Forgive Us Our Trespasses. Diane Gensler

back to sleep, and when it went off again, jumped up like a fire fighter responding to a call.

      Several weeks before, I had chosen a white, floral skirt suit, an outfit I considered to be a combination of regality and professionalism. I felt I could have been running for President of the United States or having tea with the Queen of England. I had worn this outfit several times to religious services at my synagogue. Pink flowers, leaves and long, intertwining stems ran rampant over the white short-sleeved, puffy-shouldered jacket and matching straight skirt. In hindsight, I may have appeared as one big sapling from head to foot.

      I was finished with roommates and lived happily by myself in a top floor apartment on the outskirts of the city. After a twenty minute drive to school, it was 7:00 a.m. when I pulled into the parking lot in my parents’ hand-me-down silver Dodge Aries sedan. The season had changed to fall, the sky was clear, and there was a slight breeze. I was so excited I was coatless and oblivious to the crispness of the early morning hour. I secured the parking spot closest to the door, since I was the only car in the front lot.

      When I turned the handle of the front door to the building, my exhaled breath clouded the air, as I was relieved to find it was unlocked. I noticed the front office was vacant, although the lights were on. I felt comforted that somebody else, even if it was a maintenance person, was in the building. I continued through the lobby, turned right, and proceeded down the long, dark corridor that led to my classroom. The school was organized with the younger grades down the hallway to the left, and the older grades down the hallway to the right. I was teaching sixth, seventh, and eighth grade English Language Arts, and my homeroom class consisted of sixth graders. My room was a distance down the hall.

      I passed the unlit classrooms of the third, fourth, and fifth grades. All it would have taken was for someone to open one of those doors and shout “BOO!” and I would have run screaming back to the front door. If the symphonic music with the chanted Latin lyrics from The Omen was playing and cobwebs and candlebras adorned the hall, the place would have been ready for Halloween. There was a light at the far end of the hallway past all the classrooms. Its source was from a connection to another building with which I was unfamiliar, but I was grateful for the illumination. I told myself to walk toward the light. Ironically, I found out later it was a hallway that led to the church.

      I carried my brown leather briefcase with a combination lock that was a college graduation gift from my aunt and uncle. I was happy to finally use it. It contained my grade book, seating charts, lesson plans, unit plans, handouts, and transparencies. I had already prepared for the next few months using materials I had taken home. It didn’t take me long in the weeks ahead to realize I needed to graduate to something larger in order to carry all the paperwork I amassed.

      I walked down the last small set of stairs and arrived at my classroom on the left. I swung open the door, turned on the lights, and stood there taking it all in.

      The room looks terrific! My students should feel welcome, and we should all feel comfortable. I love my bulletin boards that I put so much time into creating and putting up myself. I love the room arrangement. I’m ready. This classroom was meant for me. It was designated to no one else but me. Here is where in the coming months I will be making a difference in children’s lives. Here is the place that I will spend most of my waking hours. Bring on the kids!

      The school had been in existence since the 1950s, but some classrooms were added later and then refurbished in the eighties. You could tell the school was a combination of old and new. My classroom looked upgraded from a public school classroom because it had mauve carpet (albeit not lavish or lush but rather worn and faded), a long row of windows which overlooked a small expanse of lawn, a separate section of hooks for coats and backpacks behind a painted pink cinder block wall, a relatively large walk-in closet on the far side of the room by my desk, and a separate exit door in case of emergency. I had already grown accustomed to the sculptured head of the Virgin Mary mounted like an animal trophy above the chalkboard at the front of the room. (No offense intended here; it’s just that it felt really “in my face.”)

      I had been in the school almost every day in the weeks prior for faculty meetings and planning time, so I had plenty of time to decorate and arrange my room. A day or two before, I had written on the blackboard my objectives and directions in my careful, precise script. My overhead projector and transparencies awaited on a cart in the front of the room facing the pull-down screen. My handouts for the day were stacked neatly in my closet and ready to go.

      Standing in the doorway, I glanced around the room. Then I noticed the index card on my desk.

      Someone is certainly sending a message, I thought. Someone definitely doesn’t want me here.

      I kept staring at the note. When the fog in my head cleared a little, I became offended over being called a bitch more than about not accepting Jesus Christ as my savior. It looked like a child’s handwriting.

      If a kid wrote this, what could have prompted it?

      I couldn’t be angry if it was a child, because that just shows blatant ignorance. But even if it was a child, ultimately the sentiment would come from an adult. And that thought made me angry.

      I didn’t have long to ponder this because I was interrupted by Mrs. A, the teacher who taught English Language Arts directly across the hall. They called her my “teaching partner” because she taught the other half of the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades, not because we were assigned to work together. When we were introduced, I was told she taught the above-average students, and I would get the students who were lower ability.

      Mrs. H, the religion teacher and a former nun, had stopped by my classroom in one of the first weeks of school.

      “How are you doing?” she asked.

      “I’m good,” I answered. I was glad someone cared enough to check on me.

      “Do you know why you got all the low kids?” she asked.

      “No,” I answered. I hadn’t thought about it.

      “Because Mrs. A doesn’t want them. She always teaches the higher students. She’s been here a long time, and the principal gives her what she wants.”

      “Oh,” I responded, unsure of what to say to that.

      “I think I heard her once call them ‘the bottom of the barrel.’ She doesn’t want to teach them. Just thought you might want to know.”

      “Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

      She whisked herself down the hall before I could ask her anything.

      Wow. The bottom of the barrel? How can you ever say that about any child? Each child is unique and has something to offer. I love all kids. How can a teacher even utter those words?

      Mrs. A seemed nicer than that. She did have the more advanced students though. I didn’t want to make any harsh judgments about her. She seemed to be an accomplished teacher, and I had to work with her the whole year. I didn’t want to be prejudiced against her at the very start. Although I couldn’t see how the religion teacher would fabricate such a story. I would just have to ignore this comment for now.

      Mrs. A was a tall, slender, redhead in her forties, her face sunburnt from time spent gardening in her backyard. She told me she found it relaxing to spend time digging in the soil. In my mind I could see her like Wilma in “The Flintstones” Hannah Barbera cartoons, thrusting her raptor-footed trowel into the ground, heaving it over her shoulder, and covering Fred in dirt.

      Her hair was pulled back with a large clip. It looked effortless but professional. In spite of her youthful appearance, I considered the hairstyle a modern version of the old-fashioned schoolmarm. When we had met for the first time, she had flashed her broad, sparkling Cheshire cat smile.

      “I saw your light on, so I came over,” Mrs. A explained.

      I was surprised to see her, as it was still very early and I thought I was the only teacher in the building. She asked what I was holding in my hand. It was several minutes after I found the note, but I hadn’t moved. I was still standing in front of my desk. I showed her the card.