AuntShecky
02-19-2009, 07:22 PM
{Author's Note: In terms of theme, this is the flip-side of a previous story, "Winter Dreams," posted on the LitNet last week.}
You Put Your Whole Self In
At Morning Circle, Kylene looked about ready to cry. Mark, fully loaded, needed yet another diaper change, and Jason had already assumed his usual position: defiantly supine on the mat, all four limbs limp, not a part of his tiny body and mind willing to participate.
Today it was Chris’s turn, and she felt like a TV game show host as she clapped her hands and leapt into the center of the “circle” with an imperfect circumference loosely formed by a trio of teachers-in-training, another aide, and a gaggle of little boys and girls. The ritual was so routine that her voice automatically registered the appropriate modulation – neither too loud nor too soft –as she sang “Good Morning to You.” A few of the preschoolers chimed in when she came to the line “We're all in our places/ With bright shiny faces.” In her own case, this was an exaggeration, since she'd been up late the night before making individual name tags to hang above each of the little cubbies; they'd all been neatly printed with markers on expensive cream-colored tagboard and then smoothly covered with clear Contact Paper.
“Time to stand up!” she announced in a non-threatening way. The four-year-olds got up by their own power; the adults helped the younger ones struggle to their feet. One of the perks of being the Circle Leader was the right to pick the song, and that day’s ditty came with its own built-in choreography: “You put your right foot in/ you put your right foot out/ And shake it all about.” The kids loved this number, but a couple of the teachers manque barely stifled a groan, for the song had a way of making the little ones giggle, if not giddy, as if they were on a “sugar high.” Bringing them all back down to focus on the next activity or therapy loomed as a bit of a chore.
By ten thirty, Chris had changed seven diapers (including two repeaters), assisted one of the would-be teachers do an art lesson (with the inevitable mopping up of puddles of paint of course part of the territory) and subsequently washed her own hands more frequently than an overly booked-up surgeon. After escorting “young learners” to the offices of several on-site therapists (speech, occupational, and physical, respectively) and before reporting to the kitchen to finish preparing lunch for seventeen little appetites, Chris forced herself to take a break.
Outside the premises and around the corner on Spring Street, a fellow aide and a student-teacher were puffing away on their choice of filtered menthols. The reality of three staff members off-site sent up an alarm in Chris’s consciousness -- who was minding the store?–until she recalled hearing the Director having complained that they had happened to be “fat on staff” that particular day, possibly the result of a convergence of absences on the part of the little enrollees.
“Did you hear anything yet, Chris?”
“Nah. They'll probably wait till the last minute. Don't worry, Deb, your job’s secure.”
Deb wrinkled her brow. “I don't know. I heard that when you're here two years the hourly rate bumps to the next level, so instead of paying you more money, they get rid of you. Then they hire somebody else on the cheap.”
“Tell me about it,” Chris almost said, almost biting her tongue to stop. Sixty-two fifty a week, that was embarrassing, but as a wage for a college grad, it was downright shameful. Where was this “prosperity” she kept reading about? All she'd known was a personal “recession,” beginning from Graduation Day when there were no jobs to be had, let alone an “entry-level position” in her field. “So much for Reaganomics, huh, Deb? We could all starve to death waiting for the wealth to trickle down.” (Whenever she quoted that expression, it was hard to wipe away the image of a toilet from her mind.)
“I know.” Deb took a hard drag, as if the cigarette were a surrogate-enemy, substituting for the universe which willy-nilly had allied itself against her. “I'll tell you one thing, this place doesn't appreciate you, Chris. You do more than the teachers. But if they lay me off, I don't know what I'll do. How can I take care of Justin?”
“Oh, stop, Deb. Where are they going to find another aide as good as you? Right, Geri?”
The student-teacher’s blonde hair spiraled around her head in hundreds of miniature curls, an effect that reminded Chris of a variety of pasta. “Yep! Come May seventeenth, I'm gettin’ my M.S. Next week I'm outa here, Baby!” To punctuate her statement, Geri’s head bobbed up and down, shaking the fusilli at the roots. “ Scorin’ them special ed teaching jobs is like pickin’ apples off of a tree!”
Geri was a nice girl and seemed to have a pretty good rapport with the kids, though evidently not on speaking terms with standard English. Chris quickly withdrew the thought as “judgmental.” But how in God’s name had the future teacher gotten this far in her education? Whenever Geri wrote her seminar papers, did she drop her “g’s?” More likely every grad student in the Department of Education slavishly parroted the lingo of the party line: “Instruction needs to be facilitated, and the appropriate methodology needs to be implemented.” Or they constantly confused “affect” and “effect.” According to Chris’s personal experience from a decade or so ago – God, had it been that long? – utter scorn descended upon anyone who dared to treat The Language with anything less than unwavering respect. Woe to the would-be scholar whose footnotes deviated from the Chicago Manual by as little as a tiny punctuation mark! Then again, Geri’s major wasn't English.
After lunch came the large group activity and the Closing Circle; finally 1:30 – and the small fleet of scaled down “cheese” buses --arrived, and so did Lamar’s mom. She stopped Chris from buckling Lamar into his seat. “Got here just in time. I won't be home,” adding with a breathless chuckle, “as you can see.” She took Lamar in her arms and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. “ We're gonna go see Grandma, Sugar.” She turned to Chris and said, “I'm sorry I couldn't send in any clean diapers. All out. I would've gone to the laundromat, but I didn't have. . .”
“That’s O.K., Brenda. We have disposables here, and –“
“I would have bought some, but you can't get ‘em with food stamps, so –“
“Listen, I could run you over to the laundry, if you'd like. I've got to do my own wash, anyway. I just happen to have my mom’s car, so no problem!” Noticing Brenda’s smile starting to fade, she quickly added. “I have quarters, too.”
Was the offer “condescending?” Did it smack of “middle class values?” (Actually, there were times when Chris would have been flattered to have an income anywhere near that of the middle class.) Aw, why not?– if Chris herself were in need, she'd welcome any and all offers of help, and she'd be grateful – which, as it turned out, Brenda, was.
It was after four when Chris returned to the site to make a few phone calls. On her own she'd begun research on various museums and other local attractions that might be suitable – i.e., free – for field trips for the “Hothouse Intern Program” that summer. With a yellow legal pad at the ready, she was just about to pick up the phone when The Director walked in.
There was no hello, no “nice to see you working after hours,” merely “You missed the meeting.”
“Damn! I could've used the nap,” was how Chris really wanted to reply. “Oh, I'm sorry, Sheila– I didn't know –“ Chris held up the legal pad. “Here are some places willing to have us visit them this summer, when the van’s available.”
“Okay, thanks.” The Director took a cursory look at the page. The Joan Crawford-style shoulder pads on her jacket shifted a little as she tossed the pad atop a pile of papers on the desk. Then, sitting down on the “visitor’s” chair, she said, “Oh, speaking of this summer. . .”
Chris looked over at her immediate boss (unless you counted the interns) and wondered what was coming. “We– Dr. Edwards and I – were really glad to have you here the past couple of semesters. . .” (“Were?” What did she mean, “were?”) “ Your loyalty is admirable, and you certainly love all the little ones, no question about it, but–“ (“But”? Uh-oh.) “We were um, wondering, why you've been a little laid-back when it comes to dealing with the children?“ You do the hokey-pokey. . .
There was a sigh, then a long pause, as if she were waiting for Chris to respond. Long ago before sophisticated educational research had come up with tests and labels, it could have been said that she herself had been “speech-delayed,” but a frequent comment from the big people around her was “Look at little Chrissie, taking everything in!” The Director sat there staring; the steady gaze reminded Chris of something. Back when she'd been a toddler herself, she'd watch the new Crosley with her mother and grandmother. Their favorite program featured Bishop Sheen, a man whom Chris took to be some sort of clown with his beanie cap and cape with a big red bow tied under his chin. He looked funny, and since Mother and Grandma occasionally laughed at some of the things he said, he was funny. But Bishop Sheen had a pair of piercing eyes that seemed to look through the television screen right into your soul. That part had been scary.
“I mean, we were, uh, thinking that you could be a little more proactive in transitioning the children, and implementing the protocols for acting-out behaviors?” (But hadn't Dr. Edwards told the students to “ignore” inappropriate behaviors? Didn't he always say, “Catch ‘em bein’ good”?) “Also, we were curious as to why you weren't
anticipating the child’s need (What, was she supposed to be psychic, now? Change the kid’s pants before he pooped?) “So that’s why we have uh, decided, not to invite you back this summer –“ . . .and turn yourself around. . .
The Director continued to stare, this time attempting to assume a sympathetic expression. “I'm sorry, Chris.” With astounding presumption, she picked up a box of facial tissues and ceremoniously reached across the desk with it. “I'll be more than happy to write some letters of recommendation for you. Dr. Edwards will, too. Don't worry, they'll be glowing . . .”
Along the line, she'd often heard Churchly Types line cite the Beatitude: “Blessed are the Poor in Spirit,” and Chris had never known exactly how to interpret it. If one were poor in the material sense, then one’s spirit was humble and free of the earthly temptations of greed, say, someone her age, still single, still living at home, and not even worthy of a lousy sixty-two fifty a week job into which she had poured her entire heart and soul. But if one’s spirit itself were “poor,” then one has essentially given up hope, having refused God’s Grace, and thus guilty of the one “unforgivable sin” of Despair. Then, if she were “poor in spirit” in both senses, what the hell did it mean?
“You won't have much trouble finding another job, maybe something you can finally get your teeth into. . .” (One that wouldn't bite back?) “You've got a Master’s Degree, you should be proud of that.” The Director sounded like the commercials, the “public service announcements,” on late at night, reminding all of us “You want a good job, get a good education.” The lies, the lies! “ I'm really sorry, Chris. But it'll be okay. To tell you the truth, we, uh, always thought you were a little over qualified.”
". . .that's what it's all about."
You Put Your Whole Self In
At Morning Circle, Kylene looked about ready to cry. Mark, fully loaded, needed yet another diaper change, and Jason had already assumed his usual position: defiantly supine on the mat, all four limbs limp, not a part of his tiny body and mind willing to participate.
Today it was Chris’s turn, and she felt like a TV game show host as she clapped her hands and leapt into the center of the “circle” with an imperfect circumference loosely formed by a trio of teachers-in-training, another aide, and a gaggle of little boys and girls. The ritual was so routine that her voice automatically registered the appropriate modulation – neither too loud nor too soft –as she sang “Good Morning to You.” A few of the preschoolers chimed in when she came to the line “We're all in our places/ With bright shiny faces.” In her own case, this was an exaggeration, since she'd been up late the night before making individual name tags to hang above each of the little cubbies; they'd all been neatly printed with markers on expensive cream-colored tagboard and then smoothly covered with clear Contact Paper.
“Time to stand up!” she announced in a non-threatening way. The four-year-olds got up by their own power; the adults helped the younger ones struggle to their feet. One of the perks of being the Circle Leader was the right to pick the song, and that day’s ditty came with its own built-in choreography: “You put your right foot in/ you put your right foot out/ And shake it all about.” The kids loved this number, but a couple of the teachers manque barely stifled a groan, for the song had a way of making the little ones giggle, if not giddy, as if they were on a “sugar high.” Bringing them all back down to focus on the next activity or therapy loomed as a bit of a chore.
By ten thirty, Chris had changed seven diapers (including two repeaters), assisted one of the would-be teachers do an art lesson (with the inevitable mopping up of puddles of paint of course part of the territory) and subsequently washed her own hands more frequently than an overly booked-up surgeon. After escorting “young learners” to the offices of several on-site therapists (speech, occupational, and physical, respectively) and before reporting to the kitchen to finish preparing lunch for seventeen little appetites, Chris forced herself to take a break.
Outside the premises and around the corner on Spring Street, a fellow aide and a student-teacher were puffing away on their choice of filtered menthols. The reality of three staff members off-site sent up an alarm in Chris’s consciousness -- who was minding the store?–until she recalled hearing the Director having complained that they had happened to be “fat on staff” that particular day, possibly the result of a convergence of absences on the part of the little enrollees.
“Did you hear anything yet, Chris?”
“Nah. They'll probably wait till the last minute. Don't worry, Deb, your job’s secure.”
Deb wrinkled her brow. “I don't know. I heard that when you're here two years the hourly rate bumps to the next level, so instead of paying you more money, they get rid of you. Then they hire somebody else on the cheap.”
“Tell me about it,” Chris almost said, almost biting her tongue to stop. Sixty-two fifty a week, that was embarrassing, but as a wage for a college grad, it was downright shameful. Where was this “prosperity” she kept reading about? All she'd known was a personal “recession,” beginning from Graduation Day when there were no jobs to be had, let alone an “entry-level position” in her field. “So much for Reaganomics, huh, Deb? We could all starve to death waiting for the wealth to trickle down.” (Whenever she quoted that expression, it was hard to wipe away the image of a toilet from her mind.)
“I know.” Deb took a hard drag, as if the cigarette were a surrogate-enemy, substituting for the universe which willy-nilly had allied itself against her. “I'll tell you one thing, this place doesn't appreciate you, Chris. You do more than the teachers. But if they lay me off, I don't know what I'll do. How can I take care of Justin?”
“Oh, stop, Deb. Where are they going to find another aide as good as you? Right, Geri?”
The student-teacher’s blonde hair spiraled around her head in hundreds of miniature curls, an effect that reminded Chris of a variety of pasta. “Yep! Come May seventeenth, I'm gettin’ my M.S. Next week I'm outa here, Baby!” To punctuate her statement, Geri’s head bobbed up and down, shaking the fusilli at the roots. “ Scorin’ them special ed teaching jobs is like pickin’ apples off of a tree!”
Geri was a nice girl and seemed to have a pretty good rapport with the kids, though evidently not on speaking terms with standard English. Chris quickly withdrew the thought as “judgmental.” But how in God’s name had the future teacher gotten this far in her education? Whenever Geri wrote her seminar papers, did she drop her “g’s?” More likely every grad student in the Department of Education slavishly parroted the lingo of the party line: “Instruction needs to be facilitated, and the appropriate methodology needs to be implemented.” Or they constantly confused “affect” and “effect.” According to Chris’s personal experience from a decade or so ago – God, had it been that long? – utter scorn descended upon anyone who dared to treat The Language with anything less than unwavering respect. Woe to the would-be scholar whose footnotes deviated from the Chicago Manual by as little as a tiny punctuation mark! Then again, Geri’s major wasn't English.
After lunch came the large group activity and the Closing Circle; finally 1:30 – and the small fleet of scaled down “cheese” buses --arrived, and so did Lamar’s mom. She stopped Chris from buckling Lamar into his seat. “Got here just in time. I won't be home,” adding with a breathless chuckle, “as you can see.” She took Lamar in her arms and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. “ We're gonna go see Grandma, Sugar.” She turned to Chris and said, “I'm sorry I couldn't send in any clean diapers. All out. I would've gone to the laundromat, but I didn't have. . .”
“That’s O.K., Brenda. We have disposables here, and –“
“I would have bought some, but you can't get ‘em with food stamps, so –“
“Listen, I could run you over to the laundry, if you'd like. I've got to do my own wash, anyway. I just happen to have my mom’s car, so no problem!” Noticing Brenda’s smile starting to fade, she quickly added. “I have quarters, too.”
Was the offer “condescending?” Did it smack of “middle class values?” (Actually, there were times when Chris would have been flattered to have an income anywhere near that of the middle class.) Aw, why not?– if Chris herself were in need, she'd welcome any and all offers of help, and she'd be grateful – which, as it turned out, Brenda, was.
It was after four when Chris returned to the site to make a few phone calls. On her own she'd begun research on various museums and other local attractions that might be suitable – i.e., free – for field trips for the “Hothouse Intern Program” that summer. With a yellow legal pad at the ready, she was just about to pick up the phone when The Director walked in.
There was no hello, no “nice to see you working after hours,” merely “You missed the meeting.”
“Damn! I could've used the nap,” was how Chris really wanted to reply. “Oh, I'm sorry, Sheila– I didn't know –“ Chris held up the legal pad. “Here are some places willing to have us visit them this summer, when the van’s available.”
“Okay, thanks.” The Director took a cursory look at the page. The Joan Crawford-style shoulder pads on her jacket shifted a little as she tossed the pad atop a pile of papers on the desk. Then, sitting down on the “visitor’s” chair, she said, “Oh, speaking of this summer. . .”
Chris looked over at her immediate boss (unless you counted the interns) and wondered what was coming. “We– Dr. Edwards and I – were really glad to have you here the past couple of semesters. . .” (“Were?” What did she mean, “were?”) “ Your loyalty is admirable, and you certainly love all the little ones, no question about it, but–“ (“But”? Uh-oh.) “We were um, wondering, why you've been a little laid-back when it comes to dealing with the children?“ You do the hokey-pokey. . .
There was a sigh, then a long pause, as if she were waiting for Chris to respond. Long ago before sophisticated educational research had come up with tests and labels, it could have been said that she herself had been “speech-delayed,” but a frequent comment from the big people around her was “Look at little Chrissie, taking everything in!” The Director sat there staring; the steady gaze reminded Chris of something. Back when she'd been a toddler herself, she'd watch the new Crosley with her mother and grandmother. Their favorite program featured Bishop Sheen, a man whom Chris took to be some sort of clown with his beanie cap and cape with a big red bow tied under his chin. He looked funny, and since Mother and Grandma occasionally laughed at some of the things he said, he was funny. But Bishop Sheen had a pair of piercing eyes that seemed to look through the television screen right into your soul. That part had been scary.
“I mean, we were, uh, thinking that you could be a little more proactive in transitioning the children, and implementing the protocols for acting-out behaviors?” (But hadn't Dr. Edwards told the students to “ignore” inappropriate behaviors? Didn't he always say, “Catch ‘em bein’ good”?) “Also, we were curious as to why you weren't
anticipating the child’s need (What, was she supposed to be psychic, now? Change the kid’s pants before he pooped?) “So that’s why we have uh, decided, not to invite you back this summer –“ . . .and turn yourself around. . .
The Director continued to stare, this time attempting to assume a sympathetic expression. “I'm sorry, Chris.” With astounding presumption, she picked up a box of facial tissues and ceremoniously reached across the desk with it. “I'll be more than happy to write some letters of recommendation for you. Dr. Edwards will, too. Don't worry, they'll be glowing . . .”
Along the line, she'd often heard Churchly Types line cite the Beatitude: “Blessed are the Poor in Spirit,” and Chris had never known exactly how to interpret it. If one were poor in the material sense, then one’s spirit was humble and free of the earthly temptations of greed, say, someone her age, still single, still living at home, and not even worthy of a lousy sixty-two fifty a week job into which she had poured her entire heart and soul. But if one’s spirit itself were “poor,” then one has essentially given up hope, having refused God’s Grace, and thus guilty of the one “unforgivable sin” of Despair. Then, if she were “poor in spirit” in both senses, what the hell did it mean?
“You won't have much trouble finding another job, maybe something you can finally get your teeth into. . .” (One that wouldn't bite back?) “You've got a Master’s Degree, you should be proud of that.” The Director sounded like the commercials, the “public service announcements,” on late at night, reminding all of us “You want a good job, get a good education.” The lies, the lies! “ I'm really sorry, Chris. But it'll be okay. To tell you the truth, we, uh, always thought you were a little over qualified.”
". . .that's what it's all about."