I was one of the lucky ones to have found my dream job, teaching high school. I paid my dues in other grade levels, but high school and my personality blended like peanut butter and jelly, like hot chocolate and marshmallows, like ice cream and hot fudge. Somewhere along the line I must have done something so outstanding that Karma rewarded me with a job at my alma mater, a small, private, Catholic, college preparatory high school for girls. The two-day New Teacher Orientation didn’t really apply to me. I was already highly familiar with the campus, I understood the rotating block schedule and some of the teachers and many of the nuns were still members of the faculty. In fact, even Sr. Joan, the principal when I was a student, was still the principal. As the other new teachers toured the campus to get their bearings and met with the Dean of Curriculum to become familiar with the two-week alternating class schedule, I remained in the library with the veteran staff visiting and reminiscing about times past.
During my first couple of years, I was charged with two sections of Advanced English I, one section of English I and one section of English as a Second Language. My fifth class rounding out my full-time load was Computers/Keyboarding, a freshman requirement. As I quickly learned, most of the girls, if not all of them, had mastered keyboarding long before middle school, making the lessons for the first quarter of the school year from the required textbook, The 1958 Gregg Typing Manual, utterly useless. Six weeks of lesson plans were immediately abandoned in favor of more current typing games, like Letter Invaders and Typer Shark, spreadsheet and database exercises and the newest presentation software, PowerPoint. While the girls soaked in all the new material with ease, for me, scaling Mt. Everest without a pick-ax would have been easier than climbing this learning curve. I finally mustered the nerve to request an additional English class rather than fumble my way through another year of teaching a class that was clearly beyond my expertise (and interest).
“ . . . but Sr. Joan,” I implored, “I can diagram any sentence you throw at me; I can teach the difference between a gerund and a participle and other modifiers . . . even misplaced and dangling ones, I can run circles around plot development, iambic pentameter, dramatic irony and Byronic heroes any day of the week! What I can’t do, is stay even a half step in front of these kids and their knowledge of computers! PLEASE may I teach grammar and literature! Please, Please, PLEASE!”
And so Karma blessed me once again, with a full load of English . . . two sections of Advanced English I, two sections of English I and one section of English as a Second Language. I was happier than a unicorn eating cake on a rainbow! No more computers! Five sections of English! It didn’t matter to me that I’d just encumbered myself with massive paper grading outside of class time! I was ready!
Classroom appeal is just as integral to learning as the course curriculum itself. When the environment is stimulating, student performance rises, the material is mastered and both the teacher and the students succeed. Even though I shared a classroom with other teachers, I accepted the responsibility for keeping the bulletin boards fresh, the resources cataloged, the blackboards and erasers cleaned and the consumable supplies plentiful and available. Regular, pre-cut bulletin board decorations had no place in our classroom. The boards were always three-dimensional. On Back-to-School Nights, parents always commented on how vibrant and creative the bulletin boards were. A few of them even asked if they could audit a class just so they could be in the room on a regular basis. In addition to an uplifting learning environment, I believe that humor is integral to learning. Keeping the students’ attention for fifty minutes each day for five days each week is no easy task. In order to maintain the upper hand with a room full of teenagers, I kept them uncertain as to whether I was teasing or serious.
“Good Morning, Ladies,” I began each session on the first day of school, “My name is Mrs. West, this is Advanced English I (or whatever class it was), and I don’t smile until at least Thanksgiving. The poster of a bald American Eagle with the caption I AM Smiling that was taped to the front of the lectern silently validated my words.
“I am distributing the syllabus for this class. Homework assignments will be posted on the board each day upon your arrival. You are responsible for making sure the homework is completed by the due date. Please note the work that is due tomorrow. You may have a minute to copy it down into your notebooks.”
I could hardly keep myself from laughing, but I needed to impress upon them the fact that I was the boss and I meant business.
