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When and why did we become so serious? I personally think that things began to wither when we started to be "professionals" and our administrators began to associate with the business world. It was about that time that these administrators began to prefer being called CEO's, began promoting TQM and "buying into the program," and started effectively emitting the feeling that real professionals do not laugh; oh, we do miss the "good old days."
Whenever the old days are lauded in my current school, my colleagues attribute the difference between the fun "then" and the serious "now" to a move into a new building. But I remember that same type of atmosphere then, too, even though I was in a different faculty; I remember it from a middle school 130 miles away, in the first school where I taught. The faculty at that middle school actively sought out the absurdities of life and laughed at them during our clandestine moments together in the lounge. Everyday some bizarre tidbit produced another addition to our underground humor lore; we called it "fodder."
My first addition to the story pool came two days after school began when I shared my schedule which indicated that my restroom break would be on the third Thursday from 1:00 until 1:45, but only if it didn't rain. The cafeteria supervisor added to our fun by developing a vein in her forehead if anyone asked for a larger portion. The principal, always a source of amusement, once announced that everyone would be happier if we simply didn't enter the office at all after 8:00 a.m. or before 3:20 p.m. . . . and he would assure us of this happiness by not exiting it between those times.
The school receptionist frequently contributed to the "fodder file," but she earned bonus points the day she manhandled a drunken woman from Atlanta, Georgia, who arrived in our state by way of taxi, demanding her son. (The courts, obviously having met the woman, had given her ex-husband permanent custody of the child.) Only a teacher can truly enjoy the absurdity here: Make a note, outsiders, the school receptionist is not the soft underbelly of the educational beast! We can only imagine what secret criteria personnel follows in hiring these school legends; all we knew for certain then was that our receptionist would remain unshakable, unswerving, unpleasant, and in charge—come what may. We found so much to make fun with that for a brief period the seventh grade science teacher actually published a faculty newspaper. and the search for light was not all overt; it showed itself in everyday attitudes, too.
Everyone soon found that Christmas is not a religious holiday after all; it is a deadline date for The Christmas Show. The advent of the Christmas season was to come earlier and earlier each year as we all became zealot missionaries of The Christmas Show precepts:
In retrospect, though, I think the greatest reward for our positive, find-the-silver-lining attitude was the closeness we developed with our students. These kids were in some terribly rough situations, and perhaps they recognized us as "noble allies" in their daily fight against the forces of despair.
There was one girl, we'll call Sally, who commented to her homeroom teacher that she was very sleepy because her sister, who was also her legal guardian, had had so many men in the apartment all weekend that Sally was just not able to get any rest. These men, it seems, would have "appointments" with Sally's sister at various intervals, but the sister had overbooked and the men were left to sit around in the den for long periods of time, sort of like in a barber shop. The homeroom teacher was horrified and brought the rest of us out into the hall to help. Sally repeated her story for us and silence hit; what could we say? Finally, the social studies teacher asked, "Well, Sally, what did you do?" Sally responded in a matter of fact tone that she "fried up some chicken and sold dinners." We silently decided that Sally would be fine and went back to our rooms.
Whenever I used to tell someone about those early years, I seemed to well on the many sad things that happened, but in my old age, and amid the gloom and doom on the current scent, I'm coming to value whimsy. Neil Simon's play Butterflies are Free has one of my favorite lines from drama, which nails my new attitude precisely. In the play, a middle-aged woman writer from Scarsdale who writes children's stories is introduced to a Broadway producer who reeks of sophistication and boredom. The producer tells the suburbanite children's author about his new play in which a young girl runs away to the city, becomes a prostitute and a drug addict, and commits suicide. When the woman declares that this is horrible, the producer snootily replies, "It's a part of life." "Well," she says, "So's diarrhea, but I wouldn't pay to go see it."
Well, life has gotten pretty rotten in many schools lately, and lots of our best teachers aren't willing to pay the price to come to see us anymore. What do we think would happen if we actively tried to make our faculty lounges and even, dare we say it, our classrooms, more enjoyable? Would our professional images suffer too much? Would the copier break down? Would the PTA rise up and take over? Perhaps we would simply find that the sound of laughter would be heard coming from even more rooms; that even more teachers would have fond memories of school; that we would all be stronger and more able to cope, not having been emotionally wrung out in advance by a system that applauds icy stares and silent acceptance.
In a world of school boards and "educational experts," how hard can it be to find a little humor? Humor, absurdity, and sheer mirth are all out there waiting to return. Just imagine: without raising a single tax, hearing a single consultant, or conducting a single parent conference, school can be better. So, in the words of no less noble a mind than Milton himself,
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks and wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.