There ARE Such Things as Stupid Questions

(This is a true story I wrote years ago, just after I started teaching. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.  Enjoy) 

A strange looking assortment of students stared at me.  They clearly expected me to say something, but what?  I was reminded of that dream where you find yourself on stage and everyone is waiting for you to start, but why are you on a stage and what are you supposed to say?  Then suddenly you realize you don’t have pants on.  I glanced my eyes southwards and there, just below my belt, were some pants.  Okay, it’s not a dream.

To their credit these kids were spotting me the courtesy that adolescents usually only give teachers on the first day of school. The paper wads on the floor, broken ceiling fan, and unusually high percentage of facial piercings told me that this was not their typical behavior.  The problem was that I had no clue what to say, no idea what to do.  This was not their first day of school.  It was just my first day.  I didn’t have three months of summer holiday to prepare for this. The job had just been offered to me an hour before.

*****

“Good morning, Mr. Showalter,” I heard a vaguely familiar voice say when I answered my phone that morning. “This is Principal Smith from Parkview High School.”  My room was still dark.  I looked at the clock.  6:40 a.m.  Three emptied cans of Busch Beer stood on the nightstand.  I hadn’t planned on an early morning.  “Sorry for calling you so early.  You weren’t asleep were you?”

“Uhm no.” Lie. 

“Good.  Listen, I’ve got an opportunity for you.  I need a teacher to fill in for a class where the teacher has been...well, for a teacher who will be on leave for the rest of the year. Call it a permanent substitute position.  I know you’re looking for an English job, and this isn’t exactly that, but it will get your foot in the door anyway. What do you say?  Would you be…” 

I rolled out of bed, taking the covers with me, and jumped to my feet.  Finally a real job!  No more restaurant work! My bare feet danced up and down on the stained carpet of my apartment floor, and the vibrations sent the empties tumbling. 

“…willing to take the position?

I gathered myself, took a deep breath and then tried to pretend I was an adult. I spoke with what I hoped would sound like dignity.  “Yes, sir.  I’d love to take the position, sir.” Wrong.  Too many sirs – it smacked of desperation.

“Great.  The teachers here tell me you’ve done a fantastic job subbing for them in the past.  I’m glad you’re in.  Again, I’m sorry for calling you so early but it’s kind of an emergency.”

“No problem. When should I come in to get ready?” I asked, scooping up the empty cans off of my floor and opening my shades. 

“Well, here’s the thing. Your first class starts in one hour. Can you be there? It’s late notice, I know.”

I dropped the beer cans back on the floor and rushed to my closet hoping I'd pressed at least one of my three dress shirts.  I opened the closet door to find them rolled up on the ground like ancient scrolls in a cave. 

“Listen, Adam. I feel like I ought to tell you that this will be a challenging position.  Driver’s Ed tends to get last dibs on everything, and that includes students.”

Drivers Ed? Not perfect, but only for a half year until I can get an English job.

He continued, “It’s a bit of a dumping ground for students who don’t really…” and here he paused, “…belong in standard classrooms. 

I nabbed one of the shirts from the floor and unrolled it. “I’m always up for a good challenge, Mr. Smith.”  Well played, Adam.  You're on fire and it's only 6:40 am. Of course, my first good challenge was going to be unraveling some dress clothes.  “What happened to their last teacher, if you don’t mind my asking?” I said as I rifled through my hangers.

“I’ll tell you when you get here, but don’t worry about that – you’ll do great. Welcome to Parkview High School. We’ll see you in an hour okay?”

 *****

“Good Morning, guys. My name is Mr. Showalter,”  I squeezed the words up from my throat like white toothpaste out of a tube of Crest.  The single Windsor knot I’d tied in the car only minutes before felt like a noose.  “Umm…I’ll be the new Driver’s Ed teacher for the rest of the school year.” Well done, Showalter.  Way to open with a bang.  “Umm.”

My shirt looked like I’d ironed it with a cold rolling pin.  My pants didn't match my shoes.  And here I was with a newly discovered stutter.  Nice.  I dug around in the metal tray below the blackboard and found a piece of chalk that someone had colored orange on one end so that it looked like a cigarette.  Pretty clever.

M-r-S-h-o-w-a-l-t-e-r.  I wrote meticulously on the board. 

A pimply boy with an Insane Clown Posse backpack rapped his blue Bic against the table.  Other than that, silence.

The fact that the room had a chalk board instead of a marker board told me it was designed to be a classroom eons ago.  Somewhere along the way, someone decided it should be converted into a custodial closet.  Recently, it had become both.  A mop bucket and mop, a yellow WET FLOOR sign, and some paper towels were propped up in the corner.  Shelves of cleaning supplies lined the walls on one side of the room. On the opposite wall, posters displaying pictures of wrecked cars warned students that “Buzzed driving is drunk driving” and “1 in every 7 teens wreck their first car – Buckle Up.” My dream classroom.

