futurebird's Diaryland Diary
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The air hummed with the rustle of resumes, pressed shirts and nervousness.
The air hummed with the rustle of resumes, pressed shirts and nervousness.
Yesterday I went to the placement fair for teaching fellows. I�ve been assigned to teach 9th grade math in a new public school that�s only 2 years old (I look at that as a good thing the principal seems like an enthusiastic person.)
The placement fair was held in the Bronx. I took the train up, and managed to get off at the wrong stop. I was a little early, so I decided to walk to the school (Thank God streets in NYC are numbered!) I thought I�d see the neighborhood.
It was a bright spring day. It took my eyes awhile to adjust to the sunlight after being in the dark subway. The Bronx streets seem to get more sunlight since the buildings aren�t as tall as in Manhattan. The sidewalks were wide, and there were children, giddy since school had just let out, playing everywhere. They skipped rope, tossed balls and sped by on bikes or scooters.
The neighborhood was a mish-mash of languages: Spanish, French, and a number of languages I didn�t recognize. There were lots of cute little dogs, and kids selling frosty cones. It felt like a fair ground. There were also some things that troubled me: like the trash in the streets, and a rather dark-looking pool hall whose entrance was surround by throng of young men. Still, the atmosphere was jovial for the most part. An elderly woman, surround by what I can only assume were all of her grandchildren and great grand children, smiled at me. I smiled back.
At last, I came to the school. �And I almost laughed out loud! At the door a throng of young professional-looking men and women in suits and black skirts waited for the fair to open. Compared to the neighborhood kids, we all looked absurd. I went to join the other Teaching Fellows. The air hummed with the rustle of resumes, pressed shirts and nervousness.
Here we would meet our fate� discover the school where we�d spend the next few years, if not the rest of our teaching career. I tried to make small talk with a few people, but all of us were to stiff to carry a coherent conversation.
A last, a man with a nametag that identified him as a director of the fellows program appeared at the top of the steps of the great, stone schoolhouse. With a single whistle there was silence. --And we entered to meet the principles and have our fingerprints taken.
I�m glad to have my assignment. Now I can start reading about what I�ll be teaching� and about my school. To be honest, it�s a great relief.
8:35 a.m. - 2003-05-08
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