Waiting

I was watching a movie tonight that we had DVR'd, and as I was fast forwarding the beginning credits and music, I suddenly remembered life before DVRs, and DVDs, and VCRs. We barely ever watched movies at home, but once in a while, it was a big deal. The Ten Commandments would be on, for instance, and at my house, it was a production.

We'd be in our pajamas early, and have pillows and blankets laid out on the floor, and the music would start and there'd be this feeling of anticipation and happiness. Then a commercial would come on and the whole house would leap into action: popcorn that had to be popped, drinks poured, and so on.

Now it seems like we've tamed time to do our bidding. Ice cream sundae to be prepared? No problem. Pause it.

The irony, of course, is that it's all an illusion. Time can't be tamed, no matter what's been bought and paid for and no matter how universal the remote.

So when March rolls around and school budgets are painstakingly prepared, there's nothing to do but wait. Albany will release some numbers. School districts will talk about the dire consequences of the cuts. Sometimes the state coughs up more, and sometimes they don't.

Everyone keeps saying that this year, they won't. Not for any of us in the public sector. Not the health care industry, not police departments, not social services, not the public colleges, and not the K-12 public schools.

All I know is the feeling of dread. Last week, every single day, I fell asleep thinking about it and woke up thinking about it. I was sick, every single day.

This week, I'm going to do my absolute best to bury myself in my work, and be so kick ass at my job, they'll all--board members, administrators, counselors, teachers, aides, kids--be an absolute mess if they lose me. They'll all be wearing sack clothes and ashes, working through the stages of grief together, tearing at clumps of their hair.

Such images help me today. As I go through the torturous job of waiting to find out for certain, I'm just going to let myself imagine whatever I want.

Foreshadowing?

Layoffs are always hard for schools. Last year, I volunteered to be part of a farewell committee to honor the teachers in our building who had been laid off. We wanted to do something--even something small--to say goodbye, and thank you for all that you've done in the time you were here.

It's an awkward task. When someone retires, it's a big deal. We all give 20-30 dollars for a dinner and a gift, and everyone from the district that knows that teacher goes to the dinner. There's also the faculty luncheon on the last day of school: the entire faculty attends. I was involved with that, too. A friend in the English Department retired, and I gave the farewell speech. Everyone there gives the retiree a standing ovation. And the retiree's whole family goes to the luncheon, too, to watch their loved one on his or her last day of school. But layoffs--different.

One constant is that they never go to the luncheon, which I totally get. Why would you want to go watch others get the send off you imagined for yourself, 20 years from now? Plus the fact that many of those laid off are busy in their classrooms, silently and privately grieving as they pack up their lesson plans, their books, their notes, and the goodbye gifts from kids.

The farewell committee asked me to talk privately to our three teachers who were laid off. I asked them if they would mind if we had a modest get-together to honor their service. Two of them said thanks, but no thanks. No hard feelings, but no.

Again, I got it--being laid off sucked, so why go to a party where everyone's going to look at you with sympathy? But one person was a friend. He said, Yeah, sure. Okay.

About 30 of us went to a local bar--we had drinks, and food, and a friend from the history department gave a small speech. We all clapped, and said, This totally blows, etc--

And that was about it. We gave him a card that all of us from the high school had signed, and then most of us left. I think a small group of guys stayed. I think they stayed to help him get bombed, and then to drive him home. It was a really sad day.

It was more than sad.

The day we lost those teachers, there was a jolt, and a pause, in the rhythm of all of our lives, and we stumbled to keep from falling. And the dust from that stumble trails even now, like chalkdust marks from a long day of lecturing.