Field Trippin'

Of all the nonsense that befell Unity over the following months, nothing frightened me more than the sight of the kids stumbling to the edge of the highway, ready to play Frogger with speeding yuppies from Kingsmill and weekend historians.

The man behind us shouting on his cell had already called the police by the time we left the deli. Ms. Jane was screaming for the kids to return when he noticed us. Ms. P and Catherine were still buying snacks on the opposite end of the plaza. Sporting a greasy comb-over and a haunting odor of Axe body spray, the man – who I will forever christen as Little Pesci – addressed me first, obviously mistaking me for the leader of educational band; although it was Ms. Jane who answered.

“Are those your children?” he asked. He had this way of saying ‘your’ like an old woman in a Pollyanna movie, as if only the children’s guardians would possibly summon a pack of middle school students from rushing headlong into traffic and playing dodgeball with a Buick. That fact that he happened to be right only proved the guy was a total prick as well as an idiot.

“They are our students,” Jane answered quickly. “We’re teachers on a field trip.”

“Your . . . students caused quite a disturbance here. One of them even attacked me,” he shouted. “I’ve already called the police.”

So the day before went pretty well. We avoided almost all forms of prosecution and harassment, which at this point in our story seems quite an accomplishment.

September in Virginia opened with several weeks of cold, windy storms which by the time of our field trip had all but vanished, evaporating into sunshine, dense humid air and temperatures that soared into the upper 90s. Regrettably, anticipating another windy wet week, I had stuffed my bag with long pants, long-sleeve shirts, and no shorts. Dang. Yet despite the mild discomfort of trekking through a steamy Colonial Williamsburg while wrapped like a foiled potato, the day passed pleasantly enough.

Any day spent outside the chaos and commotion of the classroom . . . well, I'd sacrifice a sizable chunk of my paycheck for more field trips.

Of course, this was no ordinary field trip. Every year at Unity, 7th and 8th grade students attend a four-day overnight camping trip. The destination alternates every year between Chesapeake Bay (science) and Colonial Williamsburg (history). The fall of 2010 marked a history year, granting the kids a chance to explore colonial America (as well as the Busch Gardens amusement park) and affording the teachers four nights without Chesapeake mosquitoes and leeches.

When others imagine camping, their minds flip to campfires, S'mores, the smell of pine, and nights staring at constellations unfiltered by city lights. My mind recalls weekend excursions with my 4-H troop, bending plastic poles through polyester tarps, contraptions Native Americans constructed centuries ago with saplings and spears to skewer Bambi’s great-great-great-grandmother, now employed to shelter suburban children from rainstorms and to coax sleep on cold damp earth while whispering prayers that the stakes you drove a half-inch into the wet ground hours earlier do not decide to slip loose and transform the tarp, stake, plastic rod, Oreo cookies, child, and kerosene lamp into a flaming snare of delicious chocolate death. L.L. Bean has much to answer for!

Luckily, the school cared enough to invest in cabins. Not particularly large cabins, mind you; in fact, if you stand up right now, walk over to the window, and stare at your tool shed . . . yeah, give it a nice long gander . . . that’s about the size of our cabins in Williamsburg. We stuffed about four people into each of those sweat boxes, adorned with one bed, two bunk-beds and little else. Oh and a small deck outside, which overlooked the dense forest that surrounded the trailer park. At any given moment, I expected Jason Voorhees to come calling for a cup of sugar and some ritual sacrifice. It did not help that most of the park appeared deserted, less empty and more abandoned like a small town after a nuclear apocalypse.

Still, they had a pool, clean and free of radiation. And a giant inflatable trampoline, upon which the kids spent hours jumping and flipping. Thus, all things considered, it wasn’t that bad.

Walking through Jamestown and the historical sections of Williamsburg, we witnessed a colonial courtroom, shopped for tricornes (three-cornered hats) in the marketplace, and listened to a lecture on Shakespearean theater in colonial America. Afterwards we left the dirt streets and returned to the camp-site to swim and cut back.