“One more thing,” I continued as they were scribbling in their assignment notebooks, “once the bell rings and you are seated at your desks, there will be no reason to leave until the end-of-class bell rings. (Of course I said this remembering how Rita and I used to game the system on a regular basis using the “I have cramps” excuse!) “If you are thirsty or hungry, eat and drink before class. If you need to use the restroom, again, make sure that’s taken care of prior to entering. If you happen to forget your textbook, your homework or anything else necessary for class, you will not be excused to retrieve it from your lockers. Instead, you will be given a zero for the day. In fact, you will not be excused from class for ANY reason except if you are bleeding from every orifice in your body at the same time. Now, are there any questions?”
The slow tick of the minute hand on the clock blasted like dynamite through the silence. I scanned the classroom to assess the impact of my Day 1 speech and was satisfied by the looks of sheer terror on the students’ faces.
“O.K. then. Please open your books to Lesson 1 . . . .”
The first few weeks of school passed, not without several attempts at testing my rules, but eventually the students and I struck a collaborative constructive rhythm. There were very few, if any, tardies, the girls came to class prepared for discussion and from time to time I even broke Rule #1 and cracked a smile or two.
“Gerunds and participles are just verbs with -ing endings,” I began the lesson, “gerunds are nouns and participles are adjectives.”
Emily, one of the more outspoken in the class, muttered under her breath.
“Oh, Brother!” she whispered, rolling her eyes, “When in the world are we ever gonna need to know this stuff?”
“In case any of you are wondering when and if you’re ever going to have to know the difference between these two word forms,” I continued and just to let Emily know I’d heard her complaint, “I am 100% sure you’re going to need it for the semester exam. I’m also confident that you’ll need to retain it for the PSAT and the SAT; other than that, Emily’s right, you probably won’t ever need it.” And I couldn’t help but laugh.
About this time, a new toy had exploded into the market. It was, for that time, a small, state-of-the-art electronic robot that resembled a cross between an owl and a hamster, called a Furby. Every child between eight and ten years old clamored for a Furby. Parents stood in line before stores opened, hoping to purchase at least one to delight their children at Christmas. Hysteria over the Furby far surpassed the Cabbage Patch Doll frenzy of the late ‘70s by a country mile. As the girls filed into class each day, I heard them chattering about how all their little brothers and sisters wanted for Christmas was a Furby. I had seen the toys advertised on television and I had to admit, they were very cute. In fact, I sort of wanted one, too!
Furbies were interactive. Right out of the packaging, they spoke gibberish, but the more its owner conversed with it, the more its language developed, eventually evolving into words.
“Brrrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrring,” it chirped, blinking its eyes and flapping its wings.
Reluctantly, my husband found himself standing in a long line of parents outside a nearby Montgomery Wards that had just received a large shipment of the coveted Furbies.
“How old is your child,” a parent in line asked, just trying to pass the time. “My daughter is 8 and a Furby is the ONLY thing she’s asked Santa to bring this year.”
“My kid is six,” offered another, “if there isn’t a Furby under the tree for him, I’m afraid he’s going to think Santa Claus is a huge failure!”
Again someone tried to engage Carl, “ . . . and your son or daughter? How old?”
Without hesitation, he responded, “Well, (he paused) she’s 45 years old and she’s my wife.”
Stifled gasps and muffled whispers about “that guy’s WIFE” and the inappropriateness of someone like that denying a toy for a child at Christmastime whooshed through the line. However, my husband has never been one to be affected by gossip or peer pressure. He held his place and as it so happened, was able to purchase the last Furby in that particular shipment. He carried the bagged treasure past the remaining line of disappointed parents, tsk-ing and admonishing him with disapproving facial expressions as he passed.
“Brrrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrring,” warbled the Furby from the front corner of the teacher’s desk.
“YOU GOT A FURBY!” screamed the girls in absolute delight. “WHERE DID YOU GET IT? IT’S SOOOOOOOOOOO CUTE!”
“I thought you might like to teach him some English while I TRY to teach YOU some English!” I said. “What do you say?”
“Oh my gosh, Mrs. West! You’re the BEST!” They sang.
