On the H-Bomb, the Queen of Hearts, and a Tormented Self

Abstract

I WAS ALREADY sitting up in bed when the ear-piercing scream woke me. Someone was in trouble, and that someone was near. At first, I didn't know where I was. The room was pitch dark. I opened my eyes wider, hoping to find enough light to recognize my surroundings. Through the blackness, I saw something blinking in the distance. I squinted my eyes, and green flashing numbers came into focus. . . . appeared over and over again. That brought me some measure of comfort. I was pretty sure I knew where I was. Unless I was mistaken, I was looking at my VCR clock. It had been flashing 12:00 since the day I brought it home from the store -- five years ago. The scream was still ringing in my ears. Something in the scream was familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It was not a scream of physical pain, I realized, but rather the cry of a woman on the edge, a woman struggling to hold on as she felt self-control slipping from her grasp. I shivered. A tormented soul, I thought. Without considering my own safety, I knew I had to do something to help. I threw aside my toasty electric blanket and swung my legs over the side of the bed. As I stretched my toes in search of my warm, fuzzy slippers, the scream stopped. I was now fully awake. This is really getting old, I growled as I tucked myself back under the covers. Of course the scream had been familiar. It is the traditional end of a recurring nightmare that I've had probably a hundred times over the past 15 years. I was born to teach. And I love it, I really do. I love the smell of new shoes on the first day of school, the electricity of the first snowfall, the sugar high on the day after Trick or Treat, getting ready for open house and having parent conferences, seeing my kids in community parades, going on field trips, listening to custodians lecture when the sink gets clogged with plaster, having papier-mache stuck to the bottom of my shoe, and watching a 5-year-old wipe his nose on the pocket of my new red sweater. I love the day a child realizes he can read, and the day he tells his first very unfunny joke. I love the intimacy of little inside jokes, having my students tell me when I've been unjust, helping them make their own ideas happen, and seeing 20 or more individual I's grow into the beauty of our classroom we. Sure, sure, schools are tough, far-from-perfect, challenging places. Some things about them are even depressing, and much about them these days seems senseless. But I didn't say schools are perfect. I said I love to teach. I've always been an unconventional teacher. Never used textbooks or had a teacher's desk. No contests, no gold stars, no redbird reading groups, no rows, no school-supply decorations, and certainly no stereotyped jack-o'-lanterns, paper-bag Thanksgiving Indian vests, or ditto coloring sheets. The kids and I do just fine without them. And because parents can see their kids learning and because they too are included in our classroom we, they are supportive. But oh, how others worry. One year I attended a three-day conference. While I was gone, a law-and-order substitute decided to teach my kids some manners. When I returned, the desks had been placed in horrifyingly straight rows. As the children filed into the room from the playground, they walked robotically to their desks and stood behind their chairs waiting . . . just What are you guys doing? I asked. Alvin, a tall, big-hearted boy and the class' moral conscience, spoke up. Well, Miss Starnes, he said, Heath [the sub] said that if we respected you, we would stand behind our chairs until you sat down at your desk. So we're waiting. I'm sure my eyes immediately grew to the size of saucers. With visions of my hands wrapped tightly around Mr. Heath's scrawny little neck, I reminded the kids that they showed me respect in lots of ways and that this need not be one of them. …