Day in the Life of a Substitute Teacher

The cell phone vibrates by your bedside. It’s a message from the school secretary. “Can you come in today and cover for (fill-in-the-blank)?” It’s as though the coach has tapped your shoulder and is putting you into the game. You respond with alacrity: “Heck yeah, put me in, coach.” She texts back, “Thanks, you’re the best,” followed by a string of emojis translating into something like, “This wasn’t in my job description.”

You’ve been preparing for this moment like a fireman, except you get to take a shower and pack a lunch before donning the bunker gear you laid out the night before, sliding down the pole and dashing out the door.

You check in the front office with the secretary upon arrival. She is like one of those fancy jugglers spinning plates on their nose, fingers, and toes, all the while answering the phone and directing students and teachers and parents. She gets you the substitute’s ID and classroom key, hands you the lesson plans, and sweetly says, “Have a great day.” The lion cage’s door squeaks open and you walk in.

Next, you open the teacher’s refrigerator to put your lunch in and your olfactory is assaulted by the demonic remnants of ancient foods long since in need of exorcism. You stagger back, making the sign of the cross with your index fingers. A gaseous cloud billows from a large Tupperware container where a furry, green mold, what had once been refried beans, lurks and is straining to envelope you. You shriek and quickly slam the refrigerator door shut in a vain attempt to keep the gaseous cloud at bay. It follows you down the hall.

You learn that another teacher is unable to make it in and you will be a Frankistute now, moving from one room to another. You are a utility player who is willing to go wherever you’re needed, even if it means going from kindergarteners in art to sophomores in math, like Dorothy going backwards from colorful Munchkinland and instead into her black-and-white house.

You begin in art and prepare yourself, read the lesson plans, check the materials and make sure everything is lined up, especially the technology. One false move, one unseen misstep, and the little darlings will devour you like piranhas coming off a fast. Even at such a young age kids instinctively know when they have you at a disadvantage. The Lilliputians overtook Gulliver easily enough so certainly 20 children could outmaneuver one overconfident adult.

You hear them, and then smell them, before finally seeing them being herded by their teacher to the art room’s door. Their teacher says, “Good luck,” and disappears. And there you are, left alone with your wits, your will to survive, and an overcharged horde of other people’s children. “Stay calm,” you tell yourself, “they can smell fear like feral animals from a hundred yards.” You learn the tricks real quick, establish the rules, enumerate the lesson’s outcomes, model good behavior, and bribe them. Children are conditioned at an early age to respond to the promise of undeserved compensation.

Forty minutes pass without any attempts at a coup d’état, only a few skirmishes, and not a single child has been lost or wounded. And just when you’re about to return the kids to their teacher, full of pride, a little girl with big, round eyes and a very serious look, clearly the class lawyer, speaks up. “So where’s our reward?” You remember too late how sharp children’s memories can be when it comes to promises made. And before you know it they’re on you like black flies at a garden party.

It doesn’t take long before you’re looking back fondly on this experience when confronted with the adolescent malaise waiting in the math room. Oh, yeah, that’s right, you forgot, math is stupid. “When are we ever going to use any of this,” the high schooler’s rallying cry, completely surrounded by what took math to make, not least of which being the beloved phones inside their pockets. But before you know it they begin working together to get the work done. One student steps up and leads the charge, tutoring the others with a lively, abbreviated harangue. They claim, by the end of class, that they feel ready for the upcoming test. Your job is done, recalling how good teaching is done best by staying out of the way of the learners.

You learned as much on this day, if not more, than the kids. Children are brilliant in myriad ways. They are little humans designed to survive, replicas of their elders, deserving of kindness, understanding, and respectful guidance. And you, the substitute, occasionally have a place when needed. Much like when a starting quarterback gets rattled by a blitzing linebacker and is taken out for a single play by the coach, you’re there to safely hand the ball off one time, focusing on just trying not to fumble it, ensuring the teacher has a classroom to return to. One thing you learn for sure, and respect completely, is that there are no substitutes for the real thing.

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