Sometimes It Takes a Wave To Knock You Down

WRITING PROMPTS #473

Sail Away Navigating Unchartered Waters

Jill D. Abell

birches73@gmail,com

SOMETIMES IT TAKES A WAVE TO KNOCK YOU DOWN

I slowly circled the twenty-nine desks, each one properly positioned by a large X precisely marked on the floor. I breathed in the lingering scent of dry-erase markers with satisfaction. I glanced at my watch. Six more minutes and twenty-nine 10th grade students would occupy these desks, eager to start the new school year. That’s right. My students.

For weeks, I had been meticulously preparing for this day-my first actual day of teaching. Everything was:

organized and alphabetized

copied and hole-punched

clearly stated and visible i.e. classroom rules, inspirational quotes

meticulously written and revised with clear learning objectives for each lesson plan

I was ready. Ready, for the next 141 ½ days, to impart wisdom and inspiration into so many young minds. I would make Robin Williams’ performance of a beloved teacher in The Dead Poets’ Society look about as compelling as a commercial promoting absorbent underwear for adult incontinence.

Am I nervous being the bearer of such a weighty responsibility? Maybe. Just the tiniest bit. It reminds me of being that small 8-year-old girl from many summers ago, standing on the beach at Nag’s Head, my mother beside me, gently encouraging me to jump right in and no longer be fearful of that seemingly endless Atlantic Ocean.

I really wanted to, but my toes curled in protest, refusing to move into the cold, churning water. The waves stirred little confidence in me as well, as they rolled over many delighted people, then sucking them inside for a frightening amount of time before they were spit out, and to my astonishment, laughing and staggering drunkenly.

Now, however, I was twenty-seven, and I really didn’t fear anything I was about to encounter. After all, I had taken the required courses and received my secondary degree in education, with honors. I knew exactly what to expect and how to respond.

The bell. 1st period.

“Welcome to English 10! I’m Ms. Blakely. Please take a seat at the desk with your name written on an index card.”

A show of a friendly but confident professional smile.

A boisterous group first entered, almost congealed-like in their close proximity to one another. They were loosely followed by a variety of stragglers, some already retreating into their hoodies and ear buds.

Later, I would point out Classroom Rule #5 and #6 which specifically prohibited these items, but at the moment, I was more concerned that only one student had bothered to search for his assigned seat.

Maybe they just hadn’t heard me over all the chatter and laughter.

I repeated the instruction, my voice rising unexpectedly to the level and depth of a lighthouse foghorn, which immediately got their attention and probably that of anyone else who happened to be outside in the hallway.

Titters and snorts began to spread like poison ivy throughout the straight rows.

“Ms.-uh, sorry. What’s your name again?”

“Ms. Blakely”

“Ms. Blakely, I need to go to the bathroom-bad. Could you please write me a pass?” A girl with beautiful red hair that sprouted in tight curls all over her head asked.

I waved her to the front, retrieving a book of passes where I had carefully placed them at arm’s reach within the podium.

“While I am writing up this pass, would everyone bring up your schedule on your laptop so I can check it and…” my eyes scanned all twenty-nine. faces hoping for some sort of acknowledgement in response, “I can take attendance while learning your name.”

“What if I want to change my schedule? They put me in French, and I’m supposed to be in Spanish II” A male voice blurted out.

“Is this Honors English? I hope so because I was in Honors English last year and I got all As.”

“Nobody cares, Ainsley.”

“Ooh, Ainsley, you got burned!”

Appreciative laughter.

“Yo, Ms. Blakely. I don’t have a computer yet. The IT guy downstairs told me we still owe money on the one that broke from last year. I told him we wasn’t going to pay for it since it wasn’t my fault it got broke. Shit.”

Moira, the student in desperate need of a restroom, returned the pass I had just written for her. “You forgot to sign it.” Her heavily mascaraed eyes lifted to the ceiling in exasperation.

I went for humor. “My bad.”

A very tall, lanky boy stopped moving objects around on my desk, obviously in search of something. His smirk was an editorial comment about my advancing age. “Nah, that’s old school, Ms. Blakely. It’s ‘That’s on me, Bro.’”

“Why are you out of your seat, and why are you touching my things on my desk?” Frustration clung to every word like dry sand on wet feet.

His forehead wrinkled, confused. “I need a pencil and most teachers usually have a couple on their desk.”