Even with the kids distracted, I found it difficult to relax. Too often Ms. P -- our drama teacher and elected leader -- would allow two or three of the kids to visit the convenience store unaccompanied, or to visit the pool alone. Now as mentioned prior, the campgrounds appeared practically empty; apart from a few neighbors who had rented the cabin across from us, and two or three campers that had arrived overnight, we were alone. Nevertheless, growing up with a rather over-protective mother, I developed into a paranoid, overly anxious adult with major trust issues.

As far as I was concerned, dozens of potential pedophiles and sociopaths lurked behind every tree and Porta-potty, waiting for our momentary inattention to attack and murder our kids. As such, I wasn’t letting them out of my sight.

Much could be said – and was – of my fears, flimsily constructed from the mental flotsam of Lifetime movies and James Patterson novels. Certainly the offered freedom rewarded the children with some independence and trust, valuable resources to children often labeled as irresponsible and lazy. Even more, the student’s liberty afforded the teachers an hour escape from the limitless energy of the kids to pause their lectures and collect their sanity. How summer camp volunteers survive, I could not fathom. By the night of the second day, when Ms. P furtively poured wine into my Dixie cup as the kids tended the fire, I felt the exhaustion and anxiety crack ever so slightly.

So the following day we had planned to visit Busch Gardens, the amusement park built by the American beer company. If the DMV was sponsored by such auspicious benefactors, traffic court would prove far more pleasant. Yet instead of bear pong, quarters, and other forms of alcohol-related amusement, the Busch family elected to construct their carnival around European nations, adorning each ‘land’ with flags, costumes and a bevy of roller coasters and flumes.

We played around at the campsite for most of the morning and then piling into the van, left for lunch and an afternoon of unadulterated fun (with no alcohol). Speculating that food outside the park may prove cheaper than lunch inside the park, we stopped at a shopping outlet for some burgers and sandwiches.

The outlet shared a parking lot with both a Wendy’s and a Burger King. Of course, none of the kids could decide on which greasy fast food chain they wanted – subtle differences in the lard, I suppose – so Ms. P decided to split up. Groups of three or more kids would walk to either burger place and meet back at the corner of the outlet in fifteen minutes. The teachers meanwhile – placing health above Frostys – would grab some sandwiches at a deli inside the outlet, thus leaving ten hyperactive kids to their own devices for the span of a power nap or half a sitcom.

Bad idea? Well . . . yeah. Did I feel comfortable leaving the kids alone? No. Absolutely not.

I’ve had too much experience with my siblings to blindly accept the autonomy of a child, despite what J. K. Rowlings might imagine. Still, after three weeks of teaching at Unity, much of the plans and procedures at Unity confused me. Teachers often burned incense to motivate healthy attitudes and chase away negative auras. The head of school would recommend various classroom management strategies only to ridicule the teacher for implementing them before the whole class. Prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance were outlawed, yet teachers joining hands and forming a circle around a group of children while chanting ‘You’re special!’ and ‘We love you!’ was condoned and welcomed.

It was a weird place. As the latest addition to the staff, I never really felt safe or secure there despite all the signs and efforts at support. At the end of the school day, I was alone, and any problems were mine to remedy. Heaven only know how the middle schoolers felt after the school's afternoon Kumbaya sessions.

Half a sitcom later, we were wiping tears and waiting for the local police to arrive.

Jane, Caroline and I took control of the kids while Ms. P and Little Pesci argued. The kids for their part seemed rather frightened, eyes wide with anger and fear – particularly when we admitted that we’ll have to tell their parents what happened. They were frantically telling their side of the story, interrupted here and there by Little Pesci, whose well-practiced shouts of ‘Liar!’ and ‘Nuh uh!’ competed for dominance. One of the kids only stopped crying long after we had left the parking lot.

