A SECRET LIFE

At the end of the 1994 high school year the staff of Brooklyn Junior High had a farewell luncheon for departing teachers.  I was new to the school that year and didn’t know what to expect.  Being more of an introvert, I would gladly have foregone the whole ordeal.  I had made several friends on the staff—Ann, the English teacher who graciously shared her room with me, and Pat, the warm-hearted social studies teacher across the hall.  They were the only ones who’d really gotten to know me.  I was a part-time teacher working with ninth grade German students during the last hour of the day, so there wasn’t much time for social interaction.

During orientation the previous fall, the Spanish teacher John didn’t endear himself to me by “sharing” that I wouldn’t be around BJ for more than a year.  German, he assured me, was definitely going to be cut the following year.  I didn’t like his condescending attitude and was a little shocked and miffed.  It dampened my excitement about finding a teaching job.  My student loan bill hadn’t even arrived yet.  In the end he was right and probably had prior knowledge about the language study plans, but I didn’t have to like it or him.

I felt increasingly nervous and anxious at the luncheon and my mind started to wander as departing teachers were introduced.  Where would I be in a year?  Were my student loans a waste?  Had I been crazy to return to school after 25 years to get a teaching degree in German?  How would our family make it financially?  I’d felt so good returning to my old college campus, proving that I could get good grades and make new friends.  I’d made it through nine nervous weeks of intern teaching and then landed a job.  Even if it was part-time, I was ecstatic.

Then I heard Pat, in a slightly mischievous tone, call my name.  Not the introduction I’d expected.

                “Now Lynda Richter, our German teacher, you’d just never guess.  She’s lived a real secret life this year.”

Oh my god, what’s she going to say, I wondered.  Maybe I shouldn’t have shared some of my thoughts and feelings with her.  I felt a second swirl of emotions.  And then to have to conjure up a smile one last time!  “What are you doing to me, Pat?”  I questioned her intentions.  But then I realized that she was just relaying to others, in a humorous way, what a difficult year it had been for me.  We had gone on a memorable day trip along the Mississippi River earlier in the year and gotten to know one another on a more personal level.  I really enjoyed her company.

She continued on:  “None of you is aware that once Lynda left BJ when the school day ended, another part of her work life was just beginning.  She’d race home, change into her uniform, drive 45 minutes to Mystic Lake Casino, and work until 4 a.m. making change for customers.  While pushing her little cart around, she’d dream up lesson plans that could interest ninth graders in learning German.  No small task!  Then she’d drive home, sleep a few hours, finish her lesson plans, and head back to school the next day for another go round in seventh period.  She did this the whole year.”

I could hear the laughter and wondered what people thought.  Was I being undignified as a teacher?  Pat obviously didn’t think so.  She knew how I’d struggled to make ends meet that year.  A part-time teaching job for a first year teacher didn’t contribute much to the family income.  A second job was essential and the casino job fit well with my time frame.  The trouble was my body didn’t react well to chasing the clock and getting three or four hours of sleep a night.  I was a wreck, emotionally and physically.  It took me a long time to realize it.  On the drive home I’d roll down the windows, blast the radio, and slap my face to stay awake.  It barely worked, and one morning at 4:30 a.m. I drove past Golden Valley, where I lived, on my way to downtown Minneapolis and the nearby Institute of Arts.  I had no idea how I got there.  It was frightening!  I’d obviously dozed off, but woke up enough to steer myself in the opposite direction towards home.  Fifteen minutes later I headed up the hill to our house, hit the side of the road, and put a bubble in the left front tire, which remained there for nearly a year.  It was a scary episode.  What I’d done was just as bad as if I’d been driving drunk and I doubt that any police officer would have had much sympathy.  I got lucky in many ways, above all that I hadn’t injured others.

I learned a lot about my needs that year, including the importance of getting a minimum of six hours of sleep a night, doing my lesson plans a week in advance, not taking myself and others so seriously, and trusting those who want to reveal your secret life—IT’S ALL GOOD!

 

*A postscript—I went on to do substitute teaching for another four years, in German, English, social studies, history, and ironically, Spanish.