Baby’s First College Teaching Assignment

After an overwhelming first-ever semester of public school teaching, I take a “supply” teaching assignment at Southwest Missouri State University.

It’ll make sense in a few paragraphs.

In April of 1984, as a college senior at what was then Southwest Missouri State University, I accepted a teaching assignment with Parkview High School. When I confronted my first classes that August, they were filled with 130+ humans (roughly 100 ninth graders and 35 seniors). “Confronted” is the word; I was nervous enough to feel the need to take an adversarial stance. The ninth graders were new to the building; the seniors were on the way out—well, 22 of them were hoping to be, as they were enrolled in a last-chance “bonehead English” (as one fellow English teacher put it) course for which I was provided no reasonably fresh materials. During my very first class, a local news reporter and her cameraman popped in to get some footage—just in time to witness me bring a stack of To Kill a Mockingbirds down on my head. I was wearing a gray three-piece suit with a maroon tie, being excessively concerned about my professional appearance, and I was already sweating. And not just from fear of flopping: only the main office was air-conditioned, none of the rooms had ceiling fans, and I’d neglected to buy a floor fan to bring with me. Note: I’d brought home $900 a month during the summer working in a cheese factory; my monthly take-home pay for Parkview was $865 that year.

By winter break, I had survived to the extent that I knew I would really like the job. But I was always broke by the end of the third week of each month and my social life had withered to nonexistent due to grading expectations and pure exhaustion. I was sound asleep by 8:00 pm most Friday nights. Before classes resumed in 1985, I received a call from one of my very favorite college profs, Kay Lederer. Dr.Lederer explained that another prof was not returning for the spring semester and had not given advance notice: “Would you be interested in teaching a composition class for adults twice a week in the evening?”

My immediate response? “Why ME? I’m barely hanging in there with high school kids! I don’t even know if I’m any good at this yet!”

“Phil, it pays and I bet you need the money. Plus, we believe in you.” During my last two years of college I had somehow fooled my English instructors, without intention but with raw enthusiasm, into believing I knew things, when in reality I’d just been drippy-nosed white boy punk (and I use that final word in the pejorative sense).

I did need the money, so I closed my eyes, swallowed deeply, and exhaled a quavery “I’ll do it.”

I’d taught adult swimming lessons when I was 17—that was not remotely as easy as teaching tykes. Adults tended to have long-engrained habits and fears that were a barrier to learning. Teaching them to write struck me as possibly easier; it was their being twice or possibly three times my age that worried me. “Imposter syndrome” is a pest that buzzes around many instructors’ heads; I doubt if it had been labeled thus at that point, but I definitely fretted that they would detect I was full of shit, which I was sure I would be at least a third of the time words were coming out of my mouth.

Early has always been on time for me—I like to get comfortable in my setting—so I fake-sauntered into my assigned classroom, expecting maybe one or two students to have beaten me there. I had learned that I could appear before a class without a tie; I was still afraid not to wear a jacket, but since some of my SMSU profs had worn jeans, I was relieved to be able to be comfortable. I also had a pack of cigarettes handy, as all of my cool profs smoked in class and had burn holes in their tweed—those were the days, eh? However, upon entering, I was alarmed to discover that most of my 25 or so students were already in the house. I quickly snatched a dart out of my pocket, lit up, took a big drag, and tried (likely unsuccessfully) to look blasé until 7:00 rolled around. I opened with a nervous welcome and blurted out some scattershot information about myself, and was horrified to note that damn near the whole class was writing down everything I was saying. Also, they were completely silent and attentive—I had not reckoned that I would not have to exercise the classroom control I was trying to master with high school kids. If they were focused, I thought, I will surely be found out. However, I had no choice but to plunge forward into the unknown, advising them only to write down what I was saying when I told them to. High school teachers will surely chuckle at my shock at being raptly listened to.

I don’t remember much about how I taught composition—this was 41 years ago! I can’t even remember if there was an assigned text. I only remember being very locked in out of sheer fear, emptying my brain of everything I knew that worked regarding knocking out an essay, never really being questioned (these were very nice adult students), and never ever letting class out early. The one class period other than the first one that I have a vivid memory of did not end well—but not in a way I would ever have expected.

