That's Miss Merrill to You.

For all of those who never believed I'd make it this far....

I am officially six days into my career as an English teacher.

When I was a student (umm, earlier this year), I always envisioned "school" as a place where the teachers enthusiastically worked together in little collaborative education dream teams, focused solely on the bettermen t of the people they serve, like doctors in a hospital run by nuns, or the White House (present administration excluded). Maybe they met for coffee on Saturdays to discuss education hot topics like differentiating curriculum, or traded classroom management tips over Sunday brunch.

Needless to say, my first week, uhhh...wasn't that. Last Monday was off to a great start, until a girl in first period question asked the telling question:

"So, what are we doing tomorrow?"

Crickets.

First of all, there's the sheer absurdity of calling my early twenty-something colleagues "Mr." and "Ms." (or "colleagues," for that matter). I've tried to focus on the small victories (semi-mastering a new copy machine) and ignore embarrassing defeats (completely forgetting the meaning of the word "predicate" in the middle of a grammar test, mutilating my right heel on the second day from wearing too-small shoes). I turn up my music every morning in an attempt to drown out the voice in my head that sweetly says I have no business teaching high schoolers, that I really don't know anything at all, and that I should probably just go find a job filing papers somewhere. (That, by the way, is the nice voice. The not-so-noice voice usually suggesets that I do something involving a running car engine and a hose).

And if first-time teaching doesn't make you insecure enough, teaching a class of almost entirely francophone seniors who rarely speak English to each other ought to do the trick.

Still, when I'm not succumbing to my insecurities, butchering my African students' names, or pulling my hair out trying to lesson plan, I look out the window, pinch myself, and usually, laugh.

My trip to school every morning consists of walking up a dirt road for about 10 minutes, until I hit the main road that takes me down our hill. It looks out to the valley and beyond, and takes me past dozens of children wearing blue uniforms who wave and smile and shout "Muzungu!" (but they're adorable so I don't mind so much).There are women in wild prints balancing huge bunches of bananas on their heads, women with sleeping babies tied to their backs, and a myriad of other things which scream "Africa" that I wonder if I'll ever get over. I walk until I can flag down some transportation, haggle over the price, then zoom through the valley, past the gas station, and up to school, all the while marveling that I actually live this life.

My trip home from school usually takes place in the dark. But getting there is lovely.

The Five Stages of Grief/Teaching

1) Denial.
Example: blogging/Facebooking/Minesweeper-ing instead of planning for five classes/grading.

2) Anger.

Example: "How much am I getting paid to do this?"

3) Bargaining.

Example: "If I plan for four days, can't I just show a movie on Friday?"

4) Depression.

Example: "Excuse me, good sir, could you direct me towards the nearest cliff?"

5) Acceptance.

Example: "Maybe I won't be the next Ron Clark, but at least I won't be Mary Kay Letourneau."