty-minute gym workout.  Boston’s just four months away, after all. I’ve got to stay strong. 

At our high school reunion in November, a few of us were talking about the challenges we face, being the only siblings around for our precious elders. We talked about bitterness, anger, cynicism, and how sometimes we feel abandoned by the others who should be available but who aren’t, for reasons both within and outside (or so they say) their control. 

I was remembering that conversation with my high school friends as I drove around yesterday. I thought about how important it is to give folks the benefit of the doubt too. Then I remembered something that happened just the night before. 

Wednesday evening, just before the storm hit, I drove my daughter back to her apartment in Boston.  We were unloading bundles from the back of the car when a guy about my age came up to us. He wore a plaid coat and underneath a black sweatshirt with a hood. His blue jeans were faded and his work boots scuffed. He wished us a Happy New Year and we wished him the same. He asked if we needed help and I said that no, we were fine. I rearranged the bags I was carrying and began shutting the trunk. 

Before I could stop him, he grabbed the heavy garbage bag full of clothes from my right hand and began following my daughter down the street. I joined him, and thanked him for his help. I said he’d made my day. He replied that people like me made HIS day. He said what a blessing it was for him to help others. What a great way to start the new year.  What a blessing, he said again. 

For a few seconds, I marveled at the kindness of strangers. 

We stopped in front of my daughter’s apartment house and I thanked him again. He smiled at me and moved in close. I backed away and my daughter opened the front door quickly and began tugging at my arm. He pulled the remains of a joint from his jacket pocket and asked if I had a few bucks to help him out a bit. He wiggled the joint. I didn’t answer right away. He said he was homeless and had spent the previous night sleeping under a bridge.  

I backed toward the door and stammered of course. I was thinking two things. Neither had anything to do with the word blessing. One was get in the house fast. The other: If he was working in a hotel or at an airport, I’d give him something for carrying that bag. Fair’s fair.  I gave him a dollar, then I slammed the door shut. 

Here’s my latest take on those of us who stick around. We who get the late night phone calls first, call 911, fluff up pillows, chauffeur to appointments, wait in doctors' offices, listen, ask, reassure.  We have this in common: We want to think the best of others. 

This too: We’re grateful. Sure, there’s the bad stuff that scrapes up your insides. But that’s nothing compared to that other rawness, that pure joy we get from being there. It’s a blessing.

  

Now to get the car shoveled out and warmed up. Just one errand today. S'no big deal.