The story, as I understand it, went something like this:

The boys had quickly eaten and returned to the corner of the shopping center. While waiting, they began laughing and joking, kicking at the stone walls of the shopping center ninja-style (most of the 8^th grade were huge fans of Assassin’s Creed). During this time, Little Pesci, the owner of the shopping center arrives. Apparently, throughout the last two weeks, vandals had declared war on the shopping center: breaking windows of shops, littering, and painting the walls with malicious messages. Stuff like that.

Little Pesci drives up in his convertible and spies these ‘unattended children’ lounging outside his shopping center and essentially freaks out, believing these to be the urban terrorists attacking his pristine marketplace. He intends to accost the children and drive them from his place of business.

“What you kids doing here?” he shouts. “Where are your parents?”

One of the older eighth graders points approximately into the shopping center, calmly telling the angry little man that their teachers left to grab subs. The man of course does not believe such a blatant lie and moves to shoo them from his property.

Another eighth grader feels threatened by this older man and his constant shouting and in response raises his fists, positioning himself between the angry man and the rest of his classmates; Little Pesci interprets this as a challenge . . .

Yes, this guy really believed that this middle school student had waiting all morning by outside a Rockport outlet with his gang of twelve-year-old delinquents – in broad daylight no less – simply to kick his ass. Seriously, someone’s played way too much Street Fighter as a kid.

“This young man,” the man claimed later, gesturing at the boy. “Attacked me.” In point of fact, the young man never laid a hand on him but was preparing to retaliate should the angry old man attempt to touch him again.

After this encounter, you can guess what happened next. The man demanded the children leave or else he would call the police – which he did anyway. And with no way of contacting us, the children left the parking lot and strode toward the roadway.

The officers thankfully seemed pretty reasonable, admitting that the gentlemen over-reacted. We gathered the now fed and emotionally distraught children into the van and drove off toward Busch Gardens, cursing those responsible for the whole debacle . . . ourselves.

Busch Gardens proved a good tonic for the preceding mess. The kids enjoyed themselves and for our part, we tried our best to ensure they forgot – momentarily at least – the stupidity of the world for a while. Busch Gardens began their Halloween celebration that night, draping the whole park in spider-webs, werewolf masks, bats, ghosts, and black-robed ghouls on stilts. As darkness fell, costumed freaks hidden behind the shadows of trashcans and haystacks jumped onto the path to surprise the occasional coed.

As the kids suffered enough scares that day, we decided to leave then and return to the cabins, readying ourselves for the trip home and the eventual conference with the parents. We encouraged the kids to turn in early and withhold from any midnight pranks. Enough was enough. Yet our peace soon shattered when another police cruiser pulled up to the cabins; each flash sending waves of panic through the kids’ cabins.

Ms. P strode out to talk to the officers, while Catherine and I guarded the cabin doors should the kids grow curious and walk into gunfire. At this point, I did not know what to expect. As turns out – for once that day – the police officers were not interested in us, but the cabin across the street (or rocky cul de sac as the case may be). It seems our neighboring camper had been selling marijuana from their cabin and after assaulting his wife, the good woman had informed the police of his husband’s wanton drug-dealing.

Terrific! This is officially the best field trip ever!

After being assured that the children were safe by the local state trooper, we headed to bed, eager to sleep, wake and get the hell out of Virginia.

Returning to the school the next day, we patiently informed the parents that their children enjoyed themselves, learned a good deal about colonial life, and may or may not be scarred for life. Most seemed to take the news relatively well (i.e. no lawsuits or threats to my life); however, the whole experience marred much of my perspective on Unity, a bellwether for all the future unpleasantness that would befall the school in the next several months, including – but not limited to – lawsuits, threats, violence, theft, downsizing, mass exodus, and even corporate espionage.

Unaware of the incoming apocalypse, I dragged my body and van home and locked myself in my room, where I stumbled through the internet and sipped coffee until the dawn of the next school day.

Bakc to Shcool Nihgt

“. . . and now I would like to introduce our newest teacher, Mr. Murph . . .”

Dr. T pauses to laugh. A few amused smiles dance across the faces of my fellow teachers. I politely offer a grin, grateful for a few extra minutes to map out my introduction.