We were perhaps two-thirds of the way through the course, and one night in February I was on fire. I could feel actual wisdom pouring out of me as if I were a medium for universal truth; the feeling was not just mental but physical, too. I was sweating, and not due to the blast furnace-level dry heat blowing out of the radiators—I remember being on the verge of some kind of ascension when I suddenly noticed it was already 9:00 pm. I cut my final knowledge-flow short and dismissed the class, but they hesitated and even seemed…disappointed. They shuffled out, sneaking looks at me, and I thought, “Damn—I must have been good!” At that moment, the last student out, a very sweet middle-aged woman (she was probably 35!) stopped, turned to me, and lifted her hand to my empty and stunned forehead.

“Mr. Overeem, you are red-hot with fever. You need to get home and get into bed and go see a doctor first thing tomorrow morning!”

I told her, “No, I think I was just on tonight,” and she chuckled and walked out. I was feeling a bit…peaked, though. By the time I got back to my apartment, I knew I was sick. At the time, because it was within my budget, I was living in a clearly very old building that seemed to me mostly populated by senior citizens and possibly the down and out. Regularly, I could hear someone (if not multiple people) coughing all night long, and it wasn’t Hank Williams’ shade. Only renters and the landlord could enter the building freely; if I had a visitor, they would have to call me ahead of time so I could go downstairs to let them in. All of this probably sounds unpleasant, but I had a Murphy bed, which (only) I thought made the set-up cool. What would happen as the night unspooled was definitely not cool.

I took my temperature: 103. And my sinuses had begun to flood and drain. I assumed I would not be able to see a doctor until morning (?), so I ran a cold bath in the ancient clawfoot tub to try to bring down my fever. I was so delirious I did not notice that I hadn’t placed a towel on the rack before I got in, so, shivering and chattering, I hopped out and discovered I did not have a clean one available. I yanked a dirty one out of the hamper, dried off, and, clamping my hands on the sides of the sink, leaned in to look at how sick I was. Unable to bear the weight, the sink then broke free from the bathroom wall, cracking the cold water line and sending its issue into my face, soaking my towel and body in the process. I hadn’t realized a shut-off valve was in plain sight, so, as water began to seep out of the bathroom, I called the landlord, who angrily apprised me of that fact. After shutting off the valve, I dried off again, this time on random dirty clothes, got dressed, wiped down the floor with more dirty clothes (no laundry in this old dump!), checked the fridge for fluids and the cupboard for crackers, and, finding none, convulsed back into the winter night to drive to a convenience store for supplies.

When I returned to the apartment, dizzy and flushed, I thirstily slammed a big glass of Mountain Dew, only to find the liter was flat. I forced myself to drink a few more glasses, jammed a pack of crackers down by gullet, and collapsed into bed. I slept restlessly, but my fever finally broke in the morning, in time for me to call my absence in to the head secretary. I could tell from her voice she was scowling—teacher absences were not ever encouraged at the time. Nonetheless, I hung up and fell back into slumber.

I was awakened around 2:00 pm by the phone’s rattle. It was the lead secretary. She’d called to inform me that my sixth period students had run the substitute out of the classroom and wouldn’t let him come back in when he changed his mind—could I come in, possibly, and take care of the situation? It was a different time, but—this amazes me—I said no. I was hungry, thirsty, still damp and musty, hair askew, sink-less, broke, exhausted, and croaking. Comeuppance would have to wait, at least at my hands.

When I returned to class (the next day!), I had a good laugh with that class. My worst school experience during my first year of teaching was outside of school, but I did learn, when I feel inspiration has taken over my being, to run a heat check, make sure my laundry’s done and fresh towels are out, and look for a shut-off (either for my mouth, brain, or spewing water).

Musical Moment

I’ve written before about the “songwriter series” mini-lessons I taught to my 12th grade British literature students at Hickman. Above, I make reference to an artist and song we encountered (did you catch it?), many of whose lyrics can creep up on one during such times as these.