"I have bad news. You won't be able to teach here anymore."
The brand-new principal of "my" Manhattan high school delivered the 411 as we balanced paper plates, waiting to grab some chow at the staff buffet. It was September 1, 2011, several days before students would invade the school, annihilating any tuft of tranquility left over from summer. "No matter how much we'd love to keep you here, the DOE wants ATRs1 off the payroll," he continued. "It's not just you. Since they can't fire them, they're going to send all ATRs to a different school every week. They'll become permanent rotating substitute teachers. They hope they'll get so miserable subbing, they'll quit. We hate to lose you," he added grabbing, some crab salad.
I'm being exiled from my home school? Just like that? After ten years? After raising $325K for the place? I'm out?
And"they're sending me to sub in a new school each week?
WTF?
My frontal lobes flashed. I can survive. I can teach guitar. Maybe my one-woman musical comedy will make it Off Broadway. I can license more of my songs to TV and film. I've saved some money. No need to panic. Rise to the challenge. Be grateful. Maybe they made a mistake.
I'd forgotten to breathe. I remembered my feet; they were still holding me upright. I breathed. I smiled. The Universe is nudging me out of my cozy zone. I'm all right with this. I stepped up to the buffet, scooped out the only undead offering "rice and beans" and thought back to my first day of school ten years ago.
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