I know she was trying to offer me some sympathy for my plight. She's young, not even 21, and not all that skillful a communicator. Under normal circumstances, I would just let a comment like that slide. But now, operating on the premise that any moment can be a teaching moment, I bit back.
“You are assuming you know how I feel by looking at me,” I said. Actually, I wasn't feeling all that bad. No worse than normal anyway, and certainly not as bad as you might expect considering I'm losing my job in two days.
“Oh, sorry!” the student exclaimed. “I didn't mean...”
I almost started to explain how I have a permanent frown line between my eyebrows that makes me appear as though I'm always scowling or perhaps like I'm about to hurl. But my enthusiasm for the teaching moment deflated as fast as it had bubbled up, and I just let it go. Nobody cares how I look or how I feel. Everyone is completely preoccupied with how he or she is experiencing the closing of our campus and the prospect of what is to come.
Mella came to work with a new attitude yesterday, after a hard weekend of mourning the loss of her job. She apparently was in denial about the finality of the layoff. Now I'm wondering, maybe she really did incite students to post those flyers: Save Mella! Maybe it was a last ditch effort to manipulate the school into taking her back. When the flyer ploy failed to do anything except raise the wrath of Mr. Freeper, the awful reality became too real to ignore. She said she cried all day Sunday. But the new Mella is funnier than hell. She wasn't moping anymore. She snickered at our snarky jokes and bitter jibes and delivered some jabs of her own. If only Mr. Freeper and Ms. Sic-em could have been here to hear our futile naughtiness. Har har har.We rebel in small ways. For example, we are dressing down. Sheryl wears denim to work now, although her version of denim is embroidered with flowers. Way to go, Sheryl, that's rebellion against the dress code! I'd love to see her in a pair of hole-riddled, dirt-encrusted Levis. (I'd wear mine if my ass wasn't too big to fit them.) Mella has a wardrobe of school-logo polo shirts in pastel colors. I'm going to encourage her to set them on fire on the smoker's patio. Maybe we can trigger the fire alarm. That would be a treat during finals week, eh?
No, not really. I like to think I'm such a rebel, such a chronic malcontent, past hope. The truth is, I fear people see me more clearly than I see myself. Maybe. Maybe not. Dave, our extroverted security guard (Oh! My! God! Carol's in the house!) said he would miss me. I think he might have felt obligated to say that due to an awkward moment when I asked him if he was looking forward to going to Wilsonville. He didn't want to appear too chipper, since he remains employed while do not, so I'm guessing he felt compelled to say something nice.
And then he experienced an escalation of commitment and said, “I'm going to miss your positive...” He trailed off, at a loss for words, maybe hoping I would fill in the blank for him, like my students do when taking tests. I just looked at him. I could have said, my positive...ly snarky attitude? My positive... ly scowling expression? I didn't. I just thanked him and moved away down the hall, so he didn't feel obligated to continue to dig up platitudes that neither one of us believed.
Look at me! What did I just say? I am assuming I know what he was feeling. Ha. (We know what happens when we assume, yada yada.) Actually, now that I think about it, knowing Dave, I could be standing over a dead body with a bloody hammer in my hand, and he would choose to believe in my innocence. That's Dave. He assumes the best. I assume the worst. Somewhere in the middle is reality, but who cares anymore?
