By Tarn Wilson
Here’s your welcome package. Class lists. Test scores.
School reports. Doctor’s notes with diagnoses.
Here’s a placid smile, a patient voice, a pastel skirt.
Please, leave your psychic at home. There’s no place
for her here with that bird's nest in her hair, vulture
on her shoulder, and all those things she knows.
The umbrella? For the leaky roof. It’s your job, now,
to attend to holes that will never be fixed: here’s
the work order. Here’s a cardigan to keep you warm
against the gusts that smell of ice and grief. But mend
the moth holes in the sleeves: we’re professionals here.
And, hon, no more socks with kitten heels: you don’t
want to look like the baby you are. Don't reincarnate
as the best teacher you ever had; we fire those who
deviate from lesson plans. Don’t time-travel: forget
your teenage self sitting at a desk, twirling a strand
of hair and dreaming of sky. There’s not room
for both of you here. Avoid eye contact with loneliness
and longing. Stare just above your students’
eyebrows. Project a vague, benevolent care. Block
their bright, strange light: catch a glimpse and you
might be convinced to release the wild animals
from these rooms without windows. Don’t show
weakness. Don’t wake sleepwalkers. Beware of genius:
if it starts to spin and bend, send it to us for suspension.
Subdue the dancers. Rhythm leads to laughter leads
to riots. Wear these buttons: “I care,” “Have a nice day!”
Avoid the lunch room where brittle teachers mutter
revenge they’ll never take. The rabble rousers always
turn into sour statues. Don’t be a rabble rouser. Stay
soft and compliant in your butter yellow dress
with your light blue hopes and purple fear of failure.
I see you’ve brought a rug, a plant, a print. Don’t make
your room too comfortable; don’t let students lean
back in chairs like they own the place. See the waste
basket by your desk? Stuff in your guilt, your love letters,
your sense of humor. Oh, that noise? Glad you asked.
Just the furnace in the basement. Not the gurgle
of our repressed desires. Not the rage we’ve neglected.
Not the soup of bubbling denial. Don't touch! That
door is only for custodians in lead-lined coveralls who
carry skeleton keys. Oh, you’re so young. So pretty.
Here’s the bathroom where you can cry and reapply
lipstick. My final tips: Bring brownie bites for the front
office. Write the mission statement. Take the students
on a trip. Sponsor the club, sub for your neighbor,
wear spirit gear on Fridays. Make sure every student
meets the benchmark. Sing a solo in the talent show.
Here, I almost forgot. Here’s a mug with our school logo.
You’re welcome. Oh, never ever ask for extra compensation.
Do it for the children. We all do it for the children.
Tarn Wilson is the author of the memoir The Slow Farm, the memoir-in-essays In Praise of Inadequate Gifts (winner of the Wandering Aengus Book Award), and the craft book: 5-Minute Daily Writing Prompts: 501 Prompts to Unleash Your Creativity and Inspire You to Write (soon to be translated into Chinese!). Her writing has appeared in numerous literary journals, including Brevity, Harvard Divinity Bulletin, River Teeth, Ruminate, and The Sun. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is a high school teacher and new-teacher mentor.
