Dramatic Irony

Well, the inevitable happened--that is life gave me a little unexpected push and now I have to see if I will stand or fall. Things were going really well, my kids were rocking their academic work, behavior was under control (taken in context of course), I was happy and adjusted and still working a lot, but I felt really effective and like my force exerted was somewhat equal to the weight of the product. So today, when I walked upstairs to my informal school PD meeting, my mind was wandering to my to-do list, my weekend plans and the other insubstantial grains of existence that pollute the mind in downtime. As narcissistic as this absolutely sounds, sometimes I like to imagine this moment as a small scene in a work of fiction, where the readers all know what is about to happen, but the main character is completely oblivious--a little dramatic irony. I took a seat and as my principal began to form words and sentences, I thought to myself that I wished the chair was more comfortable and the air less chilly. However, those thoughts did not cross my mind again when these words escaped her mouth, "Our school is closing in December"

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(Now please entertain me as I overly dramatize this event and use hyperbolic language to recreate the event in a way that somehow comforts my now hurting body and soul.)

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It was like a near death experience in some ways. I thought back to the first weekend before the school opened, walking into the building with my principal one late afternoon to see a completely empty, less than impressive and seemingly massive building with the clear expectation that by Monday, it would be our school. It terrified me then. Such a large classroom, I had no idea how I would fill it with activities and children and lessons to fill such a long day and as far as I could tell, the playground did not exist. That weekend went by so quickly, I scavenged for the absolute barest of essentials, some wall decor, chairs, a rug, desks, anything to make this look like a school. By Monday I had something, but it felt like nothing.

As the weeks went on and I was able to exhale for the first time in a long while (probably mid-August), I have memories of staying at the school until 7, 8, 9 pm every single night, spending hours setting up outdoor hall decorations, creating centers from scratch, going back and adding order and systems to the original hodge podge that was my class. The church deacons knew me by my other name, that Pre-K workaholic who constantly begs us for just five more minutes.

I thought about that morning in September when the police escorted me out of my own place of work for setting off the building alarm because I was dumb enough to come into work on a Saturday morning during a tropical storm and over Labor Day weekend. But I just had to work to do, I had to finish the classroom that was never really set up in July.

My mind wandered to every nook and cranny in the building that I know like not even as my second home, but as my first home. I know the hole in the wall that J loves to stick his finger in. I know the unattached and surely hazardous large pole of wires that T loves to pull on when his tantrums reach their height. I know the birthday display in the hallway that inevitably results in at least three of my kids falling down the stairs from staring at the pictures of themselves. The same display that I have fallen down looking at on the weekends when I am at school alone, wondering if my kids are safe and healthy at home.

I remembered the days when my entire staff walked all over the lower ninth ward passing out fliers for our school to get more first, second and kinder students enrolled so that we would not be shut down. I remember how I was actually not invited because my coworkers were not so subtly trying to set me up with a summer intern and requested I stay behind with him and the remaining students. That one sure feels ironic now.

I love my school. Sure we don't have a janitor, but just a lady who mops about once a week. Sure we don't have a playground, but instead a giant field that frequently fills with sewage. Sure we don't have internet or adult toilets or even appropriately sized chairs for my students. We lacked in so many ways, but it was my home, my comfort, my family in New Orleans. We were small, understaffed and lacking resources, but our kids were learning, our families appreciated our work and we were doing some great things in our small little corner of the church building.

Okay, so obviously all these thoughts didn't pass my mind between, "Our school is closing" and the follow up sentences explaining what would happen next, but does it not sound so poetic when I pretend it did?

So here is the result. My principal will be co-principal at one school in our charter and the Kinder teacher will take her class there as well. The 1st/2nd teacher will become an interventionist at the same school--her kids will be spread out among different teachers. The Pre-K team will move with our two Pre-K classes to the other school in our charter. Obviously, parents do not have to keep their kids in the school; however, there are no other Pre-K classes open at the time, so I hope and pray I will get to keep my kids.

So yes, I am being dramatic for no reason, I realize. I have a job. I have my students. So why complain? However, I have what I feel are relevant worries. It took so long for me to build my classroom and now I am faced with the task of transferring it. My children need consistency and I worry about what will happen to them with these big changes. I love my coworkers and I hate that half of my team, including my leader will be displaced. I think the hardest part though is that we are losing that small school feeling. I know the name of every single student in my school, who is related to whom and I have a general sense of where they are academically. It is inevitable in such a small school for this to happen.

But there are upsides. My kids will have resources (computers, playgrounds, janitors, behavior interventionists, so many unknown pleasures!), I will meet more hopefully awesome coworkers, I will be able to go to my school WHENEVER, not just when the church is open, it is closer to Wal-Mart (I know that sentence seems to lack class, but Wal-Mart is my one stop shop) and there are many more resources for teachers too. So it will be okay.

Today though, I will mourn. I will cry and yell and show all sorts of emotions I seldom display because today it hurts. In December on my probable 50th car load back and forth from school to school, I will curse and hate the world. In January, when my students discover all sorts of new ways to act out and lose focus in the big school, I will shake my fist and say I told you so. But in the end, I will not fall, I will just make do. Just like how we transformed our little corner of the church building from a empty, freshly waxed floor to a lively and engaging series of classrooms, I will take this change in stride. Because at the end of the day, no matter what curveballs life decides to throw to me (or at me), I will not give up on my kids. I will be their consistency and stability when life refuses to hold them upright. I will.

"It's a lack of faith that makes people afraid of meeting challenges. And I believed in myself." -Muhammad Ali