I took a different way home today - the way I used to go. Sahara heading east to the Strip. To the fatal intersection from the Most Disturbing Dream a few weeks ago, but I wasn't thinking about that at the time. I was thinking about whether I'd cry on the way home, and wouldn't that be interesting, because I can only seem to cry over movies any more, and wasn't it interesting that I wanted to cry but was busy thinking so objectively about crying, and - look - now I was thinking objectively about that.
I wanted to cry ever since second period, when I saw the email. It wasn't that I didn't get the job. I assumed there would be stiff competition (but hoped I was wrong). It was that they'd looked over the resumes and narrowed down the candidates to three people, and I wasn't one of them. I wasn't even going to be interviewed for the job.
For one week I'd been thinking about how perfect I'd be, how much I could energetically offer the students of this particular (and unique) school, how exciting an opportunity it would be, where I could teach my heart out, and I was breathless with the excitement that, just when I thought there would be no transfer opportunities at all, this perfect and unexpected position that plays to all of my strengths came up, and I would have a real shot at it. I could escape my "rough year," the thing we're pretending is an aberration but will probably start all over again in August, but more importantly, I could do Great Things for students. Society. The World.
Except now I'm not even going to be interviewed. I'm not even good enough on paper to make it to the next round. Like I said, I thought there would be stiff competition. I also thought I'd be one of the worthy opponents.
(Unfortunately, I can't explain why little old me - with the puny 4 years of teaching and no advanced degree - thought she'd be so hot for this school without giving away too much about how this school works and which school it is.)
Self-esteem issues, these I don't need after the "rough year." Anyone who has been there knows it doesn't do any good to have friends tell you how amazing/creative/whatever you are and the time you did this and the time you did that. The failures just sop up the light. It doesn't even matter if/when it's not my fault. Plenty of teachers get the job done and don't crumple up in a ball of worksheet-driven instruction because they can't gulp down one more cup of the poison funneling into the well.
My family was so excited about the possibility. Everyone's jaw was dropping because if there was ever a perfect job for me and a perfect employee for the job, here she was, and who knew such an opportunity existed? Oh, not that there might not be someone else just as good who would get it, but there was a real chance here.
There was hope.
And how could I forget how much I fucking hate hope?
Stupid hope.
(Typing all of this is making me feel better for the first time since the email. Thank you.)
It's okay. There were better people. That's okay. It's just... I don't think of myself as good at much, compared to the world. I laugh at my humble efforts because, well, you have to enjoy what you have. It's okay not to be brilliant at stuff if you just like doing it. But, there are a few tiny areas where I come to the table with confidence.
Until I find I can't even get a spot at the kiddie table.
I tried to keep my feelings cautious. I told myself that just a little daydreaming about packing up my current classroom and designing my next one wasn't harmful. If anything, it was "positive thinking" and "creative visualization" - all Oprah-sanctioned stuff.
I tried to think only about how great the new position would be, not how relieved I'd be to get out of my current one. I loved the job for itself, not for being a rescue vehicle.
But when I read the email, and the bell rang, and in came the next class of students, I almost couldn't breathe. I can't do another year of this. Work is much better now, we're making some good progress, but the fight, god, the fight to get here. And it's not like it's easy; it's just easier. I was this close to getting out, and -
Except I wasn't this close to anything. That was my delusion. I was this close to finding out that, after years of holding myself up to such high standards that I can barely pass my own "Class of Life," those few A's I busted for are really just C's. Maybe worse.
It was Herculean to stay cheerful with the students today. They're doing presentations, and I've been genuinely impressed with how (comparatively) well they're going. After reading the email, I threw myself into making sure each presenter got sincere and vocal praise beyond the claps and the usual "Well done! Very good, thank you, who's next?" But inside I sagged against the thought of starting from scratch with a new stack of unmotivated and underskilled classes (pop. 40+) at the end of summer. I wondered how I would make it through the day, let alone the next 25 years until retirement.
I still don't know. I'm ready to become part of the "half of all teachers quit in their first five years" statistic, but I no longer know where else I'd go. It's excruciatingly difficult to find "Lady of the Manor (retinue of servants provided)" positions here. I no longer feel skilled for anything else. (I don't even feel skilled for that, but I think I could fake it. I can provide my own sweeping gowns and I do know a few country dances.)
Maybe I would have been perfect for the job. Maybe I would have even been the best. Maybe they just couldn't look past candidates with more classroom experience, even though this job called for so much more. Maybe I was neck-and-neck in the top four out of, let's say, forty, but they could only interview three and everyone else had a masters. Maybe someday these logical statements will make me feel better.
There I was on Sahara, one traffic light away from the Strip. I'd looked behind me several times, because there are often coworkers or students in nearby cars, and if I was going to cry, it better not be where someone I know could see.
I heard a vroom vroom and glanced into the rearview mirror. Motorcycle handlebars. Two sets. Right on my bumper. When did they get there?
The light was green, but the thick traffic ahead was stopped in the intersection. I waited, not wanting to pull up and get stuck there when the light turned red. Vroom vroom.
I looked back again, but this time I saw not just the motorcycle. I saw Death.
The man on the left looked normal. Just another bikie in a leather jacket. The man on the right, though, had completely painted his face. Painted it like a skull. Jeans and a leather jacket, like his friend, but a cowl over his head.
Suddenly he pulled alongside then in front of me, crossing the intersection. The traffic was moving and I pulled through, him in front, his friend behind. He stopped. The cars ahead moved one, two, three, six car lengths away. He just sat there. I couldn't see his skull face now, but I felt it.
They can't hurt me, I thought. I'm already dead.
His friend then joined him, and the two rode slowly, unconcerned by the now enormous gap between them and the cars beyond. I drove behind their escort like the mayor of my own sad parade. They sidled left as they reached the turn lane, and Mr. Skelly waved me past like he'd just unlatched the velvet rope.
I stopped at the red light on the Strip and looked back again. They were still there. Still real.
Just as my thoughts had begun sifting down soft black tunnels, old tunnels, they had appeared. But the tunnels have never gone anywhere. Not to the light, not to the dark, just down and around and back out again, eventually. A nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there.
Perhaps they needed a coach? That'd be the reason in Texas.
Posted by: Reese | 17 April 2008 at 09:25 AM