It’s Like A Marriage

I have literally ruminated over this story for two years.  Never done…but getting there:

1

“Come meat our new dancers! Now hiring!” the sign read.  Driving to report to the first workday of my second (and final) year of teaching, my heart twitched as I passed this sign and the male strip club, Chasers, behind it.  It’s not too late, I thought. You can begin your stripping career today.  Screw the kids.  Screw education.  Screw your resume.  Get money from creeps who want to screw you.

I had been consumed for weeks by my potential stripping career.  I’d never stripped before, but I figured my pool-tanned body would be better suited gyrating under neon lights than breaking up fights.   I had practiced, alone in my bedroom, writhing to Jackson Five’s “ABC,” the song being a key element of my hot-for-teacher theme.  My costume’s outer layer would be a suit, showcasing a nametag with “Mr. F” written in red marker.  Hidden underneath?  Apple patterned briefs.  A wooden ruler would be my prop, and, if my fans got handsy, a weapon.

In between practices, I vainly called my principal.  “Mr. Carr, this is Mr. Freeman.  I’m excited about the school year,” my messages would begin with a lie, “and I’m wondering what I’m teaching this year.  Call me back.  Please.”  The messages grew increasingly fraught; his silence convinced me I would have the worst possible assignment:  ‘teaching’ In-School Suspension.

This potential disaster caused my body to physical shudder as my view of Chasers faded in the rearview mirror.  I made a pact with myself.  Should Mr. Carr assign me an unfavorable position, I would give my two weeks notice and audition that day.  I reminded myself of this pact as I drove, parked and immediately strode to Mr. Carr’s office.

He looked up from his computer as I stepped inside.  The heavy under-eye bags so present the year before were now smaller.  He appeared a much healthier, improved version of the frazzled Mr. Carr I knew.  I was softened by this change.

“Mr. Freeman, it’s good to see you.  Have a seat.”  He motioned to the chair across from where he sat.

“I’ve been calling you.”

“Yes, sorry about that.  Been meaning to get back to you, but it’s been busy and,” he began, tilting his head toward me, “I figured I’d just see you here today.”  Well, maybe not for long. “How was your summer?”

Are you buttering me up? “It was great.  Went to a couple weddings, hung out with friends by the pool,” drinking, drinking, drinking, “spent time with family,” contemplated becoming a stripper.  The usual.

“That’s just great.  I could tell you were worn down last year.  It’s good to hear you enjoyed yourself.”

Let’s cut to the chase.  Exactly what am I going to be teaching the hellions? “About my messages…”

He leaned back and opened his arms to his side, as if he was hugging the space around himself.  Here we go. He’s really going to do this.  I am going to be the In-

Effing–School Suspension teacher.  Well, you know what Mr. Carr, you can take your In-School Suspension and… “I have a great assignment for you.”  Just say it. “You’re teaching sixth grade Language Arts – two blocks of inclusion with a wonderful new teacher, Amber Mahar, and one block of resource all by yourself.”  I was stunned.  There was still potential for disaster – this Mahar character could be Grape Nuts – but this assignment was one of the best I could have hoped for.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Carr, that sounds” like I could possible survive “pretty good.”

He smiled, resting his hands on his paunch.  “Go meet her, Freeman.  Room 213.”

When I entered what would be our room, I found this Mahar character struggling to move the heavy student desks.  Even as her face twisted in effort, she was beautiful: petite, her black immaculate hair cut into a bob that framed thick, luxurious eyelashes.  I immediately knew the students would like Mahar more than they liked me.  This didn’t bother me; at least they would like someone.

“Knock, knock” I said, annoyingly, while entering the room.  “I’m Freeman,” I continued, extending my hand toward her.

She rushed toward me, a genuine smile on her face, her dark eyes catching a shine in the fluorescent lights.  “Oh, Freeman, I am so glad to meet you,” she said, taking my hand to her own.  “I have heard so much about you from everyone.  They say you are just the best.”  Well, I don’t know who you have talked to woman, but someone is not to be trusted.  Either you’re lying or you’ve been fooled.

