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W. Marik

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Posted Friday, June 1, 2001, at 8:30 PM ET

This much I know: The VCR is a substitute's best friend. That is why, at 8:45 a.m., I am taking the tape of The Phantom Menace out of its jacket to the wildly enthusiastic cheers of my sixth-grade homeroom. Assembly ran short this morning, way short, and I have been saved from chaos only by the compassion of the other sixth-grade homeroom teacher, who was also kind enough to point me in the direction of the portable television in the hall.

Today, and this is a leap, considering that at the moment the opening credits of The Phantom Menace are playing in the background, I am the French teacher. And the sixth-grade homeroom teacher. I do not bother taking attendance for this, um, zealous group of kids; someone else will figure out who's missing, and I have had enough of the one girl in the front row—there's always one—who jumps up to help me correct for the kids who summarily change names, or answer to the wrong name, or do not answer at all. Also, I do not want to interrupt their viewing, which has had an extremely pacifying effect. So much so that they do not want to leave, which I take only as a sign of the nature of video, and not a symbol of the power of my presence.

My first class is seventh-grade French. These kids are far from Francophiles, and after a round of self-congratulation on the blessing of their teacher's absence, they try to avoid the subject entirely. I offer them a compromise: If they do the assignment, I will let them use the classroom's one computer in pairs. Before I know what has happened, two of them have signed on to Napster, and the soundtrack from Moulin Rouge is blaring through the room. "Voulez vous couchez avec moi," bounces off the walls. "But it's French," they say, as I disconnect. I suppose, technically, I can't argue with that.

My second class, oddly enough, considering I am the French teacher, is seventh-grade Spanish. Because I was the Spanish teacher last week, the kids assume, for once correctly, I know the subject at hand. There is a general tendency to assume that I know everything—quadratic equations, French pluperfect, the metric system, student's names—which I do nothing to dispel. Knowledge, however superficial or nonexistent, is a terribly useful ally.

The one kid from Texas in the class is now claiming that he is genetically better at Spanish, a point which, I am glad to see, the other kids vociferously debate. "Haven't you heard of Darwin?" he asks at last. It's interesting logic, evidence that the science teacher is, at the least, doing a decent job.

The next two classes already know there is a sub, and I am privileged to envision singing "La Marseillaise" twice more before lunch, a 20-minute affair consisting of a cup (small, plastic, Dixie) of juice and something that must be a sloppy Joe. Fortunately, I have already discovered that one of the great benefits of being on the teacher side of the great divide is that I can cut in line with impunity. Helpful children hand me the first piece of toast out of the toaster. The sloppy, or perhaps it is the Joe, is unfortunately only lukewarm.

In the afternoon, the sixth grade comes in for French. The assignment, as far as I can tell, is paltry; we watch The Phantom Menace instead. It never hurts to be flexible. As in homeroom, no one wants to leave, but off is off, and eject is eject. I feel the love as all the kids pray fervently for my return tomorrow, before they just as fervently dash out of the door.

I watch them as they leave. I know who these children are, more or less. I know which ones will grow up and go to Ivy League schools, which ones will disguise self-loathing with difficult behavior, which ones will be the first to date, and which will most probably manage to survive adolescence relatively intact. I leave room for surprise, but even character can be cliché. We have all been these types; there is nothing new here.

At the end of the day, I put the French dictionary back on the shelf and straighten the chairs and the desks. I am alone in the empty room, with chalk stubs and torn textbooks, and for just a moment, as I turn out the lights, I am 12 years old again, and everyone else has gone outside to play.

diary
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Posted Friday, June 1, 2001, at 8:30 PM ET
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W. Marik is a substitute teacher in New York City.
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