Fulfilling The Prophecies: The Journey of Education
Karen Barlow Parmiter

CHAPTER 8

The teacher's room is usually fairly cluttered; I don't know if this has anything to do with it now being heterosexual in nature, or not. Prior to this time, the school had two teachers' rooms --- the men occupied a fortification on the second floor, while the women flocked together in a room on the first floor which now serves to house both genders. It's no secret that the present administration thought this change would enhance and strengthen the morale between both sexes of the teaching staff. In times past, the joking and role-playing of the opposite sex used to become quite choice. But here again, progress triumphs. Instead of separate rooms, wherein such counter-vulturism used to run rampant, we now have a sophistication which allows the
absence of a member of either sex to be verbally dismantled in mixed company.

Not to my surprise, the room looks like London fog. Groveling through much of what is only faintly visible, I locate a chair that I hope no one will be coming back to reclaim.

The mornings in my home are somewhat hectic, and this can be detected by the lunches I bring. Some of the teachers --- especially the men, whose wives take quality time and demonstrate real creativity in the preparation of their husbands' lunches --- unveil some gorgeous concoctions. They have neat sandwiches, edged in ruffled leaf-lettuce; hard-boiled eggs, carefully peeled and covered with plastic wrap; oranges which have already been peeled (or apples already sliced); puddings, soups, or jello salads in small plastic bowls, with designated lids; and of course, cakes and/or cookies which complete this labor of love.

I honestly can't imagine when these women have the time (or desire) to do all this. By the end of the day, I'm usually semi-comatose and have little energy or interest to start packing a lunch for the next school day, and absolutely no aspiration of making it the envy of those around me. I consider the mornings (on the days I'm called to teach) a success if my heart and lungs continue their automatic functioning. I almost hate mornings; and when I'm at my best, I only think of them as taxing and depressing.

I try to create as little notice as possible, as I fumble with my lunch bag. Since I'm only
half-awake when I create this culinary delight, even I'm sometimes surprised by what I find.
Today, as I look down into this partially-opened bag, I see items that possibly might not titillate the gourmet. There's a tuna sandwich with cheese --- (whose odor will probably attract the very attention I don't want); a hard-boiled egg (not peeled, but badly cracked); a banana, whose blackened corner is a preview of the mush-like contents that it now holds together; and an apple from our own apple tree, and I know what that means: It's considered a beauty if it has less than three bruises and no worm holes. As I begin to eat, I'm constantly aware that I want to keep a low profile. I decide that peeling the banana inconspicuously will probably be my biggest challenge --- or, maybe trying to nonchalantly hold and consume the apple.

To everyone who does notice me, I'm asked the same question: "Who are you today?" It's a question I'll answer continuously --- to members in the room who haven't heard my original response, as well as to the majority of those I meet throughout the course of the day.

My general demeanor as a substitute teacher can be likened to how I eat my lunch. I've
generally kept a professionally distant, yet observant stance. In the passing of years and a number of substitutes with them, I've found that the less volunteered, usually the better. This way, there's very little for you to be quoted on.

As I begin my tuna sandwich, I hear part of a conversation whose topic seems to have
caught the enthusiasm of the majority; other faculty members are in two's or three's, indulging in less emotional subjects. At the moment, none of the discussions appeals to me, nor am I a
participant in any; like many students in the classroom, I seem to be in a half-conscious state as part of my environment, while being engulfed in a blurb of conglomerated sound.

My reverie is soon broken when the door to the teacher's room is unmercifully wrenched open and in storms Mrs. Marsh. She's not a big woman, but she's tough. What she lacks in stature, she reclaims in volume. Mrs. Marsh could easily be misread, misunderstood, and initially disliked. She's blunt and stern as a person. As a teacher, they don't come much better. Often, what she says is what many others dare only to think. If you don't know her, she makes a dramatic first-impression.

Speaking in a loud voice, she summarizes her present philosophy of this educational institution: "You know, this place really sucks!" This seems to shock no one in the group, while a few teachers nod in agreement, then continue the conversations they've been involved in, prior to her evaluation.

Since I'm not directly involved in speaking to anyone in the room at the moment, she focuses on me and continues: "Do you know that Harold Fausnaught? He's one of the filthiest little perverts I've ever seen. I intercepted a note he wrote to Cindy Mallen. He should be the poster boy for birth control."

After I display a distant, captive-like look, she directs her attention to finding an ashtray
and a vacant spot.

I notice Mrs. Nader is here; she's also a sub. We've become fairly close friends, not surprisingly, since our jobs afford us a lot in common. There always seems to be a psychological
(or psychiatric) thread to our conversations: comments to help bolster each other's strength and
morale. Invariably, we compare notes on the classes we've had so far, discipline problems, and
general survival tactics.