2. Try Not to Wet your Pants

It's never wise to drink three Louisiana sweet teas just hours before meeting David Sedaris.  While I'm sure my bladder is plenty strong.  And, while my years should reflect satisfactory continence, the truth of the matter is, David Sedaris is hilarious.  And, I'm sort of star-struck in the midst of all his nasaly glory.  So, when asked by a perky Barnes and Noble gal with a nose ring if I'd like a shot of Red Bull while I waited for my book to be signed, I kindly accepted.  Under these circumstances, pep certainly comes before comfort.  

"Who is Katie?" Sedaris asked as I handed him my open copy of When you are Engulfed in Flames.  He was referring to the post-it note strategically placed inside my book by a B&N staff member who then instructed me to write the name of the person I wished Sedaris to dedicate the book.  

"Oh, that's me," I said.  I'd rehearsed what I'd say to Sedaris--how to let him know I wasn't just some average-reader who got a kick out of the ridiculous shenanigans of his recorded life.  "It's a pleasure to meet you."  My voice raised an octave and a half.  I sounded like I'd shed the mature half of a college and high school diploma.  But, behind the voice, I was a reader of language and detail.  I appreciated the structure and form and pondered the almighty Truth (with a capital T) in his memoirs.

"Who are you here with?" His skinny permanent marker fluttered across the book.  This was not the question that would lead into the introduction of the real Katie on the post-it-note.  Katie-the-writer.  Katie-the-MFA-candidate. 

"Oh, um, Jenny Sutcliffe," I said as I lifted my palm to my left in true Vanna White fashion.  "My boyfriend's mom."

"She's going to be a famous writer someday," Jenny piped in.  Perfect!  What a lead!  But, by this point I'd been shooed to the end of the table.  I clutched my now-famous book in my hands.  

"I'm in an M.F..."  

"You can step around this way to exit the area," a security guard, accompanied by two more, said in a voice that made up for any deep testosterone lacking in the author's.

My time had ended.  And as my intentions to impress Sedaris with my almost-credentials flowed out, my urge to pee once again settled back in to my humbly disappointed bladder.  As I tip-toed to the restroom, careful not to jar the rolling pouch of urine to any particular side, I glanced down at my personalized dedication: To Katie, I'm so happy you can walk. DS

#  #  #

"I gotta use it!" became an anthem of my short teaching career.  In my own school days set in rural 1990s suburbia, semantic-arguments with teachers spawned from this particular restroom interchange:  "Can I use the bathroom?" 

"Yes you can, but you may not."

But in South Louisiana, the standard "I gotta use it" was surely followed with a "Use what?"  At least by a non-native.  Never mind that one is a question and one is a firm declaration.  Middle Schoolers have to pee.  And, somehow, they can never quite ask appropriately.

#  #  #

"Listen, you have got to stop wetting your pants.  You are too old for this."  Nurse Malley spent most of her days changing young students into dry, urine-free clothes and handing out Ziplocks full of ice to the occasional recess-noggin-bump.  "You've been in here once already this week," she continued.  The kindergardener nodded his little head as he synched his belt and zipped his fly.  She put the green Nurses Pass around his neck, and prepared him for the trek downstairs to the elementary hallway.  Jordan had been waiting in the doorway.  He'd grown this academic year, if not in maturity, at least a few inches.  Nurse Malley mentally prepared for his request.  A bandaid, perhaps.  An ice bag.  A peppermint for an upset tummy. 

"Why are you here?" she asked.  Jordan looked to the ground.  

"Same as him."  He shrugged his left shoulder toward the six year old who had wet himself.  Jordan-the-seventh-grader, for whatever reason, pissed his much larger pants.  At the time, I was appalled.  But tonight, after nearly soiling my twenty-something slacks over a homosexual with a funny bone, I feel for the Middle Schoolers who haven't quite learned to hold it. 

1. Leave Your Luggage At Home

I watch A. wheel a rolling suitcase down the sixth grade hallway.  He steers it with purpose and speed and guides it around the corner toward the main office.  His back tilts almost parallel to the speckled tiles beneath his feet, and I wonder what is inside.  Something heavy, I suspect.  I notice his glasses.  The circle frames are as precise as graphing compasses.  Whole and unbroken, they attach to wiry coils that wrap his ears and indent his small, spotted nose.  His eyelashes are long and curl against the foggy, smudged lenses.  His hair, a common brown, is separated by oils in sharp, chaotic rays.  I eye his school uniform.  Rather than drooping, sagging pants that I’m used to, he wears his khaki shorts just beneath his belly button.  I imagine that his fleshy pink skin pinches beneath the tight black leather of his belt. 

It is the first day of my second year teaching at Southeast Middle.  I am not nervous since my former students have already validated my authority with their hugs or sneers.  I’m a veteran now, and the sixth graders know it.  My co-teacher, Ms. Todd, is inside our classroom taking the homeroom attendance.  I am in the hallway, watching a stranger.

“Why are you carrying around that suitcase?” I ask.  I’ve been trained to keenly identify prohibited items like sweatshirts with hoods, cell phones and gum.  Sure to assert my presence in the hallway much as in my own classroom, I am the kind of teacher who confiscates chewed gum without flinching.  I give students the “hand it over” look and uncoil my right palm.  Sometimes, before homeroom even begins, I’ll have eight saliva-coated spearmint wads inside my hand.  It is effective to shock them, behave against what they expect.  With only a year of experience, this is one trick I’ve learned.  I eye this carry-on size suitcase and wait for his response.

“Because it’s too big to fit in my locker.”   A.'s voice spills from his throat.  It’s as if his diaphragm puffs erratic bursts of air, allowing these words to barely make it over the threshold of his mouth.  It is pitched in a prepubescent octave.  It is airy, breathy and somewhat constipated.  This kid must be one of mine, I think, and I remember Ms. Graham, a fellow special education teacher, say “I think I met one of your sixth grade babies,” this morning.   I wonder about his diagnoses, if he can read.

This little man reverts his eyes back toward the ground.  For a brief moment, I picture him aboard a red-eye flight.  “It’s for business,” he’d say instead and muscle his perfectly miniature box-on-wheels into the overhead storage compartment before sitting down and buckling up.  But this little man, somewhere between eleven and twelve, is on his way to forfeit his luggage.

“Leave that at home tomorrow,” I say sternly.  I am accustomed to this tone.  It is soft and calm with a firmness that ages me enough to create a false authority.  It is this even-keeled yet assertive voice that gives me a reputation for having well-behaved classes.  It is the first time in my life that I am confident with my personality.  It is the first time that my quiet demeanor has contributed to my success, rather than inhibit it.  I avoid a smile, but I add a question.  “Okay?”  My voice swings upward in a slightly friendlier tone.  “Okay?”  A's fragility seems to warrant this gesture of kindness.

I know,” he says, “I know.”  And he continues his trudge down the long jet bridge of Southeast Middle.  I watch him as he fights the thick and sloppy, often paralyzing mud of the sixth grade.  I pivot on my heal and walk into my classroom.