A Day at School

A Day at School

It's another morning. I stumble out the door of the house, armed with big black handbag and laptop bag, and start the car. With heat turned on full blast, I head down the road, wipers going like crazy, hoping to miss the morning rush. Right at the roundabout, straight through Mulroy's junction, remember the speed limit, this would be a typical morning for the curley tails to be out. As I accelerate down the N4, I turn up the Cathedrals' singing Daystar, joining in at the top of my voice because no-one can hear me here. I like this song – 'Let Your love shine through me in the night', and I like to make it my prayer, because beyond teaching well, and giving grades and correcting copies, I want to make an impact on each child's soul for eternity.

School. Buses are pulled in outside, along with cars and there are kids pouring from in from every side, a blue army descending on a grey building. They all look the same, yet each one is a totally different bundle of fears and desires; some wave at me at as I pull into my car-park space, and I smile back. I get my stuff, lock up the car, climb the white steps, and enter the school. Inside, the familiar smell of baking bread from the canteen fills the air and the principle walks up and down the corridor, making sure everyone is behaving as they congregate around lockers and collect books. In the staffroom, there are teachers drinking tea, making toast, yawning, chatting and most of all photocopying. I leave my bags in my spot under the window and prepare for my first class, saying 'Good Morning' to a couple of people.

The bell goes, and the staffroom is empty in about 30 seconds. In my classroom, Room 2, a smell of fresh paint fills the air as it has been just recently renovated. The room is buzzing with noise and laughter and I say nothing for a moment, waiting for last-minute stragglers to come in and finding the right page in my book. Then I close the door, write the page-number on the board and shout – 'Okay everyone, books open, copies out, turn around in your chairs, enough talking please!' Slowly 24 fourteen-year-olds quieten down, scrambling for pencils and asking 'Miss, what page is it?' Patiently I say, 'It's on the board.' This happens about 3 times. After calling the roll, class begins, and the 40 minutes pass quickly, with questions, and complaints about homework, and threats of points and imaginative answers. Then the bell goes and there is a rush for the door; as one teacher says 'They'd run you over, so they would.'

Every day is different and you can never predict what is going to happen next; fainting girls, shoes disappearing, tears, fits of hysterical laughter, questions like:

'Miss, are you 23?'

'If all the noblemen were inside the castle having a feast and the IRA threw a handgrenade at the castle, what would happen?'

'Miss, are we your favourite class?'

'Miss, amn't I talented at English when I try?'

'Miss, when is your last day?'

'Miss, I got the Iphone 4, here look at it, do you like it?'

'Miss, was teaching your first choice?'

'Miss, have you learned a lot from teaching me?'

There are comments like:

'We never understood it before but we do now...thanks Miss',

'Miss, right now I'm bored out of my mind,'

'Miss, poetry is useless – like, nobody uses it in real life...'

There are the kids who seem unable to sit quietly in their seats, the ones who boast of the amount of points they have and say to their friends -

'Aw man I've got lunchtime detention again.' High Five. 'G'man Johnny.'

And there are the ones who never utter a peek, speak in a low tone of voice all the time, and seem to have their minds on something else. They're the ones whose hearts can sometimes be hurting a lot; they're unable to join in the lightheartedness around them, and they are overcome at any sign of care or affection.

The day goes on and when 3:30 comes around, the school wakes up from its after lunch slumber. After I've wiped the tables and filled the dishwasher for the hundreth time in 6 weeks, it's going home time. 'G'bye Miss Burke', shouts red-haired Sarah as I lug all my stuff out, unlock the car, drive out the narrow gates, and out of the small little town of Foxford. Tomorrow will be another day.