“Wait a second!” shrieked one of the students, “My dad stood in line for three hours trying to get a Furby for my little brother! What if THIS Furby could have been my brother’s?! Don’t you feel bad?”
Rejecting the guilt that was hurled at me, I said, slowly and gingerly, “Well . . . nooooooo . . . I don’t feel bad that I have a Furby. Think of it THIS way: my husband stood in line just like everyone else. The store’s supply was eventually going to run out and . . . not everyone was going to get one. If I didn’t have this little Furby, it wouldn’t be sitting right here on my desk and we wouldn’t be having fun right now, would we? We’d be slogging through the grammar workbook and you guys would be unhappy.”
Giving only a split second’s consideration, she agreed, “O.K., ya, you’re right. My dad can go try another store. It’ll be fine! My brother’ll live.” And she cooed at and petted the Furby.
Admittedly, the Furby was quite a distraction, but a fun one. The robot flapped its wings, batted its eyes and jabbered throughout the 50-minutes of class. During the last few minutes remaining, the students quieted down to copy the homework for the next day, and Furby commented.
“Boring! Boring!” in between snores. No one had spoken to him in minutes.
As my class filed out and the next group of students filed in, I tucked the Furby into the second drawer of the desk. The man with whom I shared the classroom was particularly fastidious, buttoned up and task-oriented. In other words, he was no fun at all! Ted Johnson would certainly have out-Felixed Felix Unger. He followed his lesson plans to the tee, never deviating for any reason at all. A Furby on the desk during his teaching time would never do. I understood our different teaching styles and, wanting to respect his authority in our shared classroom during his time, I sequestered the toy from sight. I gathered up all of my materials, exited the classroom and retreated down to my office to read a set of essays. Well into the stack of papers, an earthquake rumbled noisily down the stairway. Within minutes at least fifteen students poured into my office, laughing and giggling with excitement.
“Oh my gosh, Mrs. West! You’re NEVER going to believe what happened!!” They said, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my GOSH! So, you know we had Psychology in Room 28 right after your English class and, well, you know, it’s with Mr. Johnson, and . . .”
“What happened?” I asked.
“O.K., so, you know how boring he is and how much we hate psychology, so . . . well . . . we were all just sitting there, sort of half asleep and we heard this snoring noise!”
Uh oh! I knew what was coming.
“And . . . ,” they continued, “Mr. Johnson was like, ‘what’s that noise? And who’s snoring?’ and we were like, ‘we don’t know,’ so he walked around the classroom toward the noise and he opened the desk drawer and he pulled out this Furby and right when he opened the drawer, it said, ‘Ooooh! Bright Light!’”
They were talking so fast I could hardly keep up with them. While we were all laughing together, my desk phone rang.
“Mrs. West’s office,” I answered. A terse Mr. Johnson was at the other end of the line.
“May I have a word with you?” He asked.
“Sure,” I said, “I’ve got an office full of students, so let’s talk during Block 2 . . . If you don’t have a class.”
When I replaced the receiver into the cradle of the phone, we ALL broke out in hysterics.
“Girls . . . That was ‘Professor’ Johnson. He’s NOT HAPPY with me!” I explained.
“We know,” they said, “we could hear him!”
It wasn’t too long after that that ‘Professor’ Johnson made arrangements to share a classroom with someone else!! Good riddance, Mr. Bug-Up-Your-Butt!
Furby was a big hit in the classroom and turned out to be a valuable asset in terms of language development. He learned several words but definitely needed to learn when it was his turn to speak. After the episode with Mr. Johnson, I never left Furby unattended. He accompanied me everywhere, lest we encounter another unfortunate event with an even less amenable colleague.
The Library was the heart of the school. Students reported there to study, to take make-up exams and to do research. Teachers who did not have their own offices used the tables to sit and grade papers during their prep times. The Library was also Sr. Joan’s pet. She knew every book, every film, every pamphlet, every entry in the card catalog and which books were housed on which shelves. If there were a book out of place, she’d detect it in less than a minute of her entering the room. She was also fiercely adamant about adhering to complete silence within its walls. An unexpected sneeze or a muffled cough would be reason enough to be ejected from this hallowed space. It was a wonder that a vow of silence was not required upon entering.