“Actually, our second Mr. Murph . . . as you can see we’ve hired not only another Jess, but another Murph as well this year. As many of you know, we already have a Mr. Murph teaching gym,” she gestured toward the grizzled man in grey sweats, two seats down; Mr Murph nodded. “For the sake of the kids, we probably won’t change his name. So we’ll have to think of another nickname for you, Murph. Have you thought up anything yet? Mr. Murphey, maybe?”

“Um . . .” I momentarily falter. “Well, the kids have dubbed me MK . . . uh, using my first and last initials.”

“Ooo . . . I like that . . . Mr. MK,” Ms P, the drama teacher, interjected with a deep British accent. “Kinda rolls off the tongue.”

A frown lingers on Dr. T’s face for a second or two, yet just as quickly, she returns to her sales-pitch, all smiles and gratitude. Two weeks into my teaching post at Unity, and I still felt rather guarded toward the school principal. Though impressions varied among the staff, I treated my employer with polite respect and mild indifference.

A mass of contradictions, the woman made me somewhat uncomfortable. Outwardly Dr. T exuded a happy optimistic enthusiasm, so much so that I had difficulty taking her seriously. She rarely arrived to school earlier than 2PM, if at all, leaving most of the day-to-day operation of the school to the teachers; she praised my work with the children regularly, yet to my knowledge had never witnessed me teaching. Around parents and dignitaries, she cultivated an aura of excitement, pride and love, which to this day I cannot believe as false. Still amidst conversations and lectures, I had the distinct impression that she was always trying to sell me something.

“And we probably shouldn’t use MF, right Mr. Murph?” Dr. T smiled motioning to the gym teacher. A few of the parents laughed. Others tensed at the joke.

“Anyway, Mr. MK will taking over Ms. Melissa’s position as science and social studies teacher . . . oh and study skills. Here at Unity, our aim is to prepare your children for life without their tutors. That’s why we created these classes for middle school students and . . . well, I’ll let Mr. MK explain.”

I stood and introduced myself, explaining the general purpose and intent of the study skills program, one which I had neither created nor felt entirely comfortable to teach. One of the general misconceptions about studious-type people is their mastery of organization, note-taking, and deadlines. Nearly all of my research papers were inspired by early-morning caffeine highs, hours before their impending due dates. Unless a child powers his mind through sleep-deprivation and dry Capt. Crunch, I really had little to teach anyone.

Still, I knew the spiel, citing everything from word webs to compare-contrast bubbles to ambient noise (mostly waterfalls, jazz music and the soundtrack to Ocarina of Time – my 8^th graders loved it). My parent audience seemed impressed or at least conducive to the general philosophy.

“Murph also attended Orton-Gillingham training this past summer,” Dr. T continued as I sat down again. “He also tutors his siblings, many of whom are dyslexic as well, right Murph . . . er, MK? I’ll have to get used that now.”

“Yes,” I performed a mental headcount. “Nearly four or five of my younger brothers and . . .”

“And you’re the oldest?”

“Uh . . . yes,” I nodded.

“I just want to say,” Dr. T smiled to audience. “We don’t really do things like other schools. We’re an odd bunch. I personally look for teachers outside the normal work-pool. When I learned about Murph and his family, I knew that he was perfect for this school and this program. He’s been doing fantastic work so far, really!”

I smiled at the half-compliment, half-justification, wondering at the post-script. Did I fail to sell my qualifications? Were there concerns about my credentials?

Miss Jane seemed to feel my anxiety afterwards, assuring me as we walked to our classrooms that Dr. T has accrued a penchant for the oversell. Subtlety just is not in her repertoire.

We hastened down to our classrooms to await our 'class' of parents who were following their child's daily schedule for the evening. I sucked down a box of Tic-tacs, trying to keep the queasy feeling in my stomach at bay.

