My Inbox

My Inbox

We’re past the time of

Return receipt requested

From slush pile to inbox

Right to spam.

I’ve initially been reviewed

While my submission’s been received

I should expect to hear back or

Not at all.

If they’re interested,

They’ll let me know

In other words, don’t call us,

We’ll call you.

Phone interview screenings

Lead to real in person views

Let’s play 20 Questions before

Mock lessons.

Like what we’ve read, so

We’re requesting pages

A partial, a full, a

Rejection.

The position’s been filled

Form rejection’s been sent,

Expiration date’s passed 

Like bad milk.

Crafted resume, cover,

Query, synopsis, pages

It’s all the same in the end

No, thank you.

I collect interview requests

Like business cards,

Third time’s the charm

Job offer.

As they like to say,

it just takes on yes 

Maybe’s an agent’s next...

One more try.

http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2015/09/mag-287.html

Lunch Lesson

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle."

- Plato- Plato

While walking around the cafeteria during my Wednesday lunch duty, I saw a fifth grade boy with pale skin, shaggy, neat brown hair and an earnest face sitting alone without lunch. Most students were either on line buying or eating food from home.

I asked, “Are you buying lunch today?”

His eyes filled with tears, as he shook his head no.

“You know, they have free lunches for kids who forget to pack. Would you like to get one?”

I could see he was fighting not to cry. Waiting for him to compose himself, I kneeled next to his seat.

Eventually he said, “I can’t. I have allergies.”

He pulled out a folded, wrinkled, laminated paper. I scanned the extensive typed list of banned foods. No peanuts (free PBJ out). He couldn’t even have the hummus alternative.

“I can see that.” Can you have fruit?” He nodded. “Follow me. We’ll get you fruit.”

We cut the line. I handed him an orange. Then I tried to give him an apple. “I’m allergic to apples,” he said.

I put the apple into the basket.

We returned to his table where he began peeling the orange.

“I’ll be right back.”

I found the assistant principal a few rows over. I explained the boy’s situation. She said she’d take him to the nurse to figure out an alternative. Then she spoke with him for a few minutes and they both left the cafeteria.

A while later, the boy returned with a plastic container of romaine lettuce. No croutons, no carrots, no salad dressing. Safe for him. He ate that and the orange, and then joined his friends for recess.

I learned an important lesson.

Pay attention to EVERYONE. Don’t just notice the ones who make noise. You never know when someone might need you.

I knew this already. It’s what drives me as a teacher. I want to connect with everyone—the pains in the butt, the ones who always do the right thing, and the ones you really need to pay attention to or you’ll forget they’re there.

But in a cafeteria with hundreds of students, this is harder.

Later, in the hallway, when I passed his class in a line, the boy went out of his way to say hi to me.

I hope he learned a lesson too.

Don’t stay silent. There are people who care all around you. Reach out and someone will help you.

...And don’t forget your lunch.

Something of Importance

My school

Education is an ornament in prosperity and a refuge in adversity.

~Aristotle

Those of you bored by following my “career” know all my valiant attempts have not led to a full time teaching position. Last summer, after having no interviews for any jobs I applied for, I started looking for full time instructional aide position.

The upside: stability

The downside: low pay

I received interview requests. When I went to these interviews I found out that I was competing with other teachers. Several years ago, people without college degrees were aides. Today they are certified teachers with Master’s Degrees.

Stupid economy.

By the end of August, I had two job offers—one for an extended term sub for a special education teacher on maternity leave and the other for a professional aide job. I took the latter.

It was hard to be back in a position without control of my own classroom. But the last few years have been all about hard.

I’m lucky. A wonderful teacher runs the classroom I work in. She treats me like a teacher instead of sending me to make photocopies all day. Based on her lead, the students accept me as an authority as well. I’m the only aide in my grade with my name next to the teacher’s on the door.

If I don’t find a job next year, I’ll be doing this again (as long as there’s $ for me in this district. Let’s hope there is). I could be placed in any classroom, with any teacher. Knowing this makes me appreciate my current situation even more.

My official ‘boss’ is the special education teacher. She has me busy. Because one student in the class has behavior/socialization issues, I follow the students to all specialists (music, art, language) and lunch/recess. The other class periods, I help the inclusion students who need academic support. I wear many hats. Sometimes I rotate around the room, helping anyone who needs it. Other times I work with a group of low performers. There are times I help just one or two students. Because I need to watch the student at recess, it means I squeeze in lunch alone during an academic period. This makes me feel guilty because there are kids who need help, but I’m not there. And sometimes I have to wait for the verdict while special ed. and general ed. figure out what I’ll be doing next.

