A Courage Pill

I've been teaching high school for twenty years. Some years are better than others. This one is particularly bad.

Why can't there be a courage pill? If we can have a pill to help men with "ED," why can't I pop a pill to give my courage a lift when I'm shaking in my shoes, dreading the day that lies ahead?

I was walking into school this morning, feeling my stomach tying into knots a Navy admiral would admire, thinking, "What if I were in the military? Does every day feel like this for a soldier? And police officers and fire fighters? Do they feel like hands are pushing them backwards as they trudge toward their duty station?" I don't pretend to know, but I imagine it's not really the same.

I imagine that once a soldier gets into a "battle zone routine," the days go by with a routine, and fear and anxiety rear their heads when something out of the ordinary happens; an unauthorized vehicle approaches, a bomb detonates, a fighter jet screams overhead. For fire fighters and police officers, I don't imagine that the adrenaline really starts to pump until the pager goes off or a call comes over the radio. When the call does come, their lives are on the line, and they must put aside their fear, do what they are trained to do, and think about it later.

For these fortuitous souls, there should be a pill that provides a burst of valor, just when they need it; when the moment is right.

I am a high school teacher. Chances are that I will survive my day with all of my limbs intact. My fear is not of losing my life, but of losing control. My classes are huge; too many of my students are disrespectful; a handful is downright mean. There doesn't seem to be any solution other than, "You're a professional. Handle it." I can handle it until the cows come home. It isn't going to make Adam stop trying to keep me from teaching, and the rest of the class isn't going to learn as much.

What I need is a pill that provides a daily, lower-dose of courage. It's not like the building is burning all around me or people are shooting at me, so a thirty-six-hour window of opportunity for that rush of daring probably won't be necessary. What I could use is a continuous dose of bravery to keep my chin up, my rules hard and fast, and my backbone erect.

The list of "The Disruptors" feels endless. In first period, Sabrina spends the entire period muttering to the person next to her, and apologizing (insincerely) each time I ask her to stop. In second period, Rena takes pride in how obnoxious she is, greeting me with a big, loud, "HI, MRS. TAYLOR! (not my real name) DID YOU MISS ME?" every morning. Fifth period has thirty-four students in it. Even when they are just practicing their Spanish, the noise level is deafening. Sixth period brings ten completely exuberant (sometimes to the point of obnoxiousness) high-achievers, five constant complainers, five social butterflies, eight with no volume control, and two new students. It's only thirty kids, but it sounds like 130. At least they're nice, and most of them like school.

Eighth period takes the cake. Twenty-six kids, two of which are anti-education. They will do anything in their power to avoid learning something. Today it was mimicking my hand motions, snickering ("I wasn't chatting, I was just laughing."), raising their hand every thirty seconds to ask a ridiculous question, stage-whispering to each other across the room, and ten minutes of sound effects. (Usually it's animal noises. Today it was sirens.) I had to yell, knowing that they were probably trying to make me yell all along, just to keep their audience from joining the act.

Worse than the hours I spend living this nightmare is the number of hours I spend preparing for and recovering from my day. I drive home brainstorming of how I will handle Adam tomorrow. My dreams are filled with scene after scene of standing (usually naked) in front of gigantic classes with sixty kids acting like a bunch of crazy monkeys, throwing things, eating chalk, texting under the desk, and I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, trying to make them listen to me. I stand in the shower appearing to argue with myself as I practice what I will say to Tristan and what he will say back. As I drive to school I keep asking myself, "What can I do to keep Adam and Tristan from destroying my class today?" How can I keep from exposing the fact that I am really powerless, impotent, if you will, to keep the attention of students who are truly intent on not allowing any education to pass their eyes and ears or those of their classmates.

If I could just have that low-dose courage pill for daily use, I could count on it to help me be ready with the continuous courage I need anytime the moment is right. I wouldn't have to plan my lessons around taking a pill.

Of course, periods of bravery lasting longer than four hours, though rare, require immediate medical help to avoid long-term injury. Crap. That won't get me through to the end of eighth period. Shit.

Never mind. I'll just handle it.