First Year Teaching
By AngryGirlWhoDoesYoga on July 25, 2014
This August I'm going to be 40 and it's going to be my 11th year teaching. I don't know why I didn't write a ten year one, I guess I don't care about even numbers.
For some reason I got to thinking about what my first year teaching. Ahhh, the memories: student teaching, mentor teachers, funny mishaps. hahaha. Except none of those things happened to me. It not only wasn't funny, it wasn't fun and I wanted to die. I never did any student teaching, my department chairs were old, mean, withered bitches, and at one point that first year, I pooped my pants.
Let's skip right to the poop. Sometimes I tell people the story of how I peed my pants laughing a couple times in my life, but peeing and pooping on oneself are two different socially acceptable stories.
My life out in Portable 8 in Brandon, Florida was a lonely existence. I couldn't hear any fire drills or announcements so I never really knew what the hell was going on. I also had never planned on being a teacher before and the first time I set foot in that high school, was the first time I'd been in a high school since I was actually IN high school, in 1992. I was a nervous, panicked wreck and luckily they put me in a portable classroom that looked like a cleared out trailer on blocks far far away from any bathrooms, people, or help. I got to calling it a trailer and had a Home Ec. kid make me red neck curtains for the windows that didn't open. If it rained, I had to take the entire class inside to another classroom where they would freak out and not listen. Good times.
Anyway, the day in question started as any other. The boyfriend I lived with was addicted to porn and possibly gay, so naturally I drank a lot at night and went to sleep late. That morning my stomach was upset. I went to school to write things I knew nothing about on the chalkboard. With chalk. Whenever I wrote on the chalk board though, my writing would start straight and then go straight down for reasons I never understood. My hand quits functioning when I write on a board. Still.
Consequently, the gay porn addict, beer, and coffee didn't mix. My stomach started to growl and shooting pains coursed through my stomach. I got up to walk it off when it happened. IT happened Bridesmaid's movie style but in a classroom not in the street. I had pooped my pants in my trailer with a piece of chalk in my hand. I had to walk what seemed like a mile with poop in my pants to the front office where I had to lie and say my gay boyfriend got in a car accident and I needed to pick him up, but I'm sure he's fine because he was able to use the phone and I'll be right back, I swear, bye. I ran out of there hoping they didn't smell the stench of poop on me. Then, I had to sit, yes, sit down in my car to drive the 10 minutes back home where I threw away everything I was wearing from the waist down in the big garbage outside.
Teaching is scary. It will, literally, scare the shit out of you. Maybe you have a bad class or four kids with ADHD in one class, whatever it is, it will get better. You might almost pee your pants between classes, cry, swear, and drink too much at night, but you're not really stressed out enough until you've pooped on yourself in a trailer in the back of a school in Florida. I win.
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