When I decided to return to school to get a Master’s in Special Education, I did so with reluctance. I wanted to be a Social Studies teacher. What if getting this degree meant I wound up as a different kind of teacher?

But now that I’m helping children on Individualized Education Plans (IEPs) I realize I’m good at this. Instinctually, I get how to reach them during reading group. Even better, I struggled in math, so when I teach them, I have strategies that WORK. I can REACH THEM.

One example was teaching long division. If the students had to divide 42 into 225, they didn’t know whether to put the 42 into 2, 25, or 225. How could I make it obvious to them? I said, “If I’m a size 42, can I squeeze into a little size 2 pair of pants?” They shook their heads. “If I’m a size 42, can I squeeze into a size 22 pair of pants?” They shook their heads again. “If I’m a size 42, can I fit into a roomy pair of 225 pants?” They agreed.

Just so you know, I do this complete with body movements.

From that moment on, they used the pants trick to figure out the answer.

Another example is when I read The Witches by Roald Dahl with struggling readers. Two students read with no inflection, made every sentence run into the next without pause and spoke so quietly I could barely hear them. When we got to the part with the Grand High Witch, I hammed up that Eastern European accent. When it was the students’ turn to read, I insisted on them exaggerating the voice loudly. Those two students’ fluencies and volume have improved ever since.

My favorite example is a student who always wears a vacant expression during math. If she’s in my group, I catch her staring into space. After a few absences, they had me work one on one with her to catch her up on fractions. That special attention transformed her. A few days later when she joined my group, she was engaged, the first to raise her hand, and KNEW WHAT SHE WAS DOING.

She beamed. I beamed.

I revel in those moments. Their successes are my successes. Even if they forget half of it the next day (because they have problems with memory retention) I reached them in the moment. They felt proud when it made sense. And I’m proud of them.

I’m not making a lot of money (sorry, husband). But I am doing something important.

The Saga Continues

Dr. Jules Hilbert: The thing to determine conclusively is whether you are in a comedy or a tragedy. Have you met anyone who simply might loathe the very core of you?

Harold Crick: I'm an IRS agent. Everyone hates me.

Dr. Jules Hilbert: Well, that sounds like a comedy!

- Film “Stranger than Fiction”

It’s been another summer searching for jobs. I spent the spring through July looking for Social Studies positions. Back in June, I told myself if I didn’t find something in that field soon, I’d begin applying for Instructional Aide positions in Special Education and return to school to obtain a Special Education certification. Something had to give, right?

Well, by the end of July, no calls, no interviews. I applied for 2 Special Education jobs. Within 2 days, I received a call to interview for 1 of ‘em. The call came an hour before I left for Maine to visit my dad on Friday. OF COURSE I could make it. I scheduled it for the following week. My dad agreed to watch my children while I returned home to interview.

That Sunday, we had dinner at Young’s Lobster House in Belfast, Maine. Highly recommended. They steam your lobster. They also make corn (optional). You bring the rest and picnic on the deck overlooking the water. Lovely.

When I went to leave, my car wouldn’t start. I jiggled a few things around and it sprang to life. YaY! Figured it was because I parked on a steep hill. For the next couple of days, my dad did the driving in his car.

You see where this is heading, don’t you?

Late afternoon on Tuesday, I went to start my car to drive back to Cambridge. Same problem. Wouldn’t start. I pulled and prodded and jiggled and cursed. It took longer, but the car again sprang to life. I drove with trepidation. The car started with ease at the gas station.

I drove for four hours, hitting walls of rain and hail in between stretches of sun and clouds. It was raining when I returned home. My husband tried the car. It would only start after jiggling.

He suggested I rent a car for the interview and return to Maine. I agreed. We checked at least 6 places on-line all were out of cars. The exception: Logan Airport. Groan. One more search revealed an Enterprise in North Cambridge. Cars! I booked it.

The next morning, my husband started the car. It turned on 1st try. We both figured it probably would start with trouble here and there, but why take the chance? Something was breaking slowly.

We arrived at the rental place as soon as it opened. They upgraded me from a small car to a cool Dodge Avenger. Things were looking up!

I returned home and prepared for the interview.

I had said interview. I loved the team. I think they loved me.

At the end, one of the heads of the Special Education Department said, “You should be a Social Studies teacher.”

This was clearly a compliment, but did it mean she thought I shouldn’t do the assistant job?

The principal told me he’d contact me the following week.

