Chaos Theory
I was walking to school with leaden feet.
Though the air was fresh and still and there was not a butterfly in sight, I knew, with that sense of foreboding that only teachers of long experience have, that somewhere a butterfly had flapped its wings and I was walking out of the eye of the hurricane and into the storm.
There was an uncanny silence in the library as I side-stepped quickly into the sanctuary of the nearby washroom.
I didn’t want to emerge. I covered my eyes with my palms trying to find peace in their deeper darkness.
In the distance were voices.
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No.’
There was tension in the air.
I hoped it was nothing to do with me.
I had ahead of me quite a straight forward day: an hour to prepare and plan my lessons; an hour with two delightful Polish girls and then an afternoon with the ‘delightful’ Year 6 class.
I took a deep breath and slowly re-emerged into the library. It was already the centre of a vortex of anxiety.
‘Here she is! I need to ask you a favour.’
Many butterflies it seemed had flapped their wings.
My teacher friend who works part time had inadvertently been double booked to teach a Year 5 and a Year 1 class at the same time when the enticing orange and white butterfly had fluttered brightly by.
I was walking to school with leaden feet.
Though the air was fresh and still and there was not a butterfly in sight, I knew, with that sense of foreboding that only teachers of long experience have, that somewhere a butterfly had flapped its wings and I was walking out of the eye of the hurricane and into the storm.
There was an uncanny silence in the library as I side-stepped quickly into the sanctuary of the nearby washroom.
I didn’t want to emerge. I covered my eyes with my palms trying to find peace in their deeper darkness.
In the distance were voices.
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No.’
There was tension in the air.
I hoped it was nothing to do with me.
I had ahead of me quite a straight forward day: an hour to prepare and plan my lessons; an hour with two delightful Polish girls and then an afternoon with the ‘delightful’ Year 6 class.
I took a deep breath and slowly re-emerged into the library. It was already the centre of a vortex of anxiety.
‘Here she is! I need to ask you a favour.’
Many butterflies it seemed had flapped their wings.
My teacher friend who works part time had inadvertently been double booked to teach a Year 5 and a Year 1 class at the same time when the enticing orange and white butterfly had fluttered brightly by.
The school secretary, though she had the weekend to resolve the problem by finding a supply teacher for the Monday afternoon Year 5 lessons had been hypnotised by the power of the gatekeeper butterfly into locking the gates, ‘There’s nobody available,’ she insisted when I asked her about it later. She read through the supply list that contained only two names; both of whom were unavailable that day.
‘Nobody wants to come in just for an afternoon,’ the secretary stated.
I didn’t believe her. I’ve worked as a supply teacher and I know how precious the offer of work can be especially with the long summer holidays looming.
I looked at the telephone sleeping in its cradle and I knew she was not interested in making any effort to help.
Exactly a year to the day, the black butterfly of death had fluttered feebly, over the mother of the Year 5 teacher. Understandably the Year 5 teacher was unable to forgo her planning and preparation time, she needed to be home with her family.
My teacher friend explained how the Year 6 teacher had said she would stay and look after her Year 6 class.
‘So which class would you like, Year 5 or Year 1?
I was beginning to get the picture.
Now being offered a choice of Year 1 or Year 5 is rather like being offered a choice of two chocolates from a nearly empty box. The two that remained would not be anyone’s favourites. Should I choose the sickly strawberry cream of Year 1 or the vomiting marzipan delights of Year 5? The whirlwind of chaos whipped around me as I contemplated my choice of poisons.
My teacher friend usually taught Year 5 all afternoon. She always emerged from their classroom frayed and shattered. Her eyes had that slightly glazed expression that, apart from in the eyes of teachers, is only seen in horror films at the moment when the victim looks up and discovers that they are gazing into the eyes of the Devil himself.
‘I’ll do Year 5,’ I offered. ‘It will be a change.’
My teacher friend sighed with evident relief, and smiled, 'Thanks.'
‘I’ll go and find the Year 6 teacher and give her the work I’ve prepared for them.’ I said.
I walked down the dingy corridor under the Gothic arch into the chill Victorian part of the school. The Year 6 teacher was already in the corridor.
‘Can we talk,’ she asked. She whisked me conspiratorially into the nearby kitchen. She was close to tears. ‘I’m not happy about this,’ she said. ‘I’ve so much to do. I really needed my planning time.’
‘I’ll put both classes together and do both,’ I heard myself saying.
‘Are you sure?’ the Year 6 teacher asked.
I nodded, wondering at the same time if I could ever switch off my altruistic gene. What was I thinking? Year 5 with Year 6? That’s like mixing fire with petrol.
The Year 6 teacher sighed with evident relief, and smiled. ‘What will you do?’
‘Well, I guess I could show them a DVD if I can find one. I’ve never shown one before and I guess this is an emergency; but I haven’t brought my laptop and I can’t go home at lunch time to get it as I walked in today.’
‘You can use my lap top,’ the Year 6 teacher said happily beaming.
