Scary

I teach. It is work that outsiders see as primarily the delivery of "content" from me to the students in my classroom. Certainly, there is that in what I do. It's important to be able to share the intricacies of fractions and percentages and circumferences and probablilities... I spend my days in an intricate mixture of "science" and "performance" that is intended to seduce and reassure; to leave all my charges secure and sure of their ability to understand and master mysteries that, too often, parents, older siblings, and primary grade teachers have convinced them are beyond the ken of mere mortals...

For me, however, teaching is a work of heart. It is, from the first day of the school year to the last, about building relationships, about caring consciously and with intention, about "falling in love" with the children given to my care each year. I am convinced that unless you love them in some way that borders on "insanity," you simply cannot engage and teach middle school students. They have radar that tells them with absolute certainty whether or not you care, and if they know you don't care, you can have the wisdom of Solomon -- you won't be able to teach them a whit.

So, I work hard at getting wrapped up with "my" kids. There's a cost to that, but it is almost always worth it.

Somedays though, it scares the crap out of me. Wednesday was one of those days. It was pouring rain here; dark and dismal and damply cold. At about 2:00 in the afternoon, approaching the end of our school day, and about ten minutes into my planning period, the fire alarm sounded.

Now, we do fire drills monthly, as required by law. Our principal is obsessive about this. She is also, generally, good about trying to make the required practices as painless as possible. She works hard at choosing the day and time so that we are not flushed out of our classes into miserable weather. So, when the alarm sounded, my first thought was, "Good grief, she's lost her mind -- it's raining!"

And then it hit me -- "OH SHIT! IT'S RAINING! WE'VE GOT A PROBLEM!"

Because it was a planning period for me, I had no students in my classroom. I tore out into the hallway, and immediately I could smell the smoke... There is nothing more chilling than the smell of smoke in a school building full of children.

The kids were on the move; walking patterns drilled into them month after month, but not moving fast enough. They had a million questions: "What's happening?" "Why are we going out in the rain?" "Is there really a fire?" The noise of the alarms, and the noise of their confusion rose like the roar of ocean waves threatening to drown us all.

"MOVE!" I shouted. "GO, GO, GO!" We worked as a team, keeping them calm, moving them out and down the stairs and out into the pouring rain. We checked every room and closed doors as we went. No one flinched and no one faltered. All that practice, and a good bit of adrenaline, paid off. Every child out. Safe. Not a single injury.

It turned out to be a fire set in a bathroom trash can. A lot of smoke. A melted trash bin. No real damage and no one hurt.

Afterwards, with fire department and police officials on hand to take care of the "stuff," with the kids delivered safely into the arms of parents, with the faculty meeting to "debrief" all over and done with, and with the story told at home, I finally had time to think a bit and realize how truly scary those moments were when the well-being of all those precious children were in the hands of just us few. All week long, as we've gone back to "normal," I've carried with me a quiet song of gratitude in my heart -- that it was no worse, that it did not result in tragedy, that we were all alright.

And I've been reminded of the truth that this work I do is more than just passing on information -- that I bring so much more to the table than what I "know." I can't hug them or squeeze them or hold them close -- people would find that inappropriate and unprofessional. Still, there are days when I realize what each of their lives comes to mean to me, and it scares me.

swan