Several years ago a buddy of mine had warned me about parents, pointing to the whole group as his reason for leaving education (actually matches and his collection of ceremonial samurai swords were involved as well, but that's another story). Most he had encountered ranted and raved about their child's poor Spanish grades and nearly demanded that he either change their midterm grade or resign. In the end, the school board pressured by the well-to-do families decided that my buddy resign his position (remember fire and sharp weaponry were involved; although, the way he tells it, the parents were mostly at fault). Thus, I've been a little apprehensive about this night, somewhat nervous and excited to hear how the kids and their parents responded to my lessons.

You see, teaching two classes back-to-back for each class had proven a little trying -- some may say terrifying and anxiety-ridden, but then I'm an optimist. Too often I would finish fifteen minutes early with no planned activities and a room full of restless pre-teens. A classroom can devolve into a war-zone when not properly prepared: children begin to bicker, scream at one another, and even storm angrily from the classroom. I spent nearly three months adjusting my schedule, building a reservoir of extra lessons . . . just in case. When in doubt, I discussed comic books and Zelda lore. They seemed shocked and amazed that a teacher regularly played video games.

Yet despite the initial chaos, I was determined to make science and history interesting for the kids. Too often, my siblings would return home from class complaining about the stupidity of their teachers and the pointlessness of subjects like English, algebra, European history, and chemistry. Most teachers/parents -- very few at Unity thankfully -- approached education as a necessary evil like dentist appointments or taxes; kids grew up learning the school is something to be endured not enjoyed, and then everyone shudders, surprised at low test scores, the percentages of high school drop outs, illiteracy, and Jersey Shore.

We teach indifference to our children, because as educators, we lose that enthusiasm, that excitement for the world. With the right teacher, even trigonometry can become enthralling.

Honestly -- and this is purely my own theory -- most learning originates within the realm of entertainment. And teaching in part necessitates a certain degree of theater, showmanship if you will. You may balk at the notion, as I am essentially deluding centuries of knowledge, theorems, and experimentation into one-act play, but consider the early man staring at the flashes of thunder and lightning dancing across the sky one balmy summer evening. The wonder, fear and amazement that fueled the epics of Zeus, Thor, and Thunderbirds planted the seed for Franklin, Edison, and Tesla. Their discoveries originated from this primordial fascination, a child’s sense of wonder.

Somewhere along the line, we've come to assume that children become scientists because they read something out of a book, listened intently to the teachers lectures or got straight A’s (rubbish). I mean can you imagine your child even fabricating such a lie?

• “Yeah, I want to be a chemist when I grow up. That lecture on thermodynamics made it seem really cool.”

• "I don't understand anything Shakespeare's sayin' but my teacher said it was important so I think I'll want to be a playwright one day."

However, if you pass around a heating pad -- the ones with supersaturated sodium acetate -- and feel the sudden change in temperature when they pop the bag, allowing the chemicals to mix and release energy . . . then perhaps, they’ll enjoy science enough to study and experiment on their own, to let their fascination and wonder lead them to Merck or Pfizer, where they’ll craft the latest super-drug. That was my hope at least.

“I want kids to get excited about science and history,” I told the parents that night. “Not necessary remember facts like some quiz show wunderkind. Most of the details, with which we’re presented in middle school, is lost, forgotten. However, the kids remember the excitement of mixing chemicals, the fascination of building Columbus’ ships. I want my students to eventually visit the bookstore or library of their own free will and pick up a National Geographic instead of the latest swimsuit mag – brace yourselves moms, it’s coming. If that happens, well then . . . I’ve succeeded to some extent.”

That’s it. Then for the sake of time, I blew something up for the parents -- a little catalyst reaction I’ve been saving for the eighth graders. And for my part, everyone seemed rather impressed . . . or at least said nothing particularly horrible to me, which gave me just enough confidence to suffer through another week, when all Hell broke loose.

The Clam Before the Strom

I was staring listlessly into a stream of envelopes when it happened. Sealing and post marking the mail had become so routine over the last three years that I sometimes tuned out the world around me until the din of the machine came to a stop. There was a dull, vibrating tone coming from the pocket of my jacket. I pulled out my Motorola Razr to examine the message. It was from a friend of mine, a teacher at a place called the Unity School. 