My class had just ended and, rather than schlepping all the way down to my office, I thought I’d spend my prep time in the Library. I commandeered a table, placed my materials on top, and laid Furby quietly within the pocket of my briefcase while I graded some vocabulary quizzes. Several students from other classes pored through research binders, gathering information for upcoming reports. The librarian hustled about, directing students to their specific areas of study. With all of that activity comes some degree of noise. The students asked questions of the librarian, they exchanged information with each other, and by and by, attention drifted from their individual assignments to their collective social conversation. The Library’s Code of Silence had been severely violated. In fact, it was noisy! Two upperclassmen plopped themselves down at my table.
“Psst . . . hey Mrs. West,” said one not even attempting to whisper, “we hear you have a Furby!”
“I do!” I said, “wanna meet him? I’ve got him with me!”
And so . . . Furby emerged from the darkness of my briefcase, opened his little eyes, flapped his little wings and greeted the girls.
“Brrrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrrring!” he said.
By this time, the noise in the Library had escalated so much that without the sign on the door that read “LIBRARY,” the room could have been mistaken for the cafeteria.
“SR. JOAN IS COMING! SR. JOAN IS COMING!” whisper-screamed someone.
Everyone clamored for a seat, books opened and most everyone looked independently busy . . . except for me! I had a fully-awakened and alert Furby on the table in front of me! I quickly threw Furby behind some books high up on the fourth shelf directly behind my table, sat down and pretended to grade my quizzes, hoping Furby would remain quiet . . . or at least unheard. As if right out of a movie, the Library door flew open and Darth Vadar dressed in a nun’s habit stomped angrily into the room!
“What is going on in here?” she bellowed. “This is a Library!” She glared at each and every one of us, causing panic, trembling and fear as her laser beams seared our souls. “And WHY are these books out of order?”
With that, she pulled the books that were shielding Furby off the shelf.
“Oooooh! Bright Light!” squealed Furby.
The Library erupted in uncontrolled laughter. I put my head in my hands and braced for what came next.
“Mrs. West . . . Come.With.Me.” hissed Sr. Joan through clenched teeth.
And there I was, once again summoned to the Principal’s Office. No matter the number of years that passed, fifteen-year-old-me occupied the chair directly across from Sr. Joan seated behind her formidable desk, Furby perched silently between us, blinking but not speaking.
“It seems we’ve been here before,” Sister opened, “many, many years ago.”
My palms began to sweat, my heart raced and I had all I could do to keep my entire body, much less my words, from shaking.
“Of course you know this isn’t the first time this little creature has been an issue,” continued Sr. Joan. “I’m sure you’ve already noticed that you are no longer sharing a classroom with Mr. Johnson and THIS,” she emphasized, piercing her laser-sharp glare directly through Furby, “or rather, YOU, are the reason why.”
“Aw! C’mon, Sister,” I pleaded, “it’s a Furby! It’s harm–. . .”
She cut me off.
“I’m not finished!” she clipped in full staccato. “Classes are confined to fifty-minute sections, clearly insufficient to cover the material required. That fifty minutes is designated to each individual teacher to use as he or she chooses in order to satisfy the course curriculum. When some outside influence interferes in that endeavor, there is a breach of that teacher’s authority. You and this . . . CREATURE are guilty of committing that breach.”
“But Sist . . .”
“I am NOT finished!” she continued, voice rising in anger. “What the consequences of this breach are are yet to be determined.”
The silence lengthened. I sat immobile, petrified in fact, that Furby would either start snoring or begin chirping its usual pre-nap word, “Borrrrrrrrrrring, borrrrrrrrrring, borrrrrrrrrrring!” I was also afraid to offer anything in my defense again, thinking Sr. Joan’s reprimand was still in process.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” she finally asked.