‘I have some DVDs at home,’ the classroom assistant said later. ‘I’ll bring one in for you at lunchtime.’
It all seemed sorted.
At break I tried to diplomatically remind the classroom assistant about her promise.
‘You are not going back home at lunchtime just for the DVD are you?’ I asked innocently, trying hard to mask my rising panic. What would I do if she forgot?
‘No, I often go home for lunch,’ she replied.
With five minutes before the start of the afternoon lesson I am pacing the corridors looking out for a glimpse of the classroom assistant.
There’s no sign of her,
I pick up the two registers just as she appears.
‘Oh,’ she says as soon as she sees me. ‘The DVD! I forgot it! I’ll go home straight away and get it.’
A lazy brown butterfly flaps against the window.
With a sinking heart I lead the two classes from the playground and call out their names from the registers.
They are at flashpoint.
The slightest spark, the tiniest flame and they will erupt.
Someone has told them that they are going to watch a DVD. They are expectant.
‘What are we going to watch?’ someone asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply honestly.
‘She doesn’t know,’ he broadcasts to the rest of the group.
‘Are we going to watch Grease?’ he asks.
‘I don’t think so,’ I reply. I’m hoping for something more suitable for nine and ten year olds.
‘We are not going to watch Grease,’ he broadcasts to the rest of the group. He’s revelling in the attention he’s getting. As my frowns deepen his smiles become broader. He likes this game. He must have been a town crier in a previous incarnation.
At that moment the door opens and the classroom assistant, who is also one of the school governors hands me a DVD. I thank her and look at the box. It’s Grease!
‘It’s Grease!’ The town crier announces.
There are cheers.
The computer reluctantly loads up the DVD taking more time than usual. Eventually a screen appears, but there’s no sound!
I check cables, as the discontent behind my back rumbles.
I check plugs, as the menacing malcontents behind me mutter belligerently
I check switches, as impatient voices call out ‘helpful’ scornful suggestions.
A cherubic Year Five boy presses something and we suddenly have sound.
There are cheers and the class settles.
After ten seconds the DVD freezes.
I wait nervously studying the still from the film with interest.
After a ten second pause it begins again.
And then freezes.
I console myself that it seems to freeze whenever there is an interesting expression on John Travolta’s face.
Then I hear the language on the film and cringe inwardly.
‘Look at me I’m Sandra Dee, Lousy with virginity.’
I’m hoping that it will all go over their heads.
Some of the Muslim girls are looking at me. They are as uncomfortable with the film as I am. There will be a fatwa against me as soon as their parents get to hear about it.
The song grinds mercilessly on. Still it can’t get any worse.
‘Look at me….’ Rizzo sings.
The classroom door opens…
‘I’m Sandra Dee.’
The Head walks in with…
‘Lousy with…’
an inspector…
‘virginity! ’
‘What a lot of children,’ the Head exclaims.
I’m shocked and speechless.
‘Music,’ I finally blurt out.
The Head gives me a withering glance and I wither.
She closes the door on me living me entombed in my living Hell. I wistfully think of the lesson I had planned to teach on the theme of ‘Peace’ and the poems I had prepared for the groups. The chaos butterfly beats around my head and spins me into fractals of despair.
There is however a silver lining: the ten second pauses means the film does indeed last all afternoon. I’ve watched every second of the clock. It has been the longest afternoon of my life. The children have sung the songs with relish. They are apparently learning some of them in their music lessons.
It’s an afternoon I’d like to forget.
Two days later I am in my garden enjoying the evening light when in the distance I hear a familiar song. It’s the Year 6 boy who unfortunately lives just three doors up from me.
‘Look at me….’ he sings.
I cringe…
‘I’m Sandra Dee.’
He’s singing to his little sister…
‘Lousy with…’
Oh no…
‘virginity! ’
‘Do you know what that means?’ he asks her. His voice is loud and it is travelling for miles.
I hide behind the buddleia listening.
‘It means… ‘
Argghhhh!
A peacock butterfly flutters against my face.
I was beginning to get the picture.
Now being offered a choice of Year 1 or Year 5 is rather like being offered a choice of two chocolates from a nearly empty box. The two that remained would not be anyone’s favourites. Should I choose the sickly strawberry cream of Year 1 or the vomiting marzipan delights of Year 5? The whirlwind of chaos whipped around me as I contemplated my choice of poisons.
My teacher friend usually taught Year 5 all afternoon. She always emerged from their classroom frayed and shattered. Her eyes had that slightly glazed expression that, apart from in the eyes of teachers, is only seen in horror films at the moment when the victim looks up and discovers that they are gazing into the eyes of the Devil himself.
‘I’ll do Year 5,’ I offered. ‘It will be a change.’
My teacher friend sighed with evident relief, and smiled, 'Thanks.'
‘I’ll go and find the Year 6 teacher and give her the work I’ve prepared for them.’ I said.