"My school is hiring a drama/art teacher. Do you want me to give them your number?" 

The sixteen months leading up to this day could be summarized as follows, wake up, go to work, listen to a lecture from my boss about how my talents are being wasted here in the mailroom, play final fantasy for a few hours while the window is slow, get off work, go to the computer lab nearby and apply for every education related job I could find. Repeat 525 times. 

If there's a record for faster typing on a numerical keypad, I'm pretty sure I gave it a run for it's money as my thumb raced across the keypad to send my approval. I thought of all the resumes, cover letters, applications I labored over...and here is a job, materializing out of thin air, as if by divine intervention. As the shock began to fade, reality renewed its lease on my thoughts as I remembered how many other people have vouched for me in hopes of getting me a job in the past. Somebody's recommendation is a very nice thing, but I've seen first hand, too many times, that it can only do so much. 

Deciding it would be far more useful to concentrate on the work I've already been hired to do, I start to load up the mail van for the last mail run that stands between me and a lengthy Christmas vacation. The snow is already caked onto the windows when I finish loading the last of the paper orders in. As I pull myself into the driver's seat, my phone goes off yet again. I don't recognize the number, maybe the Copy Center is calling about the other six boxes I purposely left to sit until next year...

Instead, a woman named Tracy greeted me on the other end. She wasted no time in cutting to the chase. She told me she had got my number from an employee at her school who said I was very artistic and had some experience in education and theatre. She said that the school very recently lost its Drama and Art teachers and she was hoping to hire someone to replace them both. She seemed undeterred by my confession that while I have worked with kids for years, that I have no true "in classroom" teaching experience, nor any degree in Education. She proceeded to gush about how getting to take the place of these two teachers will be a dream job. Almost in the same breath, her voice dropped an octave and took on a foreboding. It's going to be a hard job, she says. You're going to be overwhelmed. Trial by fire. For the first few months, she wouldn't be surprised if I do nothing but wake up, teach, and then plan my lessons and curriculum until the late hours of the morning. And more than anything, she stressed how the   successful applicant would be organized. Everything in its place. She told the tragic tale of how the former art teacher huffed off in a fury, taking even the last can of who-hash. I reassured her that I personally rate my bedroom as a 9.5 in terms of how organized it is ( I did this because she asked me to) and that I would have that room in shape in no time flat if offered the job. Thus would begin our primary means of communicating for the next six months, lying to one another. Before hanging up, she asked if it were possible for me to meet up with her, after ruling out Virginia as an option, we settled on meeting at the school itself. Five days from now, on December 28th. 

As I hung up, a mixture of elation, confusion, disbelief, and fear swept over me. What had even just happened? This morning I had zero prospects, zero contacts, and zero hope. Now I have, even if not specifically labeled as such, an interview in five days! My phone lights up again as I'm about to put it back in my pocket. Another text from my friend. 

"Just so you know, the principal is a little crazy..."

The shcool before the school

Last summer, Katie and I attended a 60-hour, lecture-intensive training course to delineate strategies for teaching children with dyslexia. My sister was nearing the end of her undergraduate program in speech pathology; amid the steep competition for the Master’s programs, Kate was feeling rather apprehensive about the next two years, and thus sought to expand her resume with some teaching classes. Boredom as much as Kate’s pleading suckered me into the class. A year from completing my Masters, I was still jobless and seeking employment among the various private schools and libraries of Maryland.

The class was taught at Kevin’s old middle school, Unity Middle, by a Miss Marsha, who lectured us for six grueling hours each day about techniques to improve multi-sensory learning. Only Marsha seemed to ignore the irony. The rest of us learned to fall asleep with our eyes open.

Nonetheless, our teacher’s intentions were pure enough. When our younger brother was born, he developed an early ear infection that marred much of his speech and learning skills as he grew. At ten, only my brother, Shannon, really understood his garbled questions and took to translating his younger brother for the rest of the family. Several years and schools later, doctors diagnosed him with dyslexia. My parents found Unity Middle, which specialized in teaching learning disabled children, helping Kevin to not only speak better but to read, write, and cope with the challenges of high school.

