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Have You Held Your Sides Today?
A Question for the Teacher's Lounge
Jo Etta Chewning
Wilson High School
Florence, SC
The sound of laughter coming from a faculty lounge tells a great
deal about what's going in there: there is a real sense of community,
people are generally at ease, and they're probably afraid that someone
walking by will be displeased. We have somehow fallen under the unwritten
rule that laughter and fun are equal to wasting time.
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:
- All teachers can teach one aspect of performance.
- All students can DO some aspect of performance.
- All parents think that a good show is equal to education.
- Most importantly of all, preparing for The Christmas Show is less like work and more like fun than anything we do any other time.
I was also introduced to what has sadly become a lost celebration,
the Spring Film Festival. The arrival of the first warm days signaled the time for a trip to the district media center to borrow the reel-to-reel and several wonderful science films. I think "Weather" was my favorite, but "Mr. Hemo, the Story of Blood" was always a show-stopper. Four classes of sixth graders at a time were taken to a darkened cafeteria where they would watch film after film after film. There was always extra time for the films to be seen backwards.
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.
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