I walked down the dingy corridor under the Gothic arch into the chill Victorian part of the school. The Year 6 teacher was already in the corridor.
‘Can we talk,’ she asked. She whisked me conspiratorially into the nearby kitchen. She was close to tears. ‘I’m not happy about this,’ she said. ‘I’ve so much to do. I really needed my planning time.’
‘I’ll put both classes together and do both,’ I heard myself saying.
‘Are you sure?’ the Year 6 teacher asked.
I nodded, wondering at the same time if I could ever switch off my altruistic gene. What was I thinking? Year 5 with Year 6? That’s like mixing fire with petrol.
The Year 6 teacher sighed with evident relief, and smiled. ‘What will you do?’
‘Well, I guess I could show them a DVD if I can find one. I’ve never shown one before and I guess this is an emergency; but I haven’t brought my laptop and I can’t go home at lunch time to get it as I walked in today.’
‘You can use my lap top,’ the Year 6 teacher said happily beaming.
‘I have some DVDs at home,’ the classroom assistant said later. ‘I’ll bring one in for you at lunchtime.’
It all seemed sorted.
At break I tried to diplomatically remind the classroom assistant about her promise.
‘You are not going back home at lunchtime just for the DVD are you?’ I asked innocently, trying hard to mask my rising panic. What would I do if she forgot?
‘No, I often go home for lunch,’ she replied.
With five minutes before the start of the afternoon lesson I am pacing the corridors looking out for a glimpse of the classroom assistant.
There’s no sign of her,
I pick up the two registers just as she appears.
‘Oh,’ she says as soon as she sees me. ‘The DVD! I forgot it! I’ll go home straight away and get it.’
A lazy brown butterfly flaps against the window.
With a sinking heart I lead the two classes from the playground and call out their names from the registers.
They are at flashpoint.
The slightest spark, the tiniest flame and they will erupt.
Someone has told them that they are going to watch a DVD. They are expectant.
‘What are we going to watch?’ someone asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply honestly.
‘She doesn’t know,’ he broadcasts to the rest of the group.
‘Are we going to watch Grease?’ he asks.
‘I don’t think so,’ I reply. I’m hoping for something more suitable for nine and ten year olds.
‘We are not going to watch Grease,’ he broadcasts to the rest of the group. He’s revelling in the attention he’s getting. As my frowns deepen his smiles become broader. He likes this game. He must have been a town crier in a previous incarnation.
At that moment the door opens and the classroom assistant, who is also one of the school governors hands me a DVD. I thank her and look at the box. It’s Grease!
‘It’s Grease!’ The town crier announces.
There are cheers.
The computer reluctantly loads up the DVD taking more time than usual. Eventually a screen appears, but there’s no sound!
I check cables, as the discontent behind my back rumbles.
I check plugs, as the menacing malcontents behind me mutter belligerently
I check switches, as impatient voices call out ‘helpful’ scornful suggestions.
A cherubic Year Five boy presses something and we suddenly have sound.
There are cheers and the class settles.
After ten seconds the DVD freezes.
I wait nervously studying the still from the film with interest.
After a ten second pause it begins again.
And then freezes.
I console myself that it seems to freeze whenever there is an interesting expression on John Travolta’s face.
Then I hear the language on the film and cringe inwardly.
‘Look at me I’m Sandra Dee, Lousy with virginity.’
I’m hoping that it will all go over their heads.
Some of the Muslim girls are looking at me. They are as uncomfortable with the film as I am. There will be a fatwa against me as soon as their parents get to hear about it.
The song grinds mercilessly on. Still it can’t get any worse.
‘Look at me….’ Rizzo sings.
The classroom door opens…
‘I’m Sandra Dee.’
The Head walks in with…
‘Lousy with…’
an inspector…
‘virginity! ’
‘What a lot of children,’ the Head exclaims.
I’m shocked and speechless.
‘Music,’ I finally blurt out.
The Head gives me a withering glance and I wither.
She closes the door on me living me entombed in my living Hell. I wistfully think of the lesson I had planned to teach on the theme of ‘Peace’ and the poems I had prepared for the groups. The chaos butterfly beats around my head and spins me into fractals of despair.
There is however a silver lining: the ten second pauses means the film does indeed last all afternoon. I’ve watched every second of the clock. It has been the longest afternoon of my life. The children have sung the songs with relish. They are apparently learning some of them in their music lessons.
It’s an afternoon I’d like to forget.
Two days later I am in my garden enjoying the evening light when in the distance I hear a familiar song. It’s the Year 6 boy who unfortunately lives just three doors up from me.
‘Look at me….’ he sings.
I cringe…
‘I’m Sandra Dee.’
He’s singing to his little sister…
‘Lousy with…’
Oh no…
‘virginity! ’
‘Do you know what that means?’ he asks her. His voice is loud and it is travelling for miles.
I hide behind the buddleia listening.
‘It means… ‘
Argghhhh!
A peacock butterfly flutters against my face.
No comments:
Post a Comment