Integrity Sucks
Integrity Sucks, an excerpt from the book "Confessions of a Burned-Out Ex-Teacher" by Cynthia Chase
You can find compelling fiction and non-fiction, relevant articles and book reviews at Printusher.com
There was no time for terror. I always intended to begin a book with that sentence. It evokes the unknown and uncontrollable. It brings to mind the steely hand of Fate's implacable intervention into ordinary life. It's how you start a horror book or a thriller. Or a story about unexpectedly becoming a teacher at an inner city high school. That's what this is.
A burned-out lawyer, I'd gone back into computers just in time to get laid off in the Great Internet Bubble Burst. I'd been looking for work for four months, and was too proud (pronounced "STOO-pid) to get on Umployment. Mastercard loves me. No time for terror, plenty of time for worry. One morning toward the end of August my mother called with an idea.
"Why don't you become a teacher?"
She couldn't be serious. My mother had been teaching for twenty-five years and hated it. There was no aspect of teaching about which she would not exhaustively complain. I figured she was joking around, trying to cheer my up. She knows how to cheer me up. Once I was wracked by guilt because I'd screamed at Mr. Kittykins for pooping on the carpet, but Mom knew just what to say, "He shat (she has an accent) on your rug? You should have killed him!" That made me feel better; instead of being a bad person for yelling at a sweet, innocent defenseless cat, I was a good person for not killing him over a carpet. Moms always know just what to say. I figured suggesting that I become a teacher was her way of saying, "You're unemployed, but don't feel too bad. It could be worse. You could be a teacher."
"Cindy? Are you zoning out on me? I'm telling you something. Why don't you become a teacher?"
"Ha, ha. Good one, Mom. Thanks, I needed a laugh."
"So are you going to apply at the school district?"
What a non sequitor. "Mom, is that you?"
Maybe it was a wrong number. I'd heard about a lady who telephoned her daughter to find frantically preparing for a dinner party. The mother told her to rest and that she'd come over, clean the house, bring groceries, prepare all the food, and baby-sit the grandchildren during the party. Ah, wonderful, I'm so lucky to have a mother like you, she said, and there's no need to babysit, Mom, because we don't have any ... oh dear.
It was a wrong number. (Does that mean you're not coming over?)
Anyway, maybe the same situation was happening here. But "Mom, is that you?" was an illogical question for me to ask. Every mother will answer yes to that. They're all named "Mom." I had to be more specific. "It's me, Cindy."
"I know it's you, Cindy. What are you talking about? Are you applying or not?" The impatience, the Filipino accent. It was her, but had she suddenly stopped loving me?
"Mom, why do you want me to teach? You hate teaching. The lack of respect, the low pay, the administrators, the copy machine?" I figured the copy machine would bring her to her senses. At her school she has a certain number of copies she can make, and once she uses them up she's done. No exceptions. Her students don't have books? Doesn't matter. Logical shall not intrude: no exceptions! She finds this rigidness annoying. She finds it annoying that her students don't have books. The combination makes her slightly postal every time she thinks about it.
Well, of course, she took the bait, and treated me to her thorough opinion on the copy machine situation. "At length" hardly did it justice and yet she was not deflected. She continued trying to sell me on teaching.
She concluded her diatribe by saying, "Teaching's not that bad. You should try it."
And what about all those complaints over the years? Twenty-five years of grievances. The personality changes every August when she realized summer would end and school would begin again. The low pay, the scrimping, the saving, what of that? The fifteen-minute harangue I'd just been treated to?
"I was just joking."
Then she pointed out that a small paycheck was better than no paycheck -- ka-ching! -- she made the sale.
She made some phone calls and one day later myself I found in a conference room at Nosenada High being interviewed by the principal, department head and whoever else happened to be around.
"So, why do you want to become a teacher?" someone was asking me.
Ah, a trick question. I didn't want to be a teacher. I just needed a paycheck. Now, how to phrase that into a winning statement that'll land me the job?
You can find compelling fiction and non-fiction, relevant articles and book reviews at Printusher.com
There was no time for terror. I always intended to begin a book with that sentence. It evokes the unknown and uncontrollable. It brings to mind the steely hand of Fate's implacable intervention into ordinary life. It's how you start a horror book or a thriller. Or a story about unexpectedly becoming a teacher at an inner city high school. That's what this is.
A burned-out lawyer, I'd gone back into computers just in time to get laid off in the Great Internet Bubble Burst. I'd been looking for work for four months, and was too proud (pronounced "STOO-pid) to get on Umployment. Mastercard loves me. No time for terror, plenty of time for worry. One morning toward the end of August my mother called with an idea.
"Why don't you become a teacher?"
She couldn't be serious. My mother had been teaching for twenty-five years and hated it. There was no aspect of teaching about which she would not exhaustively complain. I figured she was joking around, trying to cheer my up. She knows how to cheer me up. Once I was wracked by guilt because I'd screamed at Mr. Kittykins for pooping on the carpet, but Mom knew just what to say, "He shat (she has an accent) on your rug? You should have killed him!" That made me feel better; instead of being a bad person for yelling at a sweet, innocent defenseless cat, I was a good person for not killing him over a carpet. Moms always know just what to say. I figured suggesting that I become a teacher was her way of saying, "You're unemployed, but don't feel too bad. It could be worse. You could be a teacher."
"Cindy? Are you zoning out on me? I'm telling you something. Why don't you become a teacher?"
"Ha, ha. Good one, Mom. Thanks, I needed a laugh."
"So are you going to apply at the school district?"
What a non sequitor. "Mom, is that you?"
Maybe it was a wrong number. I'd heard about a lady who telephoned her daughter to find frantically preparing for a dinner party. The mother told her to rest and that she'd come over, clean the house, bring groceries, prepare all the food, and baby-sit the grandchildren during the party. Ah, wonderful, I'm so lucky to have a mother like you, she said, and there's no need to babysit, Mom, because we don't have any ... oh dear.
It was a wrong number. (Does that mean you're not coming over?)
Anyway, maybe the same situation was happening here. But "Mom, is that you?" was an illogical question for me to ask. Every mother will answer yes to that. They're all named "Mom." I had to be more specific. "It's me, Cindy."
"I know it's you, Cindy. What are you talking about? Are you applying or not?" The impatience, the Filipino accent. It was her, but had she suddenly stopped loving me?
"Mom, why do you want me to teach? You hate teaching. The lack of respect, the low pay, the administrators, the copy machine?" I figured the copy machine would bring her to her senses. At her school she has a certain number of copies she can make, and once she uses them up she's done. No exceptions. Her students don't have books? Doesn't matter. Logical shall not intrude: no exceptions! She finds this rigidness annoying. She finds it annoying that her students don't have books. The combination makes her slightly postal every time she thinks about it.
Well, of course, she took the bait, and treated me to her thorough opinion on the copy machine situation. "At length" hardly did it justice and yet she was not deflected. She continued trying to sell me on teaching.
She concluded her diatribe by saying, "Teaching's not that bad. You should try it."
And what about all those complaints over the years? Twenty-five years of grievances. The personality changes every August when she realized summer would end and school would begin again. The low pay, the scrimping, the saving, what of that? The fifteen-minute harangue I'd just been treated to?
"I was just joking."
Then she pointed out that a small paycheck was better than no paycheck -- ka-ching! -- she made the sale.
She made some phone calls and one day later myself I found in a conference room at Nosenada High being interviewed by the principal, department head and whoever else happened to be around.
"So, why do you want to become a teacher?" someone was asking me.
Ah, a trick question. I didn't want to be a teacher. I just needed a paycheck. Now, how to phrase that into a winning statement that'll land me the job?
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