Too many schools, Marsha explained, teach solely through lecture and readings, but never allow their students to touch, taste, hear or experience the lessons first-hand. For dyslexic children, the inclusion of multiple senses could re-build these missing neuronal pathways. This new philosophy made sense; Katie and I had seen what this (common-sense?) approach had achieved for our brother. But what Katie saw as a godsend for the learning disabled, I foresaw as the future of the teaching industry. After all why couldn’t any child – dyslexic or not – benefit from hands-on, multi-sensory teaching? When did education, the study of the world, become nothing more than homework, lecture, and readings . . . in short a drag?

Still, Marsha chose to relay this information through hour-long lectures and lengthy commentaries concerning the pitfalls of the modern educational system. Moreover, she loved to gossip: politicians, teachers, schools, scientists. She had a gripe with nearly everybody, who undervalued or neglected dyslexic children, and shortly my afternoons had devolved into a three-hour soap opera – minus the evil twin – with another four hours spent reading from notes. Perhaps, being the only guy in the class (my nickname was “The Man”), I felt more agitated than the others, but by day two, the class could not end quickly enough.

By the third day, I began imagining myself in a comic book – my default daydream when I feel my brain dying: heroes in flamboyant costumes crashed through walls, decimating the classroom and freeing its comatose students. One morning, the Hulk lifted Ms. Marsha by her chair and hurled her into the upper stratosphere. Silence reigned for a few precious seconds before my senses recoiled, and I realized that she had only paused to take a drink.

The class proved just as eclectic as our teacher. As mentioned prior, I found myself outnumbered, surrounded by women, nearly all teachers with varying degrees of professionalism. A few such as Liz and Ellen worked full-time as tutors at Unity while others home-schooled. Jess had worked as an intern over the last semester, and surviving her undergrad, sought employment as a literature teacher. Another – whom I shall call ‘Tracy’ – heralded from a private pseudo-religious school downtown, which emphasized positive reinforcement and hugging to boost self-esteem.

As she explained it: “Every Friday, we halt afternoon classes for Praise Circles. All the teachers gather around one child at a time. We join hands, sing songs, and offer compliments, hug and channel our positive thoughts or aura toward the child. Every student gets a turn, a chance to feel loved, and I’ve felt a lot of the bad energy, the negative self-destructive feelings from some of our more undisciplined children disappear entirely.”

Honestly, forced ritualistic hugging and singing alone recalled images of cult-like communes; channeling cosmic juju only reinforced my conviction that the woman and her school were totally nuts. I kept waiting for the punch line, while my sister warred with her need to giggle.

Katie, meanwhile, felt determined to find my soul mate. Little sisters all play matchmaker at some point in their lives, and Katie felt certain that the future Mrs. Murph lie in wait somewhere in the classroom.

• “Oh so you like to read, huh? You hear that Murph? She likes books too!”

• “You like Jurassic Park? Murph used to obsess over dinosaurs. When we were little, he’d stomp around the house, growling and roaring like uh . . . a T. Rex. He even tucked away all his fingers but two on each hand . . .”

I should mention by way of an apology to all involved that I’m a bit of a pariah in my own home. Thus, it is a sad fact that any young lady, who shares even a marginal interest in comics, dinosaurs, fantasy, video games, books, writing, or puzzles, is instantly nominated as a potential mate. As Sean brilliantly put it once, “Murph, I think we all know that there can’t be another creature like you on the entire planet. Ergo, it’s best that you keep your expectations for marital happiness relatively low.

These excursions into the desperation of my love life, however, procured me my first teaching job. At least in part. Katie divulged the story of our lives quickly, prompting discussions of my past work with malaria and the National Institutes of Health (NIH).

