A convoy of yellow buses converge on the school where I teach, unload their first load of the day, and just as quickly leave, headed to pick up more anxious, nervous children. Parents recklessly hurry into the parking lot, teenagers exiting quickly before their friends see them being dropped off by adults. Teachers carrying coffee cups, lunch bags, schools bags, and an assortment of other bags bustle into the building, intent on making sure they are ready for their new students and day. Tomorrow is the first day of school.
At the beginning of August, I start eyeing school supplies in various stores. My fingers brush against new pens, and I search the aisles for 'necessities' like fat magnet clips or colored staples. The stacks of lined paper call my name as do folders that look like rainbows and markers neatly standing at attention. The temptation is usually too great, and I surrender to new pens, at the very least. While I'm not usually ready for the start of school, I love new school supplies.
With a fist clenched around my son's school supply list, we head into the maelstrom that is school supply shopping. Pencils? Check. Wide ruled paper? Check-but ugh! who uses that? Kleenex, Chlorox wipes, baggies. Interesting requests and...check. Naturally, I have to throw something in the cart I want, like a funky new pen or some purple sticky notes. My son is nearly as excited as I am to go school shopping.
Each July a letter arrives, which I lovingly refer to as 'the letter of doom.' It's usually a cheery note from my principal, letting us know the specifics about our return. It casts a brief pall on our summer, but then we go back to swimming, biking, walking, hanging out on the porch, and readying ourselves for school shopping. I frequently can't remember when we are supposed to report, much to the frustration of those who ask when I go back. I like to pretend I have more summer. Upon our return, meetings swamp our days, and time in our classrooms is limited. Like ants, we hurry to and fro, making copies, putting up posters, planning lessons. Occasionally previous students come to visit. If they linger too long I often put them to work as well. I'm training them not to linger too long. Seniors are often scared before college begins, and they need to know there is a trace of an umbilical cord attached to their alma mater before they fly away for good.
On the first day of school, I have a sinking feeling in my stomach and a series of "what ifs" plaguing me. I remind myself constantly that it's a new year with new students, all of whom have to be trained to work and think for my class. In my mind, I plan what I'm going to say and do and hope it'll be enough to fill the time. As I walk into the building, the nervousness and anxiety are so thick, along with the hormones and the body sprays, a small fog forms around the students. Of course there are kids out of dress code, trying to be cool, to flout the school's rules. Others are hurrying, heads down, to find their classrooms so as not to be late. The halls fill with a crescendo of noise, the bell rings, the kids hurry to their first class, and then...silence. And the year begins.
