The Air That I Breathe

I was driving for a really long time.  It felt like I was going to enter Alabama at any second.  The topography changed over and over again.  Highway, historic West Side, changing to strange supermarket chains that I had never heard of.  All of the signs turned to Spanish and a series of Mexican and Caribbean restaurants popped up.  The houses were made of cinder block.  My mind filtered through all of the implications of teaching in that area.  If only it wasn't so fucking far away...

After driving in the out way, I accidentally pulled into the bus lane and nearly hit a metal gate trying to make a u-turn. I casually pulled into a parking space at the giant, empty, elementary school.  I rang the bell.  A man made his way through the dark office.
"Hey, come on in, I'm the principal." he announced, friendly enough.
"Where do you live?" he asked, the minute we arrived at a conference room.
"Atlanta..." I said hesitantly, knowing it sounded very far away.
I saw three covered bridges on my drive back to the big city. 

Classical music was playing.  A friendly guy asked me a few questions.
"What drew you to apply?"
"The show.  The exhibit.  It sounds exciting."
"It really is..." he breathed, "it's huge..."
"We'll be in touch!"  he told me brightly, sending me away with my Yayoi Kusama flyers and pins.
The interview lasted ten minutes.  But I felt different.  In the world again, in some way.

I stood on the recess field, watching the goats in the neighboring yard while I monitored the students.  It was my first day ever as a sub.  My first day ever in a private school.  I was stunned to find out that I was subbing for a recess monitor and basically spent the day hanging out outside watching goats.
"Hey, Hilary.  My name's Blake!"  a kindergartner informed me. 

Then, I drove to the projects.  I greeted my group, throwing genuine compliments everywhere.  As we played multiplication bingo, I chuckled and spoke to my group, feeling free of cloistered private school decorum.

"9x5"  I announced while they scrambled to do the math.
"Fingers!  Count on your fingers if you have to!  That is nine added together five times!  I have scratch paper!"
We digressed for a minute, when I explained that a rhetorical question is a question that doesn't require an answer.
"You know, when your teacher says 'Why do I hear talking?' she doesn't really want an answer, she just wants you to be quiet!"  I said, laughing.

For once, they laughed too.  We were bonding.
I left, after having made about half of what I usually make in a day.  But I felt okay, actually more than okay.
Alive.