Teaching in a sewer is sort of like being in a volcano—impossible to escape the heat. Who said teaching wasn’t like a real job?
One year, I returned to Nogales High School from the Winter Break (what used to be called Christmas—this change came about due to a court case linked to political correctness) and the classroom smelled of death. In no time, it felt as if I had grown a white stripe down my back.
When my first period arrived, the first kid in the door asked, “Mr. Lofthouse, what did you do?”
“It’s not me.” I protested, but no one listened—nothing new there. Rumors spread and kids went out of the way to avoid me in the hallways.
In another period, a girl said, “Take a bath, Mr. Lofthouse.” She pinched her nose and went outside refusing to return. I picked up a referral and told her I would give her a tardy and send her to the office. By then, most of the students were in the room–some complaining. A fortunate few could not smell anything—the benefit of a stuffy nose.
Any one tired of reading my tale of woe may want to visit Australia at Teacher Challenges.
This tale of a tail will continue in “Innocent Math”—the next post.