Driving back to Maine in my Charger, I felt good.

I returned to Cambridge, got my car fixed, and waited.

And waited.

Suddenly, every question I answered was horrible. And their comments really had dual meanings. I’d bombed the interview. Obviously.

On Thursday, I missed the call from the school. I left a message after school hours.

I received the return call on Friday. Another employee at the school requested a change of jobs and was placed into my potential job. The principal was hoping student numbers would be there for another position. They were impressed with my resume and interview. Was I still interested in a job if he could create one? Could I wait until the following week?

I visited family in New York and waited.

And waited.

On Friday afternoon, I received the call. They lost 3 students. They thought they were gaining 1 student. If they got that student, I’d be hired. They had a meeting that morning. They didn’t get the student.

1 student.

No job.

I had braced myself all that time, but it didn’t lessen the sensation of my heart sinking into my stomach, along with all my hopes.

I applied for 4 jobs that afternoon.

The following Monday, I applied for several more, all of them Instructional Assistant jobs. I worked more on my college application.

I have 2 weeks. 2 weeks to not walk into a school as a substitute teacher.

2 short, desperate weeks.

“This may sound like gibberish, but I think I'm in a tragedy.”

- Harold Crick, film “Stranger than Fiction”

Midpoint Realization

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

- Oscar Wilde

I’m at a low point in my life.

Really low.

In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever been lower.

If I were the protagonist in a novel, I’d be at the midpoint. Since I’m a panster, I can’t see how the rest of the story unfolds.

But I don’t have high hopes.

I’ve subbed for two years. Two years Included in that time is 6 months as an ETS. I thought that was a step leading to other places.

Seems it was just a temporary step up. I’ve had to return a step down.

Problem was, when I returned to the daily sub position, I kept getting requested at the same school. Everyday, I saw the students and teachers from the higher step. It made me believe I was still on their level.

Recently, I got pushed down. Hard.

I’m sorry about the analogies. But I can’t tell the real story.

1) I need to maintain other people’s privacy.

2) It’s devastating.

3) Even with all the reasons/rationalizations, it still doesn’t improve the humiliation.

So, here I stand on this stupid step. But it’s the trick step in Hogwarts, so I’m stuck. It doesn’t how many calls (resumes), I send. Nobody answers my cries.

I can’t go on like this.

Being a daily sub again after having my own students and classes is just too hard. Last week, I worked in my old, old school. The teaching assistant job I had left to become a sub. For this sub job, the art teacher left instructions for the 5^th-grade and kindergarten. I saw she had 2 3^rd-grade classes, but no plans. I scrambled through the papers in a mild panic.

Even though I had planned to hide all day, I asked the librarian. I didn’t want to see all the teachers I knew. To admith that two years later, I was still stuck. The librarian thought the 3^rd graders might be going on a field trip. A 3^rd-grade teacher confirmed this.

It was actually an easy day. But that several minutes of semi-panic was just too much. After having a taste of being a full-time teacher in charge of my own classes, I don’t want to have to do this again.

I can’t.

The 7^th-graders who were 5^th-graders back then, saw me. They all remembered my name and smiled. A few of them hugged me. Even the boys. I remembered how hard it was to leave that lovely class, where I taught Social Studies and Word Study to become a daily sub.

The “temporary” job was supposed to lead me somewhere.

The previous Friday, I wound up subbing my old Social Studies extended term sub classes. 8^th-graders had mostly been practicing for graduation, so no real work was expected. I asked them to tell me about their trip to DC. Then I took them outside.

The 7^th-grade was learning about immigration. I talked about Arizona and Alabama wanting to check people’s papers to make sure they’re legal just based on how they look. We talked about where the line is between government protection and interference. That led me to bring up the Wall Street Journal article about YA being too dark, and that discussion I blogged about.

Like another teacher who had been pushed out of the same school, I decided to go out with a bang.

But I returned for 8^th-grade graduation. I had promised. While they sang “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield, I thought of how poignant the lyrics were to my situation:

“Reaching for something in the distance

So close you can almost taste it.”

Just like I’d thought the 8^th-grade graduation song, Firework by Katy Perry, wafting down the hallway explained my state of mind while I was teaching Art the previous day:

“Do you ever feel like a plastic bag

Drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?

Do you ever feel so paper thin

Like a house of cards, on blow from caving in?”

All those years I attended school, for what?

I can blame the economy or whatever. In truth, I can’t trust that I’m the teacher I thought I was. I don’t know who I am anymore.

