I am sitting at the table by the window in my hotel room as I type these words. My evening consisted of wandering through the farmers’ market in Kimberley and dining at Pedal & Tap with my wife for the final time before school starts and the onslaught of little people invade my classroom and now, as I look out into the darkness and prepare for bed, the question remains: should I stay up late and watch an episode (or four) of Brooklyn Nine-Nine with my laptop propped on my thighs, or get an early night for tomorrow’s professional-development workshop on establishing a positive learning environment during the first few days of school?
The beds at Elizabeth Lake Lodge are ridiculously comfortable, but I know I’m not going to sleep well tonight. School starts in less than a week and this means, like many other teachers across the globe, that I am suffering through a series of teacher-nightmares.
Take last night for example. I dreamt I was walking down a series of long corridors. The walls were beige, and every door was the same shade of grey. The fluorescent lights flickered whenever I tried to focus on anything that would indicate where I was. At one point, I looked down and discovered that my legs had turned into giant carrots and my brown corduroys had become pink paisley curling pants. I tried to run but I was slipping around like Bambi on ice. No longer was I wearing sensible shoes, but vintage roller-skates with stylish tri-colour racing stripes.
Someone screamed, “Hurry hard! Hurry hard!” as the disco hit “Stayin’ Alive” echoed down the hallowed halls.
It only added to my confusion when the white rabbit from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland appeared. His waistcoat was unevenly buttoned and he muttered, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!” as he checked his pocket watch and hopped ahead of me.
My legs then transformed from giant carrots to giant zucchinis, and the roller–skates filled with ranch dressing. My strange zucchini feet fit better in the skates, but they squelched as I searched desperately for a railing or a bench to rebalance myself.
Neither the nondescript building, nor the outrageous fashion, nor my vegetable limbs were much of a concern because the final bell had rung and somewhere a room full of students was waiting for their teacher on the first day of school. Time was ticking by, and I hoped against all odds to find my class soon, that my students were sitting quietly in their seats, and that the principal was blissfully unaware that I was hopelessly lost.
My dream suddenly ended when a mirrored ball fell from the ceiling and exploded into a thousand shards of glass.
Other dreams this past week have centered on forgetting my coffee and having to drink flavourless staff room sludge, or discovering a never-ending queue of students needing to use the electric pencil sharpener as I’m trying to teach long division, or watching my tongue fall out of my face and onto the floor before worming its way to the second-story window. I also dreamt that I left a child behind on a field trip, that I was suddenly requested to teach Swahili to the kindergarten class, and that the dodge balls had been replaced by bowling balls halfway through the game.
All I can do at this point is ride it out, as I do every year. By mid-September, the nightmares will fade away and I can go back to dreaming about Batman and French cheeses.
It is late, dear reader, and my eyes are heavy. I cannot write anything more. I will forego Brooklyn Nine-Nine, tuck myself in, and hope for the best.
