Two Weeks

I tried getting my ducks in a row. Really, I just needed to get away.

To.

Not.

Be.

Here.

Or...more accurately, to not be in an epic new-teacher struggle with middle- and high- school students. I need to reach back to the Time Before the Current Struggle.

So I drive north.

I become Shuttle Driver Pyra, forgetting Middle School Teacher Pyra. I drive for my old company...almost 500 miles in one day. And the drive up to the canyon.

But, I'm getting paid, so it is all part of my Chipmunk Plan. My boss paid for my gas to get there, and I earned a day's driving wages. In the great balance sheet, I come out ahead and get a break from all the sameness.

The air near the canyon is cooler, and the night air causes me to pull my sleeping closer. The night away is exactly what I need.

Being "away" give perspective on regular life.

I return to Havasu as the full-ish moon rises over the rocky peaks.

Desert peaks.

It's so hot.

The trip north felt good, but it's back to the heat and the classroom.

It's Monday. I put the plastic ducks in the slot canyon formed by the rocks on my desk. My job is to keep them in a row all week.

I mostly do that.

On Wednesday, the principal comes in and talks with the sixth grade during my class. Apparently, I'm not the only teacher struggling with this class, but she uses my class to teach the lesson while I work at grades and such. Really...I listen in.

She teaches "indoor voices" to the sixth graders and how to "hold the bubble in your mouth." I'd heard other teachers say this, but now I learn that it means the student is to puff their cheeks into a "bubble."

Whatever.

It gets 'em quiet.

By the end of the week, the principal confronts me with what I need to do, change, and improve.

I bust out in tears, asking what I've done right.

I really feel like a failure.

I want to be doing anything but this.

By the end of week, I have the PTSD-feeling, but my ducks are still in a row.

My ducks are still in a row.

There's hope.

At least for now.