As we chitchatted, seated atop the student desks, I kept her on official crazy watch.  Surely she can’t be sane, I contemplated. Who would take a job at Ransom willingly? Try as I might to detect otherwise, everything appeared legit:  raised in Ohio by her grandparents, she had moved to Charlotte over the summer; she was licensed, but, like many beginning teachers in Ohio, couldn’t find a job due to the state’s decreasing student population; she picked Ransom because of “its diversity;” she was genuinely looking forward to her first year.  She’s naïve and slightly desperate.  A lot like me when I came to Ransom, I realized.   She was so hopeful; I hid my fear of the year to come.

My memory of Mahar the next two workdays is slight.  It was the last days of summer, after all, and I held onto its sweet irresponsibility with a fierce grasp.  I spent those mornings nursing adorable baby hangovers and those afternoons playing one of my favorite mental games I call “Kitchen Sink Cocktail,” obsessing over what mix drink I could make that evening with only the available ingredients in my fridge.    Plus, as much as I liked her, my mind was likely still rehearsing my stripper routine should her true crazy colors be revealed.  I was waiting for her announce she’d like to put a little Jesus in the curriculum or ask if I thought nipple rings were inappropriate for school. Ultimately, we must have done what all co-teachers do, laying the foundation for our classroom by starting on the first weeks’ lessons plans, agreeing on rules and consequences and decorating the classroom.

My first vivid memory arrives on our third day, when I returned from my car with mix CDs in hand.  “We need something to pep us up while we decorate,” I offered, putting a random CD into the player.

Britney Spears’ “Gimme Me More” announced itself as the Mix CD’s first track.  I was embarrassed, but needlessly so.  Brit-Brit hardly purred “It’s Britney, bitch” before Mahar’s small waist began to move in circles, her fists pumping in the air, an exuberant smile showing her delight.

“Love, love, love this song,” she shouted as her waist started to move more dramatically with the beat.  I joined, putting my recently acquired writhing skills to good use.

2

“Co-teaching is like marriage,” the instructor said to begin our mandatory inclusion training on our fourth teacher workday.  Inclusion, she continued to explain, is the concept of two teachers joining forces in a shared classroom to simultaneously teach Special Education (in our case, me) and Regular Education (Mahar) students. “There will be ups,” she emphasized, drawing a large up arrow on the white board, “there will be downs,” she insisted, drawing a down arrow for those of us who didn’t quite get this whole ‘up-down’ concept, “but, in the end, you will – you must – always be there for each other.”

Most of the advice from mandatory trainings was complete bullshit (Group work!  Movement!  Sure, if Tre’von and Tyshawn conspiring to throw a chair at Julius qualifies as group work and movement), but this nugget proved true, as Mahar and I settled into marital bliss within weeks of school’s beginning.  We completed each other’s sentences; we slept with others; I stopped driving by the strip club.  Like most successful marriages, ours was defined by routine, comfort and subtle displays of devotion, each day woven into the next:

8:10:  I arrive, and like the luckiest of husbands, am greeted with a freshly brewed pot of coffee.  Mahar has been at school for thirty minutes, preparing for the day.  Sipping my coffee, I am happy to see her face, optimistic and determined, each morning.

8:15:  Mr. Carr announces over the loudspeaker. “All teachers need to report to their morning duty.”  The bags under his eyes have reappeared; I picture them as Mahar and I trudge out of our classroom to the cafeteria.  En route, we talk about anything but the approaching day.

8:20:  Our children arrive.  Somehow, the kids are not aware that it is eight-fucking-twenty; they are abuzz with hormones:  running through the doors to get their breakfasts; running to their seats to shove breakfast down starving mouths; slyly hurling their breakfasts at each other; up, down, up, down out of their seats; is this what she meant by the arrows; trading gossip; finishing their breakfasts; mouths now unoccupied, spouting expletives.

8:21:  I point to the clock.  “8:21,” I say, as if I’m a doctor announcing a patient’s time of death.  The day is dead, yet again.  Call it.

8:35:  For some reason, our Assistant Principal, Ms. Mitchell, unfailingly motions for Mahar and I to leave first; we’re jealous of other teachers that get to stay in the cafeteria for a few more minutes (the cafeteria blows, but not as much as the classroom) as we line our students up at the cafeteria’s doors.

