There was once a French teacher at my school. She wore a blonde bun every day held tight by a braid wrapped around it, always leaving two strands of golden hair, slightly greased, hanging down on each side of her face. She wore bright red lipstick and when she spoke her lips moved in such a mesmerizing way I always felt like I was watching a claymation video on Nickelodeon. She smelled of stale coffee and vanilla. Her nails were filed to a point, often painted a nude-ish color. She was what Jerry Seinfeld would call a "close talker", often choosing the most inappropriate moments to share her disapproval of the new teacher contract. I would be standing at the front of the classroom trying to teach my lesson and she would approach me to tell me what really gets her goat. She often talked in circles, describing the new contract as a means of extortion. Always telling me how terrible "they" were treating untenured teachers, raving about the other UFT caucus, MORE. As much as I often agreed with her points, I just couldn't handle the moments and methods in which she chose to present them.
In her classes, she taught with a vast collection of worksheets. I had no idea just how many worksheets until she retired. As I left on the final day of school last June, she mentioned having some teaching resources she wanted to pass on to me. I said fine, she could leave them in my mailbox.
When I returned in August I found a stack of French worksheets placed on my desk. I assumed the custodians had found them when they were cleaning the room, leftover from the previous year's students. I tossed them in the trash along with the other random papers that had emerged over the summer.
The following week I began cleaning up my classroom. I decided to attack the back corner which was filled with boxes and crates of random books and supplies. I found a large black plastic bag in the corner that I didn't recognize. It was filled to the brim with French worksheets. Right away, I knew where it came from. I found myself completely perplexed as to why this woman would think that this bag filled with worksheets in a language I do not speak would be useful. This bag had no purpose for me, therefore it had to be disposed of immediately. I am very strong. I tried to lift the bag and couldn't so I slowly dragged it to the garbage cans. I still could not lift it so I taped a note that read, "TRASH" to the bag and left it next to the trash can. The bag sat on the floor by my desk for two days, before the custodian finally gave in and lifted the bag into his rolling trash can and took it away. I still wonder how this woman of such small stature was able to carry this burdensome bag down a flight of stairs and across the hallway into the back corner of my classroom.
A few days later, as I began going through folders from the previous year, I noticed that a stack of papers and folders had been knocked over. As I tidied up, I found papers that once again did not belong to me. More French worksheets!
The following day I decided to clean out a filing cabinet. When I went to open the drawer I saw it was already ajar. I tried to pull it open further but it was stuck. There was a blue folder crammed on top of my neatly organized files. "When did I put that there?" I thought as I struggled to remove the folder. I opened the folder. Unbelievable. More French worksheets.
As I opened the doors of a large wooden cabinet overflowing with books, I found a new yellow plastic bag sitting on one of the shelves. I peered inside and found it was filled with matching hard-cover urban books and a note addressed to me in green marker and her very distinct cursive handwriting. "For Jamie. Have a great year!" At least these books were written in English. I added them to the pile of books to send down to the book room. Maybe someone would use them. It was not going to be me.
At this point, my room was clean. I surmised I had found and rid myself of all the hidden gifts. I moved on to other things and forgot about the worksheets.
Last Friday, one of my special ed students decided she was going to sign herself out of school and enroll in a GED program. In order to do so, we needed to give her a copy of her IEP (Individualized Education Plan). As I dug into the IEP drawer for the first time all year, I realized there were some extra papers floating around inside. I pulled them out and with no more than a quick glance yelled, "MORE FRENCH WORKSHEETS!" I threw them on the ground, still pulling out more by the handful, as my colleague watched in a fit of laughter.
It's been six days since I have found a worksheet. Each day I return to school wondering if I got the last of the French worksheets or if they will forever haunt me. Who knew foreign languages could be so relentless?
THIS IS AMAZING
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