The other day I made a vow about when I "make it" as a writer. I’ve decided to make another vow. When the fall comes, I can’t sub anymore. This summer will not only be spent editing and querying, but also finding an alternative occupation.

Being a Car Insurance Claims examiner got me through graduate school. It’s starting to look again. (Years ago, I made a vow never to do that again. But these are desperate times.)

You don’t even need to leave me nice words or sympathy. I just felt it was false not to share this mess that is my professional life right now.

My family needs to buy a bigger place. I can’t be the one holding us back anymore. Even if I have to take another fecking staircase, I will.

Anywhere but here.

Worthy

“We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.”

- E.E. Cummings

Yesterday, something happened that I cannot stop thinking about.

I wound up being at the same school for the final student of the month award ceremony. Since October, I’d attended every single one, even though I had thought March would be my last one. Then April. The difference for May is that I'd be handing out awards for 6^th-grade ELA (English Language Arts) instead of 7^th and 8^th-grade Social Studies.

The ELA teacher was out for two weeks because of illness, and I covered her classes nearly every single day. It was eye opening for me. I had fun coming up with lessons and hanging the students’ work on the walls. Since I love writing, it’s not a stretch to consider being an ELA teacher. But I hadn’t taught 6^th-graders much, so it was an adjustment getting use to their level of maturity. And they had to adjust to me as their teacher instead of just a babysitter. After about 5 days, I felt like I’d always been with them.

It was kind of cool that several of the students were younger siblings of the students I’d just taught as an ETS (Extended Term Substitute).

For the ceremony, I e-mailed the teacher to find out whom to give the awards to. One student she picked made me pause.

I had her older brother when I was an ETS. He’s given up.

Her family's story is one of poverty and addiction.

Before this, I’d only noticed her when she was acting up, which was often.

These two weeks I’d taught her, she was nothing but lovely and hard working.

A few teachers handed out awards. Then we took a break for a speaker. Before we resumed the awards, another teacher came over to say this student was being dismissed.

I was disappointed. She was losing her moment.

“Wait,” I told her, and then picked up her certificate from the stage.

I held it in my hands. “Ms. ***** chose you to receive this award. But I want you to know, after working with you for these past two weeks, I’m not surprised she chose you. You’ve been a conscientious and hard-working student. You deserve this award.”

I handed her the certificate.

She stared at it. She looked up at me. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Then she put her arms around me. I hugged her back. She didn’t give me a quick hug. It was an embrace. Tears pricked my eyes.

Later, I found out she went to the office to meet her mother. She showed everyone her award as she beamed.

How many times had she sat in that auditorium, watching 6^th, 7^th, and 8^th grade students receive congratulations for their work in ELA, Science, Math, Social Studies, Art, Music, Spanish, and Physical Education? How many times did she think she’d never stand up there, shaking hands and high-fiving teachers while music played?

How many times did she think she wasn’t that kind of student? That kind of person?

How many people from her background go to college? How many achieve the kind of the success their parents couldn’t muster because of addiction?

I wanted her to know for the short time I got to spend with her that she’s worthy.

I hope she believes it.

Damn, it takes no time at all for these children possess me. I miss them already.

Unforeseen Circumstances

“Hello, hello

I don’t know why you say goodbye

I say hello”*

Friday was supposed to be the last day teaching on my own. Students and teachers did and said a boatload of lovely things.

Monday was supposed to be the transition day. I dreaded it. Partly because of the limited communication I’d had with the teacher. What would she think of what I’d accomplished? How would it be running the classes with her observing me? But I worked hard on Monday; filling her in on the nearly six months she’d left.

It was really ending.

That morning, the assistant principal asked me to take care of report cards that were due the following week and do 2 hours of parent-teacher conferences. “You can leave two hours early.” Leaving 2 hours early would make up for the conferences, but not for the hours it would take me to tally the report card grades. Not to mention grades weren’t supposed to close for a few more days, so students hadn’t exactly rushed to hand in outstanding work.

The assistant principal also asked me to find out if the teacher needed a 2^nd transition day. I told the teacher I could spend the 2^nd day calculating the grades. She agreed. It took me nearly all day Tuesday, but I got them done, even writing down the comment codes. I handed them to her, reminding her that the grades couldn’t be posted on-line yet, and I wouldn’t be able to do it later in case she got more work back and had to adjust a few of the grades.

She actually looked a little crestfallen.

Throughout the day, it was hard to stop in and see her running the classes.