I had no experience teaching Driver’s Ed.  There was no note telling me what the students had been learning or what they were supposed to learn.  They didn’t need any lessons on how to look scary though.  Goth kids with black eyes.  Punks. Hippies.  Thugs.  Died hair.  Marilyn Manson Shirt.  Bob Marley-smoking-a-joint shirt.  Flat brim caps with logos I didn’t recognize.  One lonely cheerleader chomped obliviously at a stick of Wrigley’s and smiled at me.  I guess if she feels safe...

They looked like the kind of crew that could whip up anarchy at the drop of a dime, so I needed to do something quick.  First impressions are everything, and if I continued bumbling around and didn’t ask them to do something constructive soon, they’d expect that to be the norm.  Think think think think…I know!

I straightened my back and smiled.  “I know you are all acquainted with each other already.  And now you know me too,” I pointed to my name on the board, “so why don’t we take our first day and make it an introduce-yourself-to-Mr.-Showalter-day.  I’m going to have each of you introduce yourself with your name, and then you can tell me your favorite musical artist.  It can be a singer, rapper, band, whatever.  That will help me remember who you are.”

Silence.  Then suddenly from a back corner of the room – the scrawny blonde girl in a Bob Marley shirt - “Are you going to throw a desk at us?”

What?  Throw a desk at you? And then I remembered.  Minutes before, the principal was rushing me down the corridor trying to get me to class before the first bell rang.  As we hustled through a maze of lockers and students, he filled me in on the last teacher’s early departure.   According to his account, the last Driver’s Ed teacher threatened to assault one of his students which, as the principal pointed out, was ironic because the desk he'd hurled at the student had already pretty much done the deed.

“Yeah, are you going to throw the desks?” This from an overweight kid with dyed black hair and two lip rings.

Chuckles all around. They were testing me – dipping their toes in the water of misbehavior. 

“I’d prefer to throw ninja stars at you,” I answered.  “but if I happen to forget my ninja stars one day, then yes – I will have to throw desks at you.” More chuckles.  Test one – passed.  Stick that one to the refrigerator door, Mom. 

Now it was the gum chomping cheerleader’s turn.  “Well, if you do throw a chair, or ninja stars, throw them at Miss Johnson. She’s got quick hands.  I bet she could catch them.”

“Miss Johnson?” I asked, and the cheerleader pointed to the back of the room.  I followed her finger with my eyes. 

Sure enough, there sat Miss Johnson. She was a small, spruce looking lady with her back to me. She was almost completely hidden behind a rolling janitor’s cart loaded down with rolls of paper towels.  She swiveled her chair around and smiled.

“Good morning, Mr. Shh…” she looked up at my name on the blackboard, “ow-alter.  “I’m the deaf interpreter.”  Then she turned away from me and towards two students, one boy and one girl, who watched as she made a brisk torrent of hand and finger movements.  Both of the deaf students had a grey plastic piece above their ears.

I have deaf students? I’ve never taught deaf students before!  How are you supposed to do that? I thought.  I waved at them stupidly.  “Well, good morning, Miss Johnson.  It’s a pleasure to meet you, and don’t worry about the ninja stars.  I only throw them at kids.”

She smiled and then turned back around to face the deaf students.  I watched carefully.  She fluttered her arms about in a series of waves, finger wags, and what looked to be hail mother Marrys.   

Then without warning she stopped her signing.  For a brief moment I couldn’t figure out why, and then I realized it was because I’d stopped talking. Miss Johnson looked over her shoulder at me and smiled pleasantly again. Her face seemed to say  It’s okay, new guy - everyone tends to watch the first time they get interpreted.

A demure little girl in the back of the room bent down to pick up a pen from the floor, and I watched her out of the corner of my eye.  While she was doubled over she stealthily dropped a piece of lined paper, folded into a perfect triangle, atop her neighbor’s desk.  Then she scooped up the pen and looked up.  She was caught. She slowly averted her eyes away from her glaring new teacher, letting her dark hair fall into her face, and then sat back down. 

Ah, perfect target. The gazelle with an injury – shyness.  I’ll start with her.  “Young lady who thinks her new teacher won’t notice a bit of note passing, let’s start with you.  What is your name and what is your favorite musical artist? It can be a singer, a rapper, a band, whatever.”

She thought for a moment, then without looking back at me, “Hi, uhm…my name is Bracie and I guess I kinda like all music.”

I waited. 

“Uhm…but I guess maybe my favorite would be like, I don’t know, Red Hot Chilli Peppers, maybe.”

“Very good, Bracie. I also like the Chilli Peppers.” 

No way, you know the Chili Peppers? I imagined all of the students must have been thinking.  That’s awesome.  You probably play guitar and stuff too huh?  You’re so cool, not like our old stupid teachers.  I waited for one of them to speak up about how hip I was. 

Silence.

“And you, sir.  Sitting next to Bracie who likes the Chilli Peppers. What is your name and who is your favorite musical artist? 

“James. And fricken’ Metallica, dude.”

“Thank you, James. And good call on Metallica.  However, I prefer to be called Mr. Showalter over dude.”  Lie. 