8:40:  After hunting down stray students, we march up the steps and down the hall, finally arriving at the classroom.  Mahar leads the procession, I take the rear.  I consider walking to my car.

8:45:  Official start of class.

8:46:  13 students need to use the restroom.  Now.

8:47:  15 students forgot to bring a pencil and would like Mahar or me to provide one so they can complete the “Do Now” grammar assignment.  Mechanical pencils, preferably.

8:48:  Approximately 11 students are violently ill and would like a pass to the office to call their mothers.  Now.

8:49:  The 15 students who did bring pencils to class are upset because their pencils lack erasers.  They would like erasers.  Now.

8:50:  Monique, a particularly vocal student, needs to use the restroom because she is having some form of female trouble.  Today, her “breast tissue is uneven” and she needs to “go to the bathroom to fix it.”

8:50:  I catch Mahar’s face:  less optimistic, more determined.  I am still happy she’s there.  I brew more coffee.

9:00:  Students already on “Time Out” from other teachers begin arriving in our classroom.  What started as a class of 30 swells to 35.

9:10:  I start to take the students to the bathroom in groups of five.  I bring coffee with me.  In the hallway, the “ill” students are suddenly cured, racing to the bathroom despite my insistence otherwise. 

9:45:  Done with the bathroom, I join the lesson.

9:55:  Five students are paying attention.

9:57:  Three students are paying attention.

9:59:  One student is paying attention.

10:00:  No one gives a fuck about the lesson.

10:45:  New class.

11:00:  No one gives a fuck about the lesson.

11:30:  Lunch.  Back to the cafeteria.  Cruelly forced to watch the children as they eat, Mahar and I demand the children stay five feet away from us at all times.  Lunch with the children is scarily animalistic as they devour food and pick at each other.  Mahar takes part, her jaw clenched and lower teeth exposed, nearly growling, when the children come near.  I laugh; they cringe.  Mahar and I talk about anything other than the fact we are teachers.  Her grandfather is ill, so is my aunt.  She’s headed to the pool this weekend, so am I.  We debate whether or not Ms. Mitchell was a straight-up man at one point.

11:50:  Lunch is over.  We bark at the children to pick up their trash.

11:51:  Everyone – all 35 students – need to go to the bathroom.

12:10:  Done with the bathroom, the class rejoins our lesson.

12:22:  No one gives a fuck about the lesson.

12:33:  I catch Mahar’s face:  less optimistic, less determined.  I’m still happy, even more happy than the morning, she’s there.

12:45:  New class.  I leave to teach my Special Education students only class.  I’m happy to deal with fewer students, but I miss Mahar.

1:50:  Third Block over, I meet Mahar back at our room.

1:51:  We close the door and ignore the students pounding on it, begging for entrance.

“Let us in!  I don’t want to go to gym!  They make us move and shit!” they scream.

“Did you hear that?” I loudly ask.

“Nope I still need to get my hearing checked out,” Mahar shouts back, making sure the students hear.  “I can’t even hear you, Freeman.  Can’t hear a thing but these voices in my head.”  She knocks her palm against her temple as if those voices will rocket out of her ear.  Later,

2:00:  Once the students trudge to gym, we venture to the Teacher’s Lounge.  We split pizza flavored chips (don’t judge) and a Diet Mountain Dew.  I also eat and drink more than my equal half, she never says anything.

2:01:  We laugh about Monique and her uneven breast tissue.  I tell her she should consider work in the Soap Opera industry for her dramatic acting skills when the students wanted in our room rather than gym.  As we laugh, I catch Mahar’s face:  more optimistic than I, more determined.

I can come back tomorrow as long as she’s there.

3

Like all good love stories, our marriage became a triangle.  Even more scandalous, the third party was 13 years our junior.  To his credit, he loved Mahar with a passion that belied his age.  A student in Mahar’s third block class, his name was Derail[1].

Mahar loved Derail too.  Not in the Mary-Kay-Letourneau fashion, of course, but in the best kind of sense.  All teachers have favorite students; all students should be lucky enough to have a teacher like Mahar was to Derail.

Mahar was Derail’s angel when everyone else – myself included – thought he was the devil.  He was ridiculously lazy and considered simple rules to be below him.  He struggled to focus on anything, and when he did, it was usually the intricate graffiti he was writing on the desk.  When egged to complete an assignment, Derail would become more resolved to stair at the wall or rip tiny little shreds on the side of his paper instead.