Tuesday night, I felt odd. I was full of anxiety as it hit me I had just taken a significant pay cut and was going to back to all the uncertainty being a daily sub entails. Although I was exhausted, I forced myself to stay up until 11pm, knowing I had the next day off before I put myself on the sub list.

And I was going to sleep in until 6:30 am so I’d have some coffee and get the kids off to school. An extra half-hour – imagine!

Wednesday morning, I began tossing and turning, thinking of the couple of assignments that hadn’t been handed in. I reminded myself it wasn’t my problem anymore.

That did nothing to cheer me up. Or put me back to sleep.

I checked the clock. 5:56 am. Great. Getting up normal time anyway.

Exhausted, I poured my coffee and ambled into the living room. After leisurely checking Yahoo, I switched to Gmail. The teacher sent me an e-mail thanking me and asking if I would sub on Wednesday. First I thought she meant the following Wednesday. But then I realized the subject line read, “Tomorrow”.

This Wednesday.

“I am not going to be in because of unforeseen circumstances.”

(Expletive.)

“You say why and I say I don’t know

Oh no”*

I hadn’t picked out clothes.

I had just said goodbye to everyone.

When I arrived at the school, a parent and student were waiting. I went over grades. After that, I realized a meeting with a parent and a wayward student was taking place. I went to that.

Then I mostly hid in my office because it was too bizarre to explain to EVERYONE that I was a daily sub today, but not Monday, and they’d seen me Tuesday.

I received an e-mail from another teacher, telling me, “I miss you already.”

My reply? “I’m just down the hall.”

First class, I was in a slightly bitter mood. I’d made a packet so they’d mostly leave me alone while I called students over about grades and missing work.

Second class, I walked in and said:

“I am your sub. My name is Ms. Milstein, but in case that’s hard to remember, you can call me, ‘Ms. M.’” And I wrote my name on the board.

They asked if I knew their names. One student used to ask me that each time I subbed last year. I'd always remembered his name. I pretended to mix up their names this time.

I decided to do my favorite stock lesson about the principle of ahimsa and Gandhi, MLK, and Mandela. The one I try to squeeze into every class. It’s beyond time and place, so I can use it with virtually any grade. Since they’re about to learn about exploration and it has to do with the legacy of colonization and slavery, it was perfect timing. I had the students enraptured. It was amazing.

I wonder when I’ll get to experience that again.

The third class usually gets too chatty. I was having none of it. I even reminded them I’d be happy to stay after school if they didn’t want to get their work done. I may be a sub, but I’m still a teacher. Their teacher.

For the day.

Fourth class is usually pretty good for me, though they’re the most difficult of all. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by me how quiet they were for the teacher who returned. I told them I expected the same. And I gave them the same threat as the previous class.

It went pretty well.

Before I left, another middle school teacher came over to me, asking me to sub the next morning. She has a student teacher, so I won’t be bumbling along in my math-cluelessness alone.

Yeah, the students will have to see me today. And guess what? The Social Studies teacher will be teaching the subject I love nearby.

This saga is getting sagaier.

“You say yes

(I say yes)

I say no

(But I may mean no)

You say stop

(I can stay)

And I say go, go, go

(‘Til it’s time to go)”

* - McCartney, Paul; Lennon, John. Song, “Hello Goodbye”, The Beatles.

Lessons

“A kiss, a cry

Our rights, our wrongs

A moment, a love

A dream aloud…

And we won’t stop until it’s over

We won’t stop to surrender”

- McKenna, Lori. Song “Sweet Disposition” Temper Trap

When I first started the Social Studies job in September, I was overwhelmed. I had a textbook, an accompanying notebook, and two fat curriculum binders. The teacher had only introduced me to two classes before she left.

No plans, little direction.

While I was pretty sure it was impossible, I wished for the weeks to somehow fast forward like magic. Rather than experience them, I wanted to arrive at the end of them. One day at a time. I jumped from rock to rock across a wild river.

I lived for:

Assemblies

Field trips

Holidays

Weeklong breaks

Where was the teacher I had trained to be? Where was the woman who made eye contact, full of confidence at the interview? Where was the mother in me who had rules, standards and consequences?

I was ashamed at my fear.

When I came home, I was a seashell without body. Nothing left to give. Meals were mediocre, time was spare. Weary bones hit my pillow an hour earlier than before.

I had little to give as a wife, mother, and WRITER.

I clung to the textbook like a life raft, knowing I needed to loosen my grip because I wouldn’t drown without it. Even if the teacher needed it, I had to trust myself. And I had to be willing to make more time. Precious little time. To plans lessons. Innovate.