At the start of the second week, Ms. Liz – the head of tutoring at Unity – and Ms. Marsha relayed to Dr. T, Unity Middle’s principal, that I was a former biochem major looking for a teaching position and that I tutored my siblings, many of whom were diagnosed as dyslexics. This of course procured me an interview, where I learned that the school’s current science teacher would shortly be transferred to a position in the administration offices. The school would hire me as a full-time employee, teaching science, social studies, and a course known as study skills.

Now, I readily accepted science and social studies – high school and college had planted a provincial but persistent devotion to histories of all kinds, non-fictional and fictional alike – however, I had some modest concerns about these study skills classes. These, more so than either science or history, seemed the most essential to all future academic development. Perhaps I had over-analyzed the situation, worrying myself for no good reason, but the task at the time appeared overwhelming.

Afterwards, I was allowed to give the matter some thought and return with a reply later the next morning. That night between my mother and younger sister’s reaction, you would have thought I had drowned a kitten:

• “ . . . in all my years, Murph, I have never found reason to be disappointed in you. Never. Until this night . . .”

• “. . . Murph, in this economy, you can’t afford to be picky or honest. If they want you to teach heart surgery to ten-year-olds, then you say ‘Okay! Where can I plug in my saw?’ . . .”

• “ . . . Study skills is teaching ten-year-olds how to take notes and tests. You have a chemistry degree and a Masters in libraries and organizing stuff. Hon, I think you’re more than qualified to show eighth grades how to highlight textbooks . . .”

Once again I believe my family had mistaken genuine concern for fear or cowardice, anxiety over my first job in years. Honestly, that was not the case. Imagine completing your first course in human anatomy and then being asked to perform open heart surgery. It’s like that.

Marsha frequently reminded us that good-intentions among kind-hearted but ignorant teachers often instilled more harm than good. Was it enough to simply practice copying notes from a chalkboard or should there be some multisensory component to it all? Should we begin our classes sniffing highlighters and chewing Staples’ best three-line rule? Mentioning these minor concerns to my future employer somehow seemed pertinent.

Still after much consideration and even greater parental pressure, I arrived to class the following morning ready and willing to teach science, history, study skills and . . . yes even heart surgery if anyone should ask. If any other questions or concerns came to mind, Mom suggested that I should ‘suck it up’ until after my first paycheck.

The school seemed eager to hire another male teacher, which I understand is something of a rarity in middle school education. Most of the student population was predominately male so Dr. T and the other teachers believed another male role model would compliment the school perfectly. Being the least ‘athletic’ of my siblings, I had my doubts, and prayed a few of the kids enjoyed video games, Batman, and Lego sets (little did I know then!).

Melissa the former science/social studies teacher dumped three large binders, full of lesson plans, into my arms and showed me to my classrooms. Melissa reminded me a lot of my sister-in-law, Tiffany: stern, organized, but very kind with a blunt sarcastic humor. I liked her instantly. After giving me the grand tour of classrooms and lab, Melissa informed me that study skills was actually incorporated into science and social studies class, thus double periods for middle school students, a full hour and a half for eighth, seventh and sixth graders each day.

“I suggest you start with science the first half of the year. The boys usually enjoy the experiments a lot, and as a new teacher, you can accrue some respect before diving into history. That’s when it gets hard as you’ll have to figure out what to do in place of the experiments. If you get stuck, crafts and videos have worked well in the past to fill in the time. Otherwise, that’s about it, any questions?” she asked.

I shook my head, unsure whether my eyes revealed any cowardice or uncertainty. Of course, my mind rattled with questions, but no one could really help me with that. I needed to stand before a room full of children and figure it all out. Frankly, I felt terrified with the responsibilities so casually tossed my way. I should mention that half the time, my siblings openly admit to ignoring 90% of what I attempted to tutor them. I desperately craved an iced tea and long afternoon at the bookstore.

Still I can’t say that I wasn’t a little excited as well. Experiments and projects began bubbling in my head. I would have a chance, an opportunity to really astound and amaze these kids, to show them some honest-to-goodness magic. And I would need every one if I was going to keep three classes of eight hyperactive pre-teens occupied for an hour and a half.

School began the following week: September 7^th 2011.