Yet, there was no exception Mahar wouldn’t make for Derail.  She frequently let him stay after school so they could complete his assignments together.  She unfailingly welcomed him into our classroom when other teachers had tired of his constant interruptions.  She encouraged him– reminding him, yet again, that he needed to complete this assignment or make-up that test – when others were ready to give up.

Why did she like him so?  To this day, I’m unsure.  What draws anyone to someone else?  Perhaps it was his sly smile, or the angularity of this thin body.  Perhaps it was the precision with which he wrote, his letters square and thin.  He didn’t write much, but when he was bothered to write, sometimes only his name on the paper, his handwriting was distinctive, labored and meticulous.  Perhaps it was the fact that he seemed to grow at least one inch every month, transforming before our eyes from a gawky child into an even gawkier teenager.  Whatever it was, Mahar was determined Derail would succeed.

As obvious as Mahar’s favoritism was, no one – myself, other teachers, the other students – minded.  Derail had won the lottery.  Unlikely to win again, we let him reap his winnings for as long as he could, as Derail needed this ‘lottery win’ desperately.  Bluntly:  Derail was not smart.  Officially:  Derail was “developmentally delayed,” the system’s optimistic term to describe students whose academic skills were yet to arrive, as if they were trains slowly churning down the tracks.  By my estimation, Derail’s intelligence wasn’t behind schedule, it simply wasn’t there.  Mahar thought otherwise.

I hope she was right.

They, too, had a routine.  Every time Mahar would make Derail do something he didn’t want to do – write a sentence, put his spelling words on flashcards, read a paragraph – Derail would mutter “Aw, come on man,” slumping his wiry body lower into the chair, as if he had much better things to do.

Mahar’s response?  “Derail, you know I’m not a man.  Do your work.”  Derail most certainly knew Mahar was all woman; his gaze was frequently and obviously fixed to her curves when she wasn’t looking.  Mahar must have felt the burn of his desire; must have been accepting that her body was the impetus for Derail’s hard work.

4

“So, you and Ms. Mahar are totally smashing, right?” Jake asked one afternoon as we circled the track.  There were five minutes left in my two student resource class.  I liked to reward those students, Jake and Michael, with outside time for successfully completing all of their required work

“Smashing?” I asked, unfamiliar with this slang.

“You know, eff-you-see-kay.”  Josh answered, laughter in his voice.  I noted he should, in theory, ace a spelling test that included “puck, “suck” or “luck.”  Michael snickered.

“That’s enough, Jake,” I said in my most serious man-voice.  No, we are most certainly not fucking, Jake.  I’m gay and she hasn’t gotten any in three months, a fact Mahar and I discussed at length yesterday. “First, that’s inappropriate.  I never want you to ask a teacher about their sex life again.”  Michael snickered again, clearly tickled by the s-word.  “Secondly, just because a man and a woman get along doesn’t mean that…”

“They be eff-you-see-kaying?” Jake interrupted.  Michael nearly yelped.

“Well, if you want to put it that way.  I think ‘making love’ would be more appropriate, but, whatever.”  I was disgusted; the thought of making love, let alone eff-you-see-kaying Mahar was quite unpleasant.  “Either way, no, Ms. Mahar and I are just coworkers and friends.”

“Well, everyone be saying that you two are doing it.”  Michael said, entering the conversation while suppressing laughter.

“Yeah, Montana say she seen you look into her eyes during class like you was in love,” Jake reported.  “And, y’all spend all your time together.”

This was true.

“Well, as I said, gentlemen, we’re friends.  Just friends.”  I felt odd.  I thought a great deal about my students and their personal lives, imagining what their homes were like, what happened to them before they showed up in my classroom, what they thought of each other.  Until this point, it had never dawned on me that my students did the same:  my 70 plus students had 70 vastly different, some surely quite disturbing, visions of after-school Mr. Freeman.

“Well, whatever man, I think you lying,” Jake said, finishing the conversation as the bell rang.  We made our way inside.  I dropped Michael and Jake off at their respective classes and then went quickly to Room 213.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I said walking through the door, pizza chips and Diet Mountain Dew on my mind.  “Jake is convinced we’re sleeping together.”