Didn’t I promise innovation in my interview?

Hadn’t I mentioned differentiated instruction to reach all students?

Some children demanded it in their own ways. Protesting against boredom. So I planned a project. And another. And another. The hallway walls became lined with evidence of learning:

A few students thanked me for the fun they’d had.

And I began to have fun too. And I relaxed.

There was less:

Stress

Work to take home

Sleep needed.

And more:

Cooking

Time for my family

WRITING.

What about discipline? Ups and downs like waves, was no way to run a classroom. I still struggle with that. But I’m getting there. In fact, this week, I get it.

Near the end.

Friday is my last day with the students as their sole teacher. Monday is the day the teacher returns. On Tuesday she takes over.

And I will go.

Students, parents, and teachers have said lovely things. I’ve received gifts. Hugs. My eyes have begun to fill up, but they haven’t yet run over.

That will come.

I ‘m glad that magic didn’t intervene to let me get past this, when I needed to go through this experience. I’ll surrender the job, but I won’t surrender:

The relationships I’ve made.

The lessons I’ve learned.

The lessons I’ve shared.

I buoy when a parent tells me a kid loves my class. Truth is, I love every single one of my students. And I will miss them. As painful of this is becoming, it is a bridge.

I won’t surrender my dreams to become a full-time teacher, or a writer.

What lessons have you learned?

What dreams are you trying to achieve?

"When we do the best that we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another."

-Helen Keller

Dates of Departure

"Delay is the deadliest form of denial."

- C. Northcote Parkinson

On 03/09, I woke up at 5:00 am. I didn’t need to wake up until 6:00 am. But school weighed on my mind like a chest infection presses on someone’s lungs. My daughter was sick on Monday, so I stayed home. Tuesday was an early release day, so I didn’t teach most of my classes. And my last day was going to be Friday. How could I possibly cram all I wanted to do with these students in three teaching days?

The emotional side was getting to me too.

Two weeks ago, one parent came in and gave me a goodbye gift because she wasn’t sure the exact day I was leaving. (At that point I wasn’t exactly sure either). She gave me a lovely potted orchid. In my card, she called me an “inspirational teacher”.

That made me feel good.

And awful.

Last week, walking the halls, I heard the line, “Dead man walking”.

It was all a ruse. This is not my school. Even though the projects my students did in my class are plastered all over the walls, these are not my classes. These are not my students.

Since February break I’ve been writing more. I’ve written more than 10k. The end of my WIP Naked Eye is on the horizon. This is what I do. When one aspect of my life is falling apart, I flee to another. Since I started on October 15^th I knew I was supposed to leave the school at the end of February/beginning of March.

“She won’t come back,” the other teachers insisted.

At first I couldn’t hear it. It was overwhelming and I couldn’t imagine making it to March, let alone June.

Then I couldn’t dare to believe it. Can’t build up hope only to have it crumble before your eyes.

In early February, I was told she would come back the first week of March. On a Friday. I teared up a little driving home. On Sunday I found out my short story would be included in 100 Stories for Queensland 100 Stories for Queensland . That softened the slap.

Remember the post way back. My first couple of weeks into the job, an 8^th-grade student (The one with the Breck Girl hair) asked, “If you’re not still here, will you come to our graduation?”

I replied, “I don’t know. I’ll try.”

Last week, the same girl asked, “Will you come to our 8^th-grade graduation?”

“I think so. I’ll have to take a day off.” She gave me a look. “But money is less important than relationships.” She smiled.

The week she’d return loomed ahead. I began asking for a specific date.

03/11.

On 03/08 I asked to confirm the date. No response.

On 03/09, the morning I woke up too early with too much on my mind, I went to my school mailbox. Inside was a card with a box of truffles. I opened the card. It read:

Dear Ms. Milstein,

I hear that Ms. (Redacted) is returning. I wanted to Thank You for taking over for her. (Student) loved your class Social Studies is his favorite subject. I'm sorry to see you leave. Hope you'll come back again.

Regards, (Redacted)

I teared up as I climbed the stairs.

1st period I spent preparing to leave material about a student whose IEP meeting I’d miss. Then I went to the office to confirm my departures date. I was told my last day on my own would be 03/11. We’d transition on 03/14. They’d just make sure.

My 2^nd period class had me laughing as they acted out African folktales. One boy agreed to play a girl part and borrowed a neon green wig. I was going to miss them.

3^rd period, I was told to call the office.

Turns out 04/04 is the new date.

Dead man got an appeal.

Looks like I get to enjoy these students a little longer.