“Please return to your seat.”

He lifted his arms resignedly before slowly, with emphasis, lumbering back to his desk.

I pivoted to face the class, determined to continue with my previously well-thought-out lesson.

“Ms. Blakely, um, where do you want me to sit?”

What? I had been assigned twenty-nine students and had twenty-nine seats, all currently filled.

That’s when I became aware of him at the back of the room, perched on a bookcase, his laptop open, and resting on his knees.

“What’s your name young man?”

“Jacob Wesley, but everybody calls me Jake”

Five fists pumped up into the air in apparent solidarity, while being accompanied by a deep male pronouncement of “Jake! Jake! Jake!”

“Okay, okay. We will just have to borrow a desk from-“

I was interrupted by a deafening, unidentifiable scratchy sound coming from the loudspeaker.

“Ms. krkrkr krkr Blakely?”

“Yes”

“Hello? krkrkrBlakely there?”

“YES!”

I felt like I was jumping about from one foot to the other in a clumsy attempt to avoid burning hot sand.

“Could you please send Kelly Lewis to the front office at this time?”

An accusing chorus of “Ooooh!” inspired even more disorder in the room.

And it was only-8:14.

Giving directions to their first writing assignment caused more hands to wave than at a Neil Diamond concert. Yes! This is what teaching was all about!

“I don’t understand what we’re supposed to do. Could you explain the directions one more time.”

“Man, I hate writing. When am I gonna need to write when I’m an NBA star?”

“If we don’t finish, can we do it for homework?”

“Can you write me a bathroom pass?”

“I don’t get this. Could you come help me?”

“Would you tell Kyle to stop bothering me? I mean it, Kyle! Leave me alone!” Followed by the fingernails-scratching-down-the-chalkboard sound of a desk being shoved away hard.

I quickly intervened.

I then found myself compelled to give two taps to the shoulder of a student whose cheek was flattened against the desk in sleep, drool beginning to pool next to him.

Several students were writing in fits and starts, while others stared at their blank papers angrily as if they were confronting an enemy. I confiscated cell phones from laps. Offered support and encouragement to students who gave weak excuses and complaints for why they hadn’t begun the assignment.

My attention was drawn to the boy in the last row, left corner-Demitri, no, Demarcus, right, d Demarcus. The only one who had sat in his correct seat. He had remained quiet the entire class period, intently reading a book he had brought with him. I felt the sting of guilt for having basically overlooked him to attend to the other students.

“Demarcus, how’s the writing coming?”

He looked up from his almost completed paper, smiled, and pointed to the index card with his name. “Demitri.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No problem.”

I gave a nod to the book now closed on his desk.

“Do you enjoy reading?”

“Ms. Blakely, can I have another worksheet? I messed up on this one.” Someone shouted from the front of the room.

“Yes, on the podium.”

“I love reading.”

I read aloud the title of the book, “Money Skills for Teens. Ah, non-fiction, I see.”

He laughed. “Don’t really care for fiction.” He glanced at some of the other students. “I already get enough drama from around here.”

The dismissal bell rang and there was an immediate squall of scraping chairs, the collective squeal of newly purchased sneakers, and the high pitch of relieved voices.

“You must wait for me to dismiss you before you can leave!” I announced futilely to only a few dawdlers who seemed in no particular hurry to face their next class.

I surveyed the resulting destruction. Desks were turned and twisted into a manic pattern, like driftwood strewn across the beach following a storm.

Writing papers (mostly still blank), pencils, candy wrappers, and an uncapped bottle of men’s cologne leaking a pungent odor littered the floor while a lone wrinkled paper lunchbag rested forgotten on a desk.

I heaved an enormous sigh of defeat.

Demetri appeared beside me, one strap of his bookbag hanging casually from his left shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, Ms. B. My grandmother was a teacher, and you know what she always said? She always said, ‘Being a teacher is like standing in the pounding ocean waves-you get knocked down now and then, but each time you rise you understand the sea a little better.’”

When he reached the door, he turned back and, with a wisdom far beyond his years, pointedly aimed an index finger in my direction with a click of his tongue.

I shook my head in disbelief.

And I was so certain that I was the one who was going to impart wisdom and inspiration to my students.

Jill D. Abell

birches73@gmail.com

804-840-6588