A 'Typical Day' of Challenges

By Cindy Reitzi

March 2004

It’s 7 a.m. and I’m running late. Like a soldier packing to ship out, I brace my knees and sling on my gear: curriculum briefcase, papers-to-grade backpack, lunch bag. Elbows out and balancing on hips, back, and shoulders, I grab my coffee mug, hoping I won’t have to use both hands for anything.

On the road by 7:10, I’m testy lest I’m too late for a parking spot. Traffic is heavy but I make it by 7:30. I get the last, worst parking spot, a crawlspace next to a concrete block on the “compact car” parking wall. It’s so small it could squash a VW bug. I sigh and go into “the routine.”

I nose into the spot halfway and stop the car. I transfer all the bags from the backseat to the ground. I tuck in my rear-view mirrors so they don’t scrape the block or the car next to me. Then, I gingerly maneuver; I need enough room to squeeze out of the driver’s side and still leave enough room for the car next door. I open the driver’s door halfway before it bumps up against the concrete. One foot out, I turn, and slide sideways down to the end of my car, ready to start my day.

Once inside, I head upstairs to make last-minute changes to a handout. I click on our “state-of-the-art” computer (which we share with another department). It grinds like a Wisconsin car revving up in sub-zero weather. It’ll be a wait, so I microwave breakfast, collate materials, get attendance, and return. It’s still booting up. I give up, use white-out, and write in the corrections by hand.

Next, I head to the copy room. There’s a line and one of the two copiers is already jammed. While the jamming “culprit” works like a detective to locate the offending materials in just the right section of the multi-function, mega-copier, the rest of us wait, help, or copy. Finally, after she removes half a ream of paper stuck in three different parts of the machine, we’re back in business.

After copying, I gather materials and head to my classroom. Arms full, I put the key in the lock, turn it, open the door and then try to remove the key when I remember this is the “funny” lock and I forgot to bring the WD-40 yet again. I grumble under my breath, leave the key in the lock, and put the teaching materials on the desk. I backtrack, grasp the doorknob with both hands, and work the key until I can remove it. Since I have three classes in a row and won’t get to a bathroom for three hours, I decide to visit the ladies’ room.

Of course, there’s a line. Two out of three stalls work. One has a garbage bag over the toilet.

Finally, I return to a cluster of students who are waiting because I’m late. Once again, I work the lock with both hands until I can remove the key. We walk into a freezing room. The thermostat says 60 degrees. The students shiver, “It’s cold. Why is this school always cold?”

“I know,” I reply absently, “but hey, it keeps you awake.”

I crank the temperature to 70 and it gradually begins to warm up. Things are looking up; I’m ready to teach.

A typical day
Although exaggerated, this is a typical day, what I am used to. While every profession has gripes about working conditions, teachers frequently sigh about infrastructure and physical plant issues, as well as supplies.

Some years back, I wanted a paper punch for my classroom. None were just sitting in the English storeroom or any other storeroom. Someone told me to ask the department chair, a seasoned veteran and iconic figure.

“A paper punch!” he guffawed in a nasally tone. I was taken aback (I was still naïve about school budgets).

“So…that would be a no?”

“Uh huh,” he grunted, nodding with wry sympathy.

That incident taught me to buy the mechanical supplies I needed, and to make friends with custodians and secretaries.

Although sometimes the perception is that it’s “selfish” when teachers and education support professionals focus on money, teaching obviously requires money. It’s one thing to miss minor supplies; it’s another to have to fund-raise for the basics. When we have to sell candy bars to buy books, we diffuse our energy and time as teachers to actually do the business of teaching.

But is this the wave of the future? I muse whether any person working for the government or a corporation would ever have to hold a bake sale to earn money for supplies or sell candy to buy essentials. Yet, I walk down high school corridors at different times of the year and marvel at creative fund-raising from departments or clubs that never have enough money: I listen to the melody of singing valentines that serenade giddy recipients; bid for an objet d’art at the pottery auction; eat club-sponsored soul food, baguettes, or egg rolls; and read senior tributes in the yearbook.

Where else but in a school does mundane money-making transform into cultural tradition?

Posted February 27, 2004