Free Emergency Teacher by Christina Asquith

being laughed at by their friends. Kids laugh at each other for every little thing, from mispronouncing the teacher’s name to sitting in the wrong desk. Students will do whatever it takes to avoid being laughed at. Another situation that strikes terror into the hearts of eleven-year-olds is not being able to find their classroom. A sixth-grader lost in the hallway is a sixth-grader vulnerable to running into a seventh- or eighth-grader and getting beaten up. These painful possibilities keep students awake the night before the first day of school, and procedures help them avoid these nightmares. I had come across the concept of procedures in my studies, but not recalling what it was like to be eleven years old, I had brushed it off for broader, weightier theories that interested a twenty-six-year-old. Later, when I reintroduced myself to procedures, it would serve as the turning point for my classroom. At the moment, though, this oversight was about to spark my unraveling.
    With an uncertain hand, I put chalk to chalkboard and wrote, “Ms. Asquith.” When I stood back and looked at it, the handwriting was light and slanted downward. Quickly, I erased it and tried again, pressing harder and writing each letter hugely. The last three letters still slanted downward.
    As I turned around and saw everyone watching me, I felt like the emperor with no clothes. I was a big faker, down to the starched pinstriped blouse intended to make me look serious. My shoulder-length blond hair, which I preferred loose and curled, was blown straight and restricted into a no-nonsense ponytail. My lipstick of choice was matte brick, which I never wore, but had specifically selected over softer, shimmery shades to create the impression that I was mature and purposeful. The veterans had even told me to lie and say I’d had years of experience. But I couldn’t fool anyone, and it felt wrong to start off the school year with a lie when my success would depend on creating a trusting and mutually rewarding relationship with these kids.
    â€œHey everyone, I’m Ms. Asquith. And I’m a new teacher, so, uh, I’m extra strict.”
    A silence hung over us as the classroom waited for me to say something. I stood behind my desk. Good teachers never sat at their desks, I’d read, so I merely clung to mine.
    â€œUm, I, uh, grew up in New Jersey, and I went to college, and wrote for newspapers for six years. My parents are from England.” With that, I walked back to the front of the room and pulled down the map and pointed at the small island across the Atlantic. “I also lived in Chile for a year. I’m not from Chile, that is. I just worked there for a year ... as a journalist ....”
    Over the loudspeaker, the assistant principal announced it was time for the Pledge of Allegiance. Several students didn’t want to stand up. “C’mon,” I insisted, even though I wondered if people from a commonwealth had to pledge allegiance to the United States. There was no flag. I drew one on the board. Only half the kids recited it, and some barely stood up. The solemn stillness returned.
    â€œHablo Español. Is there anyone who speaks only Spanish?” I said in Spanish. Several students raised their hands. I said in Spanish: “Our goal is to learn English this year. I expect you to speak English to me most of the time.”
    Then I repeated it in English. For a few minutes I proceeded in both languages. This took twice as long. It also made everything I said stilted and incoherent. The kids looked confused. Was this bilingual education? I made a mental note to look into exactly how bilingual education worked. I switched into English.
    â€œUm, okay. Let’s go around the room and say your name, age, and the street you live on,” I suggested, hopefully.
    The chubby boy with spiky hair in the first row looked up at me, pleading with not-me-first eyes. Desperation made me ruthless.