Two weeks ago, the phone rang at 5:00 a.m. It was the automated call system that school districts now use in assigning substitute teachers when there are staff vacancies. I was being directed to report to a nearby junior high. I’d be covering 7th grade math. 90 minutes later, I was dressed and driving to my assignment.
I found out last year that tutoring was an amenable fit. It was more than that—I actually enjoyed working with youth and the assortment of experiences across my life allowed me to bring some breadth to my nightly tasks at the private school located 10 minutes away.
Last spring, I initiated an inquiry to my local school district about the possibility of subbing. It was near the end of the school year so getting started was impractical at the time. I made a note to follow-up during the summer. Then, I was off on my road trip and returned with issues related to my SI joint. Substitute teaching ended up on the back burner.
Summers now have morphed into completing my CMS/AHIP certification for Medicare, at least that’s what most of August is now about for me. I did manage to complete the required paperwork for the municipal school district and turned it in. Just prior to the first day of school, I received a call to complete my final payroll forms. I made an executive decision to do the same at a neighboring RSU. Now I’m on the roster for two school systems. I have the option of working daily if I want.
I am busy again and have been since the beginning of the school year. So far, my high water mark has been three sub assignments in a week. Not once have I regretted my decision or any assignment. Inevitably, there will always be a student or two who is determined to challenge a substitute. Somewhere along the line I must have picked-up some classroom management skills.
I’m enjoying being a substitute teacher.
During the current stretch of Medicare seminars, I’m also offering one of my publishing boot camps on Saturday. As a result, I’ve been forced to put my time in front of the classroom on hold. I still tutor five days a week, but this stretch has been a bit busier than I care for. I’m looking forward to saying “yes” to my automated calls, soon.
The day I went to the junior high also happened to be our first brutally-cold one. There had been a frost, and the wind was howling. I was smart to drop my winter hat and gloves into my backpack because I’d end up having outdoor duty just prior to lunch. I think it’s a great idea to have students get some fresh air and be able to run around a bit during the school day.
When I made it inside, the teacher-in-charge directed me to a section of the cafeteria where I’d be camped-out and supervising about 25-30 students eating lunch and then, directing them to bus and clean their own lunch tables. My how school has changed since I was in junior high. Back then, we left the lunch room where we ate in disarray, or that’s how I remember it.
My section happened to have 6th graders. While they were an enthusiastic group, I was impressed at how easy it was to obtain their cooperation when I asked them to begin picking up their table and to take a cleaning cloth and wipe it down.
A pack of young boys caught my attention. They were a bit rambunctious, not in a bad way, but the way the young boys will be boys when at 12 or 13, sitting still isn’t their favorite thing to do.
When I came over and asked them to finish eating and begin picking up, one of them asked me, “do you want to join our religion?” What a question. I chuckled.
“What religion is that? I asked.
I was told they made it up. One of them showed me one of their identifiers, what I would best describe as being a “safe” sign in baseball. I told them that. They thought it was funny. Another one of the boys showed me their symbol, a rudimentary drawing on the back of his hand. It was basically a circle or a line through it. This took me back a spell to my own middle school years. I doubt that any religious imagery or symbol lacking the Pope’s imprimatur would have been sanctioned and approved in the house where I grew up. I’m sure it would have caused an argument, or worse. Perhaps this young man is keeping his evangelism under wraps, hidden from his parents.
Max Muncy: part of a new religion? (Robert Hanshiro photo/USA Today via Reuters
“I’m not very religious,” I told them. I did share with them I’d been an umpire and demonstrated the “punch out” that home plate umpires use on a called third strike. Of course, they all had to show me their own impression. This made me laugh and for me in my life post-Mark, laughter is welcome.
As I got ready to dismiss them, I came over and said to them, “My young brothas: it’s time to leave.” They got such a charge out of that. “He called us young brothers,” one of them said, and they all laughed and boisterously exited the lunchroom.
I saw them later in the hall and I gave them the “safe” sign. They laughed again.
Seeing some of the World Series over the weekend, I couldn’t help thinking of my “young brothers” in from 6th grade. I’m looking forward to returning to check-in on their progress.
Signaling something new, perhaps.