“Ew, I know,” Mahar said, looking up from the papers she was collecting while crinkling her nose and smiling. “Aaliyah asked me yesterday if she could be the flower-girl at our wedding.  I told her, one, she was way too old to be a flower-girl.  Two, no one getting a D in my class would get an honor like that and, three, you and I weren’t getting married.”  This comment was the distillation of Mahar’s perfect mixture of sassy and sweet personality.  She had the ability to coexist in roles so necessary to handle middle schoolers, that of Pop Star and Grandmother – attractive and relevant enough to idolize, stern enough to seem old-fashioned when buttons were pushed.

“You’ve known about this?”  I felt a ting of resentment – what else did Mahar keep from me?

“Oh my God, Freeman, it’s all the girls want to talk about.  They all have their different theories.  Most think that we’re keeping our torrid love affair a secret.  Some think that you’re madly in love with me, but I’ve rejected you because, as Ellezay put it, I’m ‘too fabulous’ for you.”  What?  Too fabulous for me?  Really? Surprised by the strength of my emotions, I noted to grade Ellezay’s next five-paragraph essay with more scrutiny.  “Some think we’ve already broken up because the kids stress us out too much.  Anyway, I guess it’s a girl thing, but, yeah, this rumor has been going on for a while.  We are quite the item.”

Later that afternoon, searching the Dollar Store in search of tonic for my mandatory evening cocktail, a ring caught my eye.  The stone was oversized and purple and the band was yellow plastic.  I couldn’t wait to show it to Mahar the next morning.

“Amber Mahar,” I began as I knelt on one knee and brought the Ring Pop from behind my back, “will you be my April Fool’s Day wife?”

She smiled and pushed her hair behind her right ear.  “Oh, Freeman, of course!”  She took the ring from my hands and began to remove it from its plastic wrapping.

“Not so fast,” I said, taking the ring from her grasp.  “April Fool’s Day isn’t until next week.  We both know if you take it out of the plastic, it’ll get eaten before then.”  She nodded in acknowledgment.  “Plus, I don’t want the kids to think I’m cheap and picked up some unwrapped shit off the ground for your wedding ring.  I want them to know I paid a whole dollar for this.”

She handed back the ring, plastic wrapping intact.  “So, we’re proposing in front of them?”

“Yup, right at the end of the period.  We both know they won’t recover from the shock.”  She nodded again, her hair escaping from behind her ear.  It was a plan.

5

The morning of April Fools’ Day, I had no trouble driving to school.  As I caught the Chasers sign in my rearview mirror, my stripping career seemed a distant memory.  I was going to be a kept man soon, if only in jest, if only for one class period.  Imagining the kids’ shock made the approaching day seem bearable, as did the Britney Spears I blasted in deference to my first dance with Mahar.

I hid the Ring Pop in my pocket as I walked, practically skipped, from the car to our classroom. When I came to our door, I looked through the door’s window.  Empty.  Dark.  Mahar must have slept in today, I thought.  Odd. I went inside:  no coffee, no materials ready for the day, no Mahar smiling at the desk.  \

I raced to make my own coffee, expecting her to walk through the door as I poured the water, filled the filter and pressed the “on” button.  I frantically gathered the day’s materials and began to put them on the students’ desks.  I gathered our stash of sharpened pencils, erasers intact, and wrote the day’s agenda on the whiteboard.  With each task, I glanced to the open door.  No Mahar.

The morning continued to proceed like all others, but as if my right side had been removed.

8:15:  “All teachers need to report to their morning duty,” Mr. Carr announced over the loudspeaker.  At this late point in the school year, the bags under his eyes were practically eating his face.  I pictured them as I heard the noticeable fatigue in his voice.   I trudged, alone, out of our classroom.  I nervously sipped my coffee.

8:20:  The children arrived.  Somehow, the kids were still not aware that it was eight-fucking-twenty:  running; shoving; hurling; up, down, up, down; finishing; spouting expletives.

8:21:  I glanced at the clock.  “8:21,” I said to no one.  Call it.  The day was officially dead.

