The Eve

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow: I will face down one hundred students, divided into five different classes, as their teacher. Tomorrow, I will give students syllabi that I have spent hours writing, which describe texts and units spanning the entire year. Tomorrow, I will ask them to introduce themselves, and I will introduce myself to them. Tomorrow, these students will see my classroom-- they will see the art on the walls that I selected to stimulate their thinking; they will see the world map that I've hung with pins stuck in the places that I've been, with more pins at the ready for them to stick in the cities they've traveled to. Tomorrow, they will see the vocabulary words that have been hung in a border around the room, and they will see the sign I made that says, "You must learn the rules before you can break them," flanked on one side by the Mona Lisa, and on the other, by a cubist Picasso portrait. Tomorrow, I will show them the hockey stick that I've turned into a hall pass, and I will tell them sternly that they must be so tender with the hall pass. Tomorrow, they will sit in the desks that I've meticulously arranged in a circle formation, and they will listen as I review the syllabi via a Powerpoint with silly pictures to accompany the various points.

Tomorrow, they will be my students, and I will be their teacher.

Tomorrow, I will pretend that I've completed the summer reading assignments of "Crime and Punishment," and "Mere Christianity," instead of telling them the truth: that I was frantically scanning Sparksnotes the night before, trying to catch myself up on all major points. Tomorrow, I will smile, and give my Senior AP students the reading cards that were fashioned by a former teacher, requiring them to identify the novel's symbols, motifs, tones, syntax structure, diction style, genre, and so on-- many terms which I still feel shaky on myself. Tomorrow, if they ask me to explain what I mean by identifying the novel's "syntax," I will glibly say, "We'll go over all these terms later. For now, I'd like to see what terms you're comfortable with and what you're still unsure about. Think of this as a pretest. Do your best; we'll go over all of these later this week."

Tomorrow, I will get on my knees and pray with determination that God hold to His promise that in my weakness, He will be strong, and also well informed about literary analysis.

Tomorrow, I will wear a navy blue pencil skirt, a pink blouse, tan boots, and a thick brown belt around my waist.

Tomorrow, I will give my fellow English teachers boxes of tea, because English teachers love tea, and because I want to show them that I am thankful and excited to teach alongside them this year.

Tomorrow, I might get sick to my stomach, which is what my body does when it gets very nervous. But tomorrow, if that happens, I will square my shoulders and breathe into my diaphragm and lift my chin and say, "Good morning folks. Welcome to Senior year," and I will pretend that I never had a previous encounter with the toilet bowl.

(But tomorrow, please God, don't let me get sick WHILE the students are there. Amen.)

Tomorrow, I will meet my kids. I will begin to know their names. I will begin to hear their stories. Tomorrow, I will remember why it is that I LOVE this.

Tomorrow, I will thank God for the miraculous blessing of a job, of supportive co-teachers, of a wonderful principal, and for being in a school that allows me to post my fervent prayer in the form of a Bible verse outside my door. Tomorrow, I will pray for my students, and I will pray that He enables me to teach them as they deserve to be taught.

"Tomorrow" gets over at 3:00 PM. And boy-- tomorrow? That hour just can't come soon enough.