Page 80 of Teacher of the Year

Olan nods, and kisses me. And instead of turning and bolting, I pause and kiss him back. Our mouths connected, filled with affection, I linger, savoring the moment. Maybe there’s hope for me after all?

* * *

Back in my apartment, I pop a frozen cheese pizza into the oven as Gonzo lies on the table next to my computer, pawing gently at piles of papers. Tomorrow’s visit and interview feel like a big deal. Me, in that luxurious tub, attempting vulnerability with Olan, feels monumental. Talking with him and sharing a part of why I’m so, well, me makes the tightness in my chest loosen, which feels auspicious.

Chapter25

Olan: I’ll be thinking about you today. You got this!

Marvin: Thank you that means a lot.

Olan: I’ll see you at pickup. Maybe we can chat this evening.

Marvin: I’d love that. ??

As I walk into my classroom, everything feels heightened today. I wear khaki pants, a powder-blue short-sleeve button-down shirt, and a navy gingham bowtie. All of these items rarely see the light of day because kindergarten teachers do not regularly wear nice clothes. It would make no sense. Refer to earlier stories about vomit and blood and add on encounters with paint, markers, snot, urine, and feces. We’re also on the floor. A lot. When the people you need to communicate with are tiny, and you must kneel, squat, and even lie on the floor multiple times a day, you learn swiftly that anything you wear can and will most likely be ruined.

Only special occasions warrant the inherent risk of ruining expensive clothes and today definitely fits the bill. Dr. Knorse informed me she’d be meeting the team at eight thirty since that’s when my students arrive. Because I understand how five- and six-year-old brains function, yesterday, I mentioned to my class we’d be welcoming some visitors but kept the conversation low-key.

“Tomorrow morning, two grown-ups are coming to spend some time with us for a bit.”

“Why are they coming?” Kate asked.

“Are we in trouble?” Charlie added.

“Nobody is in trouble. You know how I brag about having the best class in the school, well word got out, and these adults want to come and see how amazing all of you are. We’ll just do our normal routine, and they’ll watch. They might even participate or ask you questions. All you have to do is be your amazing selves. That’s what they’re coming to see.”

And that was enough. No mention of the award or my interview during lunch. The key lies in giving enough information to prepare them but not too much to cause concern or overthinking. When I started teaching, I gave way too many details about being out or special events, which only brought more questions and worries. When you know better, you do better.

At eight thirty, Dr. Knorse appears at the door with two people. She walks them in, and I pause to greet them.

“Good morning, welcome.”

“This is Dr. Hayes and Mr. Ali,” Dr. Knorse announces. I know she’s counting on this going well.

Dr. Angela Hayes has been my contact with the organization, and all my emails have come from her. A white stout woman – not terribly taller than the students – with auburn shoulder-length hair that she’s clearly spent time curling, she wears a purple dress covered in pink flowers. Her round, friendly face smiles wide enough to show teeth. Next to her, Mr. Ali towers over her and everyone else. He’s Black and slender with a neatly trimmed mustache. He’s wearing a navy suit, minus the jacket draped over his arm, which makes sense on this warmer, almost-April day. He smiles, his eyes darting around the room, taking it all in, and I wonder what experience they both have with kindergarten. Until you’ve experienced the magical chaos, you have no idea.

“Welcome! Feel free to join us on the carpet or take a seat at one of the tables,” I offer, knowing not all adults want to sit on the floor.

Dr. Knorse gives me her best version of RuPaul’s good-luck-and-don’t-fuck-it-up stare, leaving Dr. Hayes and Mr. Ali in the pit of the lion’s den. Of course, I’m a lion tamer, and they are in for quite a show.

Dr. Hayes, clearly the braver of the two, joins us on the carpet. She waddles over, and without prompting Martha and Illona move apart, giving her a wide berth. She lowers herself, legs apart, and about halfway to the ground gravity takes over. Realizing she’s about to fall, she juts her arm out at the last moment to catch herself and lets out an “Oh my!” as she lands. She rights herself and does her best to sit with her legs tucked to her side. Martha scoots over even more, again without being asked.

Mr. Ali watches in slight horror and, being even further from the ground, wisely opts to grab a chair and sit on the circle’s periphery. Even in a chair, his knees rise up to his chest. Maybe I should’ve procured some adult-sized chairs for them, but the complete kindergarten experience includes managing tiny furniture.

With everyone mostly settled and my students already showing an enormous amount of patience, I continue with the share portion of our meeting.

“We’ve been talking about being flexible. Who can remind us what ‘being flexible’ means?”

A few perplexed looks are dotted between raised hands. Ricky’s hand waves wildly, and I nod toward him.

“Being flexible means if you want blocks, but it’s full, pick something else and don’t throw a fit,” he spits out, pointedly looking at both Dr. Hayes and Mr. Ali with a grin.

“Yes, Ricky, that is an example of being flexible. If you make a plan and it doesn’t work out, you need another plan. Now, I want you to think of a time you were flexible. Like Ricky’s example with blocks. Take a thinking minute, so you’re ready to share,” I instruct.

Each child’s pointer finger goes up to their chin and begins tapping, a strategy I taught them to show they are thinking.

“All right, turn and talk to your partner. ‘One time I was flexible was…’ and go!”

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