I sit cross-legged in bed, wrapping a quilt around my back and tucking another under my legs, bracing myself equally against the cold and the sleep that threatens to carry me off before I can complete even five minutes of quiet time, solitude time, reflection time. By the time I heave a sigh and shut my bedroom door, the thin light from the candle I light by my bed only illuminates the corner of my pillow where I will lay my head and the corner of my nightstand where my cell phone lies in wait for five a.m. It is dark again by the time I eat dinner with a book propped up in front of me, even darker still as I sort through my papers to prepare myself for tomorrow’s lesson. Rushing down the hallway with The Bell Jar and a handful of stapled student essays in my hands, I allow myself one brief moment of mental patting-on-the-back I had survived, and I had even been moderately prepared for the onslaught.
The twelfth graders start to trickle in, and I push them all-tenth and twelfth graders alike-right back out the door. Students don’t come back from their Academic Support at all. Students come back from their Academic Support to turn in their essays but still need more time. With a lot of shuffling and sorting on my part-and groaning and grumbling on theirs-the last thirty minutes of the period pass quietly, calmly, with students where they are supposed to be and, at least nominally, doing what they are supposed to be doing. Strong self-advocators, the students line up for passes and file out to their respective locations. Prompts, rubrics, and blank paper are passed out. I remind them that they are doing a timed essay I remind them to take out their outlines I remind them that they were supposed to have done their outlines for homework. I give them the news that the Smiths are at the hospital, that I know nothing more, that I will update them when I can. The kids wander in, about three-fourths of them on time-not bad turnout, for a Monday morning.
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