Now Is The Time For Optimism

I apologize for the week hiatus from posting. I needed to get my head clear before I put words to this week's events.

Last Tuesday was our open house, and the parents were lovely. It was a long night, though--9:30 before I arrived home to a frozen pizza for dinner and to my bed. I did not read the email my principal sent out that evening that described the layoffs that were to come the next day. Perhaps it was good fortune I never checked my email that night, because I slept well.

The next morning, I walked into the Spanish classroom--our make-shift teacher's lounge since it is the only sometimes-kid-free zone. It was there I learned of the email and what was to come after our short school day. I have only been working for a total of eight weeks after thirteen months of unemployment, so I panicked, then I cried. I didn't want this again. Then I looked at the faces of my coworkers.  I didn't want this for them.

We went our separate ways to our classrooms, all of us fronting smiles, yet knowing what was to come. I'm not sure I have the words to describe the agony of the next four hours. So many scenarios--most of them worst-case--were running through my head: What would happen if I lost my job? Could I really find a job in October? Would I even stay in teaching? Is the mall even hiring?

After the students left, and we made our way back to the Spanish classroom, our principal walked into the room. Normally a very upbeat person, she looked worn down and it was obvious she hadn't slept. She described, in a serious tone, our new schedule: no more homeroom, no more electives, no more year-long schedule. Because our cuts to the teaching staff will be so deep, we will move to a 4X4 schedule because it's the only way we can continue to teach the same number of students with a smaller staff. The students will now only take four courses each term (a term is an academic year squeezed into a semester). Some teachers will pick up courses from the teachers who will be laid off. Some teachers will be teaching at two different schools. As we listened, not only were we worried about our job status--we were worried how, if we kept our job, we would make this happen six weeks into the school year. "When will we find out if we still have our jobs?" I asked. 

"Now." Our principal walked back into her office, and she said that one by one she would call us back to deliver the news--yes, we are keeping you, or no, we are not. Suddenly, I wished I hadn't asked.

My friend, a Spanish teacher, went first. After she walked out of the room, we were silent. It was as if a bomb went off, and it was too cloudy yet to see what was happening. She was only gone about five minutes before she came back in tears. I asked if she was staying, and she said she was, but she had to go. I didn't understand, then my name was called.

Sitting in that chair, across from my principal, I thought I had done something wrong. And I thought for sure I would throw up all over her desk. "Yes or no--please just tell me yes or no," I pleaded with her.

"No."  I felt like someone had dropped me off a cliff. "No, we are not letting you go." With a jerk, I stopped falling. I was perplexed.

My principal explained my new teaching schedule, and then I understood--one of my English colleagues was going to be let go. He was going to be let go--not me. I was relieved. Then I wasn't. How was he going to find a job in October? Then I realized I knew his fate before he did. I felt dirty. I didn't want this inside knowledge. I started to cry. Then my principal started to cry. She didn't want this either. No wonder she hadn't slept. I hadn't done anything wrong, nor had she. There was a desk, and a whole pay scale between us, but we were both in this mess together, and it was just really, really awful.

I walked out of my principal's office sobbing. I had to pull myself together before I walked into the Spanish classroom, because if they saw me, they'd all panic. I paced the hallway, and the more I paced, the more I sobbed. I just had to get out of there and not make any eye contact. Now I understood why my friend was crying. If she made it, her Spanish colleague had not. When I opened the door, everyone looked up, but I stared at the floor, grabbed my things, then left.

That night, I cried in a way I had not in a long, long time. The tears were for my last layoff, for my relief, for my guilt about my relief, for my colleagues who did not deserve this, for my principal who had to deliver this news, for all of us who now have to fix this.

The next day, when I walked back into the Spanish classroom, the smoke had cleared some. I saw who was left--a mere 60% of us. We have a long road ahead of us, and that's written on each of our faces. I always understood why teachers talk about being "in the trenches," but now I understand that phrase on a new level. I walked over to my friend and gave her a big hug, as if to say "Thank goodness you made it." She looked at me and said, "Now--now--is the time for optimism."