Nobody Likes a Mercenary

The term substitute teacher doesn’t work for me. Teachers know their students since they spend six hours of the day together. Teachers have a vision of how lessons, units, and curricula fit together. Teachers know the subject matter they’ve studied and taught for years. Substitute teachers know an outdated, alphabetical list of full legal names; their vision is crusty-eyed from the jarring 6:15 am wake-up call; and their subject knowledge consists of bulleted instructions on a Post-It Note dictated to the school secretary. How can the one be a substitute for the other? Sub is better: sub, as in subpar or subhuman – “less than, degenerate.” Or sub, as in subbasement or subzero – “under, beneath.” It’s the traditional location of Hell. But when I subbed, I quietly preferred “mercenary teacher.” Have chalk, will travel. Write referrals, ask questions later. Do anything if the pay is right.

I am, of course, being a bit facetious. There were good days subbing – but there’s also a good reason why, at the end of three years, I traded in that chalk for the simple life on a cube farm. This tale is a series of bad moments in mercenary teaching that (hindsight required) make a funny story.

My falling out with Nikki began during a vocab quiz in Mrs. Mahoney’s English class. Before handing out papers, I made a quick pre-test room tour. Nikki’s front row desk was dutifully cleared… but there, sitting not-so-discretely atop her schoolbooks on the floor, was her vocab definition sheet. “Oh, Nikki,” I said as I passed, “You should put that away.” She looked at me with surprise. “Oh, I don’t think you were intending to look at those,” I assured her in a tone that I hoped conveyed good humor. The class had just had a few moments to study – this faux-pas could be absentmindedness. “We just need to be sure everything is on the up-and-up.” I couldn’t quite read her expression, but she stooped to rearrange the books. Moments later I glanced down as I distributed the papers. The notes were mostly covered… but a good third of the page stuck out the end. Hmm. “Nikki, let me just straighten these up…” This time I stooped to put the math book squarely over the English notes. “We don’t want even the smallest temptation crouching at your door.” This time my humor was less good and more sarcastic. This time her look was less ambiguous and more glaring.

Halfway through the ten minute quiz, I made a final circuit around the room. (For the record, Mrs. Mahoney specifically requested heavy patrolling. Like I said: teachers know their students.) The math book was completely removed; the English notes were in plain sight. The time for humor had passed: “Alright, Nikki, give me your paper – you’re done.”

Now, here’s the thing: There are different types of kids who get in trouble in class. Some know they do bad things – they want to be bad – and they accept trouble because it’s all part of their bad shtick. I assure you: those kids are difficult… but their odd understanding of justice means there’s a simplicity to dealing with them.

Nikki was not one of those kids.

“What???”

“Your notes are out again.”

“I didn’t look at them!” I noticed she also didn’t look at them now to register surprise that they were uncovered. I took her test paper. “UGH!!!” She exchanged CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS??? glances with friends on either side. “You are totally not fair!” I was halfway back to my desk when she abruptly switched tactics. “OK, fine, I’ll put them away again, just let me finish. Please!”

“No, Nikki. I gave you two warnings and you took them out again anyway.”

“UGH!! But I didn’t even look at them!!”

“Well, take it up with Mrs. Mahoney tomorrow.”

And that was it: from that point onward, I was the black rider on the pale horse. It didn’t matter if she was talking during silent reading time, or shuffling in 20 seconds after the bell, or demanding more time to scribble answers on an uncompleted homework assignment being collected; and it didn’t matter if I were stone-faced, lighthearted, hardnosed, or quick-forgiving: everything I said to her was proof positive that I hated her. Which is to say, she hated me.

We started seeing a lot of each other. Sub-callers tend to establish patterns for their substitute teachers, and someone in the main office decided I was well-suited for Nikki’s grade. The epitome was when I was a rotating sub for all of Grade 10. Each period I filled in for a different teacher as he or she attended administration meetings. Nikki strode into bio class that morning (barely before the bell) to find that I was her teacher for the third time in as many periods. “What the….!!” I beamed and waved. (I was trying light-hearted that day.) “Hi again, Nikki!!” If my normal subbing was a sign that I hated her, this was a sign that the universe hated her. She swore, not-quite discretely, but I let it go. To be honest, my thoughts weren’t much different.

You can be forced into a black hat only so many times before you start to feel the villain. I confess: by the end of the year, I was weary of Nikki.

Our final encounter was in early June. O June! That educational dustbowl!! For the reasons stated earlier, teachers rarely entrust subs with real schoolwork September to May; in the last 3 weeks of school, even busywork turns to tumbleweed. On this particular day, the students had a field trip for the last three periods. No teacher will plan serious lessons when half of her classes won’t even have a go at them. Mrs. Mahoney asked that I take attendance, collect homework, and then watch the students sink into utter chaos. (She used the term “study hall” in the lesson plan.)

Nikki’s class was the last one before the trip. Normally I do my best to make the students work or at least keep quiet during study hall, but given the circumstances I was quite lax. Most kids sat in small groups chatting. I also loosened up and let them visit their lockers one-at-a-time in preparation for early dismissal. One boy asked to get his jacket; on his return, a girl asked to drop off her books; on her return, Nikki approached my desk. “Hi,” she said, (almost) pleasantly. “Can I go to my locker?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem, Nikki. What do you need from your locker?”

“Nothing.” She giggled to one of her friends nearby.

“Nothing?” I looked at her in disbelief.

“I don’t know… no, nothing, really.”

The wind whipped dust through the space between us. Somewhere, a dog barked. I drew my piece and shot.

“No, Nikki, you may not go to your locker.”

“WHAT???” She was morally outraged. “You’re letting everyone else go!!!”

And I lost it! There are very few times while subbing that I felt I lost my composure and gave voice to frustration; this was one. “Come on, Nikki – what the heck am I supposed to do?? It’s an easy day, but I can’t let you just wander around for no reason! So we play this game: You come up and ask to leave. I ask you why and you give me SOME SORT of cockamamie excuse. Then: I can let you go. Honestly, you could have said just about anything and I would have said ‘yes.’ But you didn’t. You didn’t play your part of the game, and so I must say ‘no.’”

“Well, my shoes, then! I need to change into my flip-flops!!”

I gave her my best withering glance. (And, three years a sub, I had some pretty good ones on hand.) “I’m sorry, Nikki: it’s too late. You lost the game. Better luck next time.”

And I’m sure her luck was better the next time: that summer I broke for high timber and moved to Ithaca – and away from substitute teaching for good.