I carried on this way, snaking up and down the rows asking each student his or her name and favorite musical artist trying to ascertain something about who they were based on what they listened to.  I reckon it was more like making snap judgments. 

“Nick – Insane Clown Posse.”  Juvenile hall, much?

“Carrie – Brittanie Spears.”  Tighten up that curfew, mom.

“Karlee – Bob Marley.”  Pot Head.

Darren – Tupac – I glanced over at Miss Johnson to see if she’d throw up the west side W with her fingers. No luck

This little game continued nicely as I repeated the students' names and the music they wanted associated with them.  It was actually helping me remember.  There were 30 students in the room, and already I’d memorized 28 names and an artist or band I could associate with each one.

At last I came to the boy and girl who sat in the corner of the room under the cleaning-supply shelves.  Sitting before them was Miss Johnson, who had been translating my wildly successful student-teacher introductions. 

I suddenly recalled hearing somewhere that deaf people actually prefer that you look at them when you speak to them, regardless of whether or not they are watching an interpreter.  Maybe they won't look at you all the time, but when they do, they should catch you looking at them and not the interpreter.  So I spoke slowly and deliberately, facing my two deaf students. 

“What. Is. Your. Name?  And. Who. Is. Your. Favorite. Musical. Artist?”

How it had not occurred to me that a deaf student would most certainly not have a favorite musical artist I cannot begin to say.  I would like to chalk it up to the fact that I hadn’t been properly trained or prepared for this situation, but how much training does it take to know that it’s not okay to ask deaf people about their particular tastes in audible sounds? 

What I can say for sure is that if you are reading this, and you are a deaf interpreter – don’t do what Miss Johnson did.  Please.  What did Miss Johnson do?  She listened to my question, and then without missing a beat, wiggled her fingers around in circles, interpreting every stupid, dumb, insensitive, ludicrous word in my question. 

I wish I could describe the face that the young deaf boy made at me, but I’ve spent a good deal of time trying to forget it.  Imagine the way a jury looks at a man on trial who admits, without guilt, that he killed his wife and daughter with a knife.  If you can imagine that, you’re getting close. Without unlocking his hateful eye contact with me, Brian commenced a series of angry looking hand motions, something akin to typing on a keyboard that is trying to get away from you.

Miss Johnson, turned around and looked at me with a disapproving face. It was at this point that I realized my mistake - just before she said it.  I wanted badly to suck my words back into my mouth.  I ached for a time machine, a rewind button.

“He says ‘my name is Brian and I don’t hear music because I’m deaf.'”

Silence in the room.  Two seconds of awkward, dare I say deafening, silence.  The students all leaned forward in their desks and waited. Then Brian made one more aggressive movement with his hands – a firm fist and then a circle.  Miss Johnson shook her head no at him.  He repeated his sign again, with even more aggression. He shot glances back and forth between Miss Johnson and I.

Reluctantly, she swiveled around in her chair and faced me. The look of disapproval on her face was now replaced with confusion.  Later that day she told me that she probably shouldn’t have said it, but as an interpreter for the deaf it’s not her duty to censor conversations but simply to interpret them.  It’s part of the moral code of conduct that they are hammered with during their education.

Brian continued to shoot icy stares between Miss Johnson and I, waiting for her to do what her code of conduct required of her.  And then she did. She said what Brian had signed.

“You are really stupid.” The words trickled shakily out of her mouth, but they landed like a grenade.  Suddenly the room roared with laughter.  You are really stupid.  Boisterous, belly laughing.  It bounced off of the cement walls and into my ears.  It was the kind of laughter that haunts middle school nerds in their dreams.  It was the kind of laughter that punches you in the gut.  Loud.  Pointed.  Abandoned.  Brian crossed his arms, leaned back in his desk, and admired his handy work.  Miss Johnson covered her face with her hand and doubled over into her own lap. She wouldn't look up.

And me?  I stood there, dumbstruck and watched.  What else could I do?  The laughter was too loud for me to say anything and be heard.  It was ear-splitting.  Even the two deaf students must have felt the vibrations from the roar.   I wanted to run out the door and never come back.  I wanted to crawl over to the cleaning-supply shelf and chug a bottle of Clorox.  Anything to get me out.  But I didn’t.  I just stood and stared as my students lost themselves in the hilarity of my mistake. 

All about the room, genre-transcending moments were taking place.  I watched  James-the-Metallica fan stand up and high five Darren-the-Tupac guy.  Brittany-Spears-fan-Carrie and Karlee-in-the-Marley-tee actually stood up and hugged.  They clung tight to each other, using the other for support as their uproarious laughter weakened their knees.  All of this at my expense. 

You are stupid, Adam.    


I scanned the room, panning my downcast eyes across the strange looking students who had found their new target.  The cheerleader was actually pointing her finger at me and laughing the way Nelson does on The Simpsons.  I was reminded of that dream where you find yourself on stage and everyone is waiting for you to start and suddenly you realize you don’t have pants on. I guess there are worse things than being pantless though, because I would have gladly traded my pants in for a chance to go back and un-ask that stupid, dumb, insensitive, ludicrous question.