8:35:  “Where is Mahar?” Ms. Mitchell inquired, her deep voice rousing me from that space I had learned to go to in the mornings, that space where the sound of the world was just a faint whisper and my vision was as if I was underwater.  “Mr. Freeman.  I said, where is Ms. Mahar?”  The stubbly hair on her chin moved with Ms. Mitchell’s words.  “I have no idea,” I responded.  I lined the kids up to exit.

8:40:  “Where is Ms. Mahar?” the kids pleaded.  “I have no idea,” I responded.  Perhaps she was in a wreck.  Perhaps she quit.  Perhaps this is all her own April Fool’s joke and she’s somehow maneuvered that tiny little body into the supply cabinet in the classroom. We trudged upstairs.  As we entered the classroom, I considered walking to my car.  I opened the door, half expecting her to jump out of the supply closet.  How am I going to do this without you?  This isn’t funny.

8:45:  Official start of class.

8:46 – 9:00:  I was so busy dealing with pencils, bathroom conversations, trips to the office requests, small fires of arguments that I was unaware of the passage of time.  Is time moving?  Backwards?  Forwards?

9:01:  Derail entered.

9:02:  “Where is Ms. Mahar?” he asked.

9:03:  “I don’t know, Derail, I honestly don’t know,” I answered, my voice obviously dripping with desperation.  We shared a look, acknowledging we both missed her.  We wished her face – determined, optimistic – was there.

9:04:  The classroom phone rang.  Derail got up out of his seat to answer it, moving with more speed than I had ever seen him move before.  We were both hoping the phone would bring news of Mahar.  “Sit down,” I growled, using my body to block Derail from the phone.  I put the receiver to my ear.

“Mr. Freeman?”  Judy.  The secretary.

“Yes?” I motioned the 30 children in the room to keep their voices down so I could hear Judy.  “Have you heard from Mahar?”

“That’s what I was calling about, actually,” Judy started.  Please tell me she’s ok.  Please tell me that she’s on her way. Please tell me.  Derail, despite his recent growth, was on his tip-toes, positioning his wide ears as close to the phone as he could. “I have bad news.”  Oh no, please no. “Mahar just called.  Her grandfather died this morning.  She’s on her way to Ohio to be with her family.”

Judy was loud and I’m convinced Derail heard, as genuine emotion – sadness – spread over his youthful face.  I contemplated taking him with me on the drive to Chasers, giving him a five and letting him walk to the McDonald’s down the street as I auditioned.  We both deserved a day of mourning, right?  Were the apple patterned briefs in my dresser’s third or second drawer?

I thanked Judy and put the phone back on the receiver, the Ring Pop pressing against my pant pocket.  I might as well eat it in front of the class, I thought, as our proposal will never happen.  Visions like this – me slowly eating a Ring Pop in front of the classroom as they perplexedly watched – sustained me throughout my teaching career.  But, this frivolity was crushed as the day flashed through my mind.  Chaos. Scrambling to deal with the mass quantities of adolescents.  Trips to the bathroom with the whole class.  Lunch alone.  No one with whom to split pizza chips and a Diet Mountain Dew.

I honestly feared I would not make it without her, there was potential the day could go so poorly that I could have a breakdown.  A legit you’ll-like-this-fun-restricting-jacket-think-of-it-as-a-tight-Snuggie breakdown.  It wasn’t likely, but it could happen.  There were too many of them and not enough of me.

I didn’t care.  I was filled first with sorrow and then gratitude.  I was thankful, given this information, that Mahar was in a car bound for Ohio rather than with me in Room 213.  Our marriage would never happen, I would never get to propose and I might lose it, but this was all actually perfectly acceptable.  Knowing Mahar’s love for her grandfather, I was genuinely more concerned about her day than mine.  Co-teaching is like a marriage, I thought back to that inclusion training.  Looking out at the expectant sea of faces, Derail’s concerned eyes meeting mine, I smiled. Co-teaching is like a marriage.  Mahar and I had something more:  love.

---

[1] Characters’ names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.  Derails’ name, however, has not been changed; an equally fitting and realistic moniker is not possible.  Even Derail’s mother, the name’s very creator, acknowledged its prophetic qualities, observing that she “picked the right name for that boy because he’s going down the wrong tracks.”  Truth, woman.  Truth.