A collision of the South and the Northwest
Continue reading “Reflections on riding the bus from an anonymous, disgruntled suburbanite”
It was a dark and stormy night. And by stormy, I mean the steady drizzle that’s characteristic of Northwest rain. The perfect kind of night for a wild goose chase. The website said the Richmond Night Market was open for business May through October. This particular weekend in October was supposed to be the final weekend. We were hoping the market would remind us of Thailand, where we ate mango and sticky rice and combed the makeshift booths for unique Asian handmade crafts like square lanterns and flowing tunic tops.
The sun rises
despite the best efforts of the clouds.
A new day introduces
itself.
“Hey look, it’s our sub!” One student shouted back to the class from the open door. She held the door open for me.
It was surprisingly comforting to find the class in complete pandemonium. It took me a second to confirm that there wasn’t a teacher in sight to hand over the baton. I was on.
Which personality would the day require? Strict disciplinarian — or witty intellectual — or compassionate adult role model? Or all of the above, perhaps?
It had been eight years since I left teaching high school for the greener pastures of marriage and a slightly nomadic, freelance life. Eight years is a long time.
When I had the substitute teacher interview, the principal said, “We don’t use a lot of subs.” So, I had sort of written it off as an option for supplementing my income. Chalked it up to interview experience and making a personal connection.
A few days later, I got a call to substitute for sixth grade. Honestly, I didn’t know if sixth grade would be middle school or elementary. Twenty-three years ago in Alabama, it was elementary. Turns out, it is middle school somewhere in between now.
I was so ready for the adventure I forgot to ask what subject it would be. I won’t make that mistake again.
Apparently, turkeys are like babies and weddings. Everyone has a traumatic story wisdom from a past experience and is just waiting for an excuse to share it. Once people knew I wanted to roast my own turkey, friends were mostly encouraging at first. I heard a chorus of “You can do it!” and started to believe it myself.
But then, the warnings began: