The Volcano Dialogues

It's the Tuesday before Fall Break. I arrive early because I have to make two trips to-and-from the minivan to carry stuff into work. I don't mind, though. The weather in Havasu is cooling, and the mornings are that perfect combination of chilly shade and warm slanting sunlight.

With the early-morning parent-teacher conference in another 45 minutes, I move quickly to arrange the duck storyline. It's time to add an antagonist to the duck story, something to unify the origami frogs, the butterflies, and the ducks. With the introduction of an antagonist, maybe individual character personalities will reveal themselves in the unfolding story. But, I know I'm spending too much time on this and hurry to set up the conference table.

The parent arrives with a boom. I remember this parent from the start of the school year. "You just tell me if my students start slipping behind in anything, and I'll get after them," he said then. Now, it was up to me to discuss the way his children were overly talkative during class and how one liked to pop out of the seat and wander during class.

"That's because I'm not really strict at home. We all talk over each other," he admits. Pointing to the side of his head, he continues, "but when I let them know I've had it up to here and am under a lot of stress and about to explode, they calm down and self-monitor. It works for us."

I think about that conference throughout the day as the middle school excitement intensifies as each hour ticks that much closer to Fall Break. Today is the sixth-grade book report presentations. I've watched how they are during presentations for other teachers. Depending on the teacher, this bunch either falls in line or is like a pack of rowdy pirates. I'm not sure what I'll get today because I've had mixed success with this group. But I think I've got them won over, and we're on the right track. Just a little more fine tuning is needed until all the students fall into line. I'm sure of this. Even so, I take an extra pause in the warm October sunshine before stepping back into the classroom.

The sixth grade students flow in from lunch recess with questions about their presentations. "I'll go over all that once class begins," I reassure them.

Despite a few eruptions, class goes well. I only have to put two names up on the board for excessive talking during presentations.

Sixth grade leaves, and eighth grade comes in. This is an interesting group of students because they all get along, but there are little groups of competing cliques within the class. These students keep secrets from each other and do things to tease each other. They're a good group of students, but the group dynamic tends toward chaos.

At the start of the school year, I quickly caught on to the Eighth Grade M.O. when explaining the three qualities of a thesis statement:

1. contains subject & opinion

2. one statement, not a question

3. can be argued

By point number two, I'd been assaulted with questions:

"Does it have to have the opinion, or can it only be the subject?"

"What if I want to cover two subjects? Do I need an opinion for each?"

"What happens if I phrase it like a question and an answer?"

"Um....oh, wait!....I had the question. It's right here. Um....hold on...."

"Can I make a statement in first person, like use I in the thesis statement?"

"Can I move by the window? I don't like this desk."

"No, I wasn't talking. I was just asking to borrow a pencil."

"Can I ask a question and then answer it for the thesis statement?....Oh...I didn't hear the answer before."

"Ummmmm.....it came back. I remember I had a question...ummm....oh! Now I can't remember again.....okay...I'll raise my hand when I remember."

"Does it have to be your real opinion on the subject, or is this only to make it arguable?"

"Can I get up to sharpen my pencil?"

Their new tactic is passing notes.

Like I can't see them.

I do see it, but I'm tired of policing it, so I let it slide unless it's egregious or pronounced.

Today, it's note passing and whispers back and forth. We have to get through about twenty-minutes worth of lesson before they get to apply what they've learned. They need to be instructed on plot tension and how complications pile up until the climax and eventual resolution. "Or, denouement," I add, writing that word on the board so they can write it in their notebooks, which I'll allow on their next literature test.

But they're not listening. They are note passing and making faces at each other. It's now egregious.

I think about what that parent said this morning and draw a volcano on the board. They look at me with curiosity. "Guys...and ladies....I've about had it with this talking. I feel like this volcano here." I draw a line near the peak. "I've got a lot of things going on, and my pressure is up to here. We've got fall break coming up, parent conferences, and I just need to get through this lesson with you. Can you just give me twenty minutes so that we can get through this lesson. Then, you'll go to your group work and can talk all you want."

They settle down for a few moments before moving into interrogation-mode.

"Does the initial complication differ from the other conflicts?"

"What happens if the character dies in the conflict?"

"What if we're just one big simulation in a storybook?"

"What is the...uh....ummm.....hang on....the question is right here. I'm just trying to remember it now."

"Did you see that movie? It's kinda like that movie where that character had a bunch of problems but then that helper-figure came along and they made it to the triumph. Did you see that movie? It's a real good movie."

"What about that other movie?"

And on and on. The lesson takes longer, but we eventually land on a space where I can feel comfortable turning them over to their groupwork to map out the complications in The Outsiders.

I finally dismiss the eighth graders. I let them out a few minutes early. They've always got somewhere to be or something to do any way. The principal even excuses them from my class early so they can do their sports or student council stuff. They rush out, and I walk through the room's sudden silence, looking for forgotten pencils, lunchboxes, and computers.

Stepping from the room into the warm sunlight, I head to the office to get the crossing guard STOP sign. I like this job after school. It beats standing on the curb and watching the students pile into vehicles. This job feels purposeful. (And, I get to stop traffic, which is kinda fun!)

I fumble with the office door for a moment. This one pulls up; all the others push down. The door is a little heavy and it sticks, but I eventually make it through. As I'm reaching for the STOP sign, the principal pulls me into her office. "We need to talk," she says in a quiet voice.

"Right now? Or should I do crosswalk duties?"

"We need to talk now," she said in a serious tone. "Someone else will get that."

We step into her office, and she gently closes the door. "What's the matter?" Her voice is quiet, like the voice one would use in speaking to a hurt or trapped animal.

The situation feels strange, and I'm not sure how to answer. "Um...what do you mean?"

"You drew a volcano on the board and said you were about to explode," she continues in that quiet voice. "What can I do to help you? Is there something you need taken off your plate?"

Immediately, I think about the special spelling lists and tests I'm required to build for the sixth-grade class since she'd determined their textbook was too difficult after a bunch of parents complained about the textbook's 35 words per week. "I have a spelling test that you could build if you want to help," I offer. "I've just finished the new list today."

"Oh, you're still doing that? We need to bring them up to the textbook standard. Are you adding more words?"

"Yes, I increased the list by four or five this week."

"I want you to take tomorrow off," she says suddenly.

"Take tomorrow off? To do what?" I respond, thinking about how tomorrow is a major day to get stuff done since the next day is a testing day before fall break.

"Just take tomorrow off. Don't worry about anything. Just get some rest."

"I don't understand..."

She looks at me for a moment and says, "You told the students you feel like a volcano..."

"I was trying a new strategy," I begin, telling her about this morning's conference with that parent.

"Oh, you can't listen to what he says. He cusses, and I've almost had to throw him out of the office once."

I leave the office and feel like something is afoot. Today just seemed like a normal day, but my boss is telling me to take off. I don't understand, but when I get home, I make plans to go jet skiing with Brenda on my "day off."

Later that evening as I'm heading back from the grocery store, I receive a text from my boss: "Call me when you get this message."

I call, and she says she needs me to call the head administrator in the morning.

"Am I being fired?" I ask. "If you want to fire me, just say so."

"No, nothing like that. I think we just need to make a plan. Call the administrator in the morning."

All night, it feels like I'm in the process of getting fired...or quitting. I'm not sure what kind of a plan my boss wants to make or why I need one. Then, I think about two things she's said over the last several months:

1. "This other teacher asked to be micromanaged, so if you want me to do that for you, just let me know."

2. "I'm new to this position, so I'm still learning, too!"

I kind of get the idea that as a new "boss," she wants to show she can manage people. On the other hand, I'm extremely self-motivated and accomplish objectives without someone over my shoulder. I don't work well with being micro-managed. I don't know anyone who does.

Then, I worry that I said something wrong. I drew a volcano, said I was "under pressure," and asked students to respect my time and responsibilities. Maybe I'm not cut out for teaching middle school. I think for a long moment about what one of the boisterous seventh-grade boys proclaimed loudly during my first week: "We broke the last English teacher in six weeks and made her quit!" I'm just past the first quarter, but do I really want to be doing this? Do I really want to stay?

I know the answer to that question.

The next morning, I call the head administrator while Brenda preps the jet skis.

"Can you come in at one today?" she asks.

"Oh, no....I...uh...I made other plans."

"Today is a workday, and you're on company time," she says flatly.

Not when I'm told to take the day off, I'm not.

"Could I come in later in the afternoon?" I ask, wondering if I should bring a change of clothes in the event I have to hop off the jet ski and rush straight to her office.

"How about tomorrow morning? Could you do that?"

"I could," I say, "but I have to ask this: Am I being fired?"

"Oh, no! We're not firing you. I just want to talk with you. Are you happy here?"

I draw a long breath and say, "No."

"So do you plan to come back next year?"

"No."

"Will you work to the end of the year?"

"I will."

"But you're not happy here?"

"No, I'm not."

"I know it's hard coming from teaching adults to middle school and having to learn middle school classroom management."

"I'm just playing games and disciplining all day long, while trying to sneak in a lesson here and there. It's exhausting," I admit.

"Do you want to stay beyond fall break?"

"Not really," I say.

"Then just take today off. Come in on Thursday, and we can sign your termination."

A weight is lifted from my shoulders and my mind. At the same time, there's a group of students who display a keen aptitude for writing and literature. There are also students who have confided to me their greatest life struggles, such as the girl whose father won't let her get her ears pierced or the one who was abandoned by her birth mother and put up for adoption.

In my short time there, I hope I taught them to tell their own stories as I encouraged their writing, creativity, and thinking.

On Thursday, I go in to sign the paperwork. As I leave the office with my last paycheck, the head administrator says, "There was never a problem between us. You know that right?"

I smile at her. She's a lovely, gracious lady who has just granted my freedom.

***

One week later, I'm heading toward Utah with my ex in the passenger seat. He flew into Las Vegas. We're going to hike Utah with Ria and her fiancé. Well....not all of Utah...just a few special places that they'll be able to see on their quest to conquer the Mighty 5 in a week's time. The ex is there to hike with us and to help me move the RV down to the Grand Canyon. On the same day I signed my resignation--effectively immediately--my canyon shuttle company picked me up as a full-timer. I've got a lot to be thankful for with that.

And--to be honest--I enjoy driving the shuttle bus and building the employee handbook more than I enjoy teaching...or--uh--disciplining and grading.

We call from my car. We're all on speakerphone in both cars. We're all traveling to the same point: these super-cool rocks that are off the beaten path and not along a designated hiking trail. Or maybe it is. But it just feels like land. I've never seen people there, but I have seen evidence of their passing. I want to show this to them.

I tell my daughter about my resignation and the story behind it all.

"Mom!" she shrieks. "You can't say that!"

"Say what?" I'm truly perplexed.

"You can't say you're about to explode!"

"I was using the volcano as a simile for how I felt."

"Yeah, but you can't say stuff like that today," she interrupts. "Not with school shootings."

"I agree. You shouldn't have said it," the ex chimes in.

My daughter's fiancé is wisely silent in this matter.

"Whatever!" I say. "I said it, and now I don't have to teach middle schoolers. It all really worked out well. I don't see why everyone is so upset."

We move on to other topics and try to measure our steps until we meet at that motel in the middle of Nowhere, Utah.

***

Two weeks and two days later, I'm down in Havasu. I have two days off work at the canyon shuttle job.

Well....I'm never really off work. I'm intercepting issues from drivers and the reservation desk throughout the day. In addition, I have to put out next week's employee schedule and take part in the Xanterra meeting. It's about luggage. People are suddenly shuttling luggage between the south and north rim at an unprecedented rate. Drivers aren't happy. They have to carry it. The lodges aren't happy. They have to store it. So, we've got to game plan how to handle it going forward.

I thrive on problems like this. I think it's called logistics.

But that meeting is tomorrow. Today, reflecting on the volcano dialogues, I can see how it might have been misconstrued. But...I can only laugh. It seems everything is working out for the best. I have faith.