“Oh, yes, of course, Sister! I have a lot to say!” I said, my voice shaking, betraying my utter fear.
“You see, this little Furby is interactive. The more it is spoken to, the more it speaks back and ultimately, the more words it ‘learns.’” So far, I could tell Sr. Joan was not impressed.
My speech quickened.
“I brought it to class, uh . . . during MY fifty-minutes of designated teaching time, to use as a sort of teaching aid, uh . . . for the freshmen, you know . . . uh, freshmen are basically just little kids in big girl bodies, and I uh . . . I thought I could stimulate and encourage their interest in learning English grammar by showing them how fun it was to teach . . . uh . . . the Furby! And . . . (feeling my voice begin to break into a cry, but refusing to allow it and also realizing how foolish my explanation was) . . . I have to tell you . . . it was working!
“At first, the Furby only speaks gibberish . . . like incoming freshmen who don’t really speak properly . . . then, little by little, the Furby’s language develops . . . similarly to the freshmen! I know you probably think this is a huge stretch . . . and you’re probably right . . . I mean, you’re ALWAYS right, ya, I mean . . . I KNOW you’re always right, . . . but gosh, Sister! You should see how excited the girls are to come to class!
“And as far as my breaching Mr. Johnson’s authority during HIS fifty minutes of class time, I feel that I was VERY respectful! As soon as the bell rang, I placed the Furby into one of the desk drawers so neither he nor his students would even know it was there! I had NO IDEA it would start snoring . . . and I didn’t even know it had learned the word ‘boring’!
“I know you don’t want me to say that what happened during his Psychology class wasn’t my fault because it WAS (but I didn’t really believe that!), so that’s why I always took Furby with me after that happened . . . to prevent any more disruption to his class!”
Sr. Joan remained silent and motionless in her chair.
Should I keep talking? Had I said enough? Had I said too much? Was she sympathetic to my situation? Had I wriggled out of this predicament or was I going to be fired on the spot?
After an endless lull, Sr. Joan finally spoke.
“And, may I ask how this Furby, as you call it, wound up behind the reference books on the upper shelves of the Library?”
“Sure,” I said, “the shelves of the Library. Yes, of course.
“So . . . I went to the Library to grade some vocab quizzes and Sr. Jane Marie brought her entire history class in to do some research. Mrs. Stanley (the librarian) was explaining where . . .”
“THE SHELVES!” roared Sr. Joan, “HOW DID THE FURBY GET ONTO THE SHELVES?”
“I put it there,” I said, completely bereft of excuses and of the energy to create any. “O.K. I put it there. When I saw you pull open the doors and charge into the Library, I could tell you were in a bad mood and I knew that if the Furby were flapping its wings and talking, it would make you even madder, so I quickly hid it behind some books totally out of sight! I was just hoping that it wouldn’t snore or say anything while you were close by! There. That’s it. I’m guilty.”
A tear escaped from my eye and trickled down my cheek. I dropped my gaze, willing the Hoover Dam of tears built up behind my eyes not to gush over.
After a few minutes, Sister said, “Would you like a Kleenex?” her arm stretched out offering a tissue.
“No, thanks, Sister,” I sniffed, “I’m fine. But thank you. I think I’m o.k.”
The motion of Sister’s arm reaching toward me awakened Furby.
“Oooooh! Tell me a story!” it uttered, flapping its wings, blinking its eyes and turning its neck right and left.
Stunned, Sister and I both looked at the Furby and then at each other.
Sister, suddenly seeming no longer angry, and I, still apprehensive but no longer on the verge of tears, chuckled.
“Well,” said Sr. Joan, “it looks like your ‘mother’ has been telling a story . . . and I mean a whopper . . . since she sat down in that chair!”
I agreed to remove the batteries from Furby after each of my classes and to take it with me whenever I left the classroom. Mr. Johnson and I remained in separate classrooms for the remainder of that school year and I miraculously kept my job.
M. Margaret West 