How to Feel Old: Substitute Teach at a High School
Returning to the classroom after a 14-year hiatus was…shocking
I’m not going to lie. A part of me is terrified.
As I back out of my driveway, my nervous system is overrun with the kind of jitters I haven’t felt in, well, years.
Fourteen to be exact.
The last time I stepped foot inside a classroom as a substitute teacher, I was an entirely different person: I was in my mid-thirties; I hadn’t yet given birth to two children; and the stress and rigor of pandemic life were unknown to me.
The world as a whole was quite different, too.
Back then, one didn’t regularly see Amazon trucks pulling up to the school entrance to deliver supplies; cell phones, although commonplace, weren’t nearly as accessible to teens; and according to CNN, thirteen school shootings had occurred in 2009 compared to 80 in 2023.
And then there’s this: When I subbed, teachers in our school district wrote on chalkboards, for crying out loud. Well, those dinosaurs have since been replaced with interactive whiteboards. Chalk has gone the way of the dodo.
I mull over all of the above as I drive across town to Berkley High School.
Some background: As a substitute teacher in my community’s local school district from 2008 until 2010, I subbed for a myriad of grades. But I found my niche in middle and high school classrooms. And subbing in special education classes, in particular, had become my jam.
During my early stage of subbing, I took on a long-term assignment in an SXI (Severe Multiple Impairment) classroom. Most of my students had cerebral palsy, and all of them were confined to a wheelchair. I had the excellent fortune of sharing the classroom with two superb paraprofessionals (teaching assistants who provide hands-on support to a teacher in the classroom) who showed me the ropes, which, in turn, enabled me to do my job effectively.
Looking back, accepting that assignment was one of the wisest choices I’ve ever made because the experience I gained was invaluable. I can honestly say that, even now, many of the practices I learned in that classroom very much apply to how I parent my own children.
I eventually had to press pause on subbing when I was put on modified bed rest in the late stages of my first pregnancy. And when I later discovered that a return to subbing — as a mother of young children, no less — would require affordable, reliable, and trustworthy childcare so that I could also balance my writing career, let’s just say that it was an act that resembled plate spinning.
But I was recently called back to the classroom when I least expected it.
A few months ago, I chaperoned a field trip to a local museum for my son’s seventh-grade Spanish class, and the experience made me realize how much I missed being in a school setting.
So, I reinstated my substitute teaching permit, and when it was granted a few days ago, I immediately found a request for a half-day (afternoon) assignment at Berkley High for a special education teacher. The class I would be subbing for is comprised of juniors and seniors who, although mobile and able to work independently, are cognitively completing their work at an elementary grade level.
The prospect of teaching in a special education classroom at a school I had fond memories of ignited the warm fuzzies inside me: Berkely High is my high school’s crosstown rival, and I still have fond memories of attending athletic events and dances there as a teenager.
Plus, I figured a half-day position would be perfect for getting my feet wet, so I accepted the job on the spot.
But now that I’m pulling into the first available parking spot, nervousness is trumping nostalgia, and I’m starting to rethink things.
It’s a foregone conclusion that I’m in for an awakening.
But, in retrospect, I couldn’t have possibly imagined just how dissimilar the landscape would be.
Guided by memory, I get out of my car and head toward the school’s main entrance. But when I arrive, I quickly learn that I am mistaken. Turns out, I’m standing in front of the gym door.
You see, a school millage had passed in 2019 which gave the district the green light to renovate Berkley High. Translation: The Berkley High I remembered was no longer. The school’s main entrance was actually around the corner.
Strike one. This revelation is a harbinger of things to come.
After I locate the proper entrance and am buzzed in, I literally don’t know which way to turn. Once inside, nothing — and I do mean nothing — looks familiar. I wander down the hall for a bit before asking the first person I find for directions to the office.
When I enter the office to check in, I’m met with more confusion, and rightfully so: The old office was completely demolished, and the new one was erected in an entirely new spot.
Strike two.
I explain to the secretary, whose desk is adorned with countless plastic rubber duckies and a decorative pencil sign bearing the name Mrs. Willis, that I’m here to report for my subbing assignment.
“Oh! Okay, honey,” she says. “Did you press the Here button on the app?”
“Um, no, I didn’t,” I reply sheepishly.
Strike three.
I root through my purse for my cell phone, unlock it, and quickly realize that I can’t pull up the app — the app that didn’t even exist 14 years ago.
“Here’s the Wi-Fi password,” Mrs. Willis offers, as if on cue.
“Wow, thanks,” I reply. Back when I subbed, the school district didn’t allow visitors — sub teachers included — to log onto a school’s server. I explain this to Mrs. Willis.
She chuckles. “Oh, lots has changed since then, dear.”
Tell me about it, I think.
That’s strike four.
I knock on the classroom door, a student opens it, and I’m immediately greeted by two paraprofessionals who warmly introduce themselves. I’m early — my shift doesn’t technically start for another 10 minutes or so — and they direct me to the back of the room where I find a spot for my belongings and take a seat.
All 13 students are silently reading from the laptops perched atop of their desks, and the room is so quiet, one could hear a pin drop. My eyes pan across the room as I wonder about each student’s background along with their likes and dislikes.
Then, the school bell rings and interrupts my reverie. It’s lunchtime.
I anticipate that all of the kids will shut their laptops in unison, jump out of their chairs, and bolt for the cafeteria, but, once again, I’m wrong: Only half stand up — and reluctantly, at that. The rest remain seated and slowly reach for the backpacks underneath their seats and begin pulling out lunch bags: Nowadays at Berkley, many students have the choice of dining in the cafeteria or eating inside a classroom.
It’s a far cry from what I had grown accustomed to as a high schooler: We didn’t have options. We headed to the cafeteria — whether we were eating or not. Furthermore, if we attempted to sneak so much as a potato chip into the classroom, we’d receive a death glare from the teacher, at best, or a trip to after-school detention, at worst.
Strike five.
Bob Dylan wasn’t wrong when he sang that “the times, they are a-changin’.”
At Berkley High, the changes become more apparent as the day progresses.
Before long, the fifth-hour bell rings, and both paraprofessionals inform me that the next 55 minutes will be spent in the gym where the students either play volleyball or walk the indoor track on the upper level. Mrs. Julie, one of the paraprofessionals, tells me she always opts for the track to “get her steps in” and asks if I care to join. I do, and after we complete our third lap, it occurs to me that none of the students are walking alongside us. I don’t hear them playing volleyball down below, either.
I walk over to the railing and peer down.
Every student is sitting stoically on the bleachers, quiet as a church mouse, with their cell phone in hand.
I have no words.
Strike six.
We return to the classroom for sixth hour, but it’s just a pit stop for the students, who immediately leave and head to art class on the other side of the building. I, however, remain in the classroom with both paraprofessionals for my planning period, which allowed me plenty of time to consider just how much the educational landscape had changed while I was in the throes of potty training, Yo Gabba Gabba, and seemingly endless piles of laundry.
From the very beginning, I was an open book and divulged to the students that while my skills may be a bit rusty, I considered myself lucky to have the opportunity to be there.
I took every chance I could to endear myself to them and inquire about their lives, and my candor was met in kind. Koby showed me (and shared the significance behind) both of his tattoos; I found out that Leah works part-time at Five Below; and Conner, like my tween son, is obsessed with Pokémon.
By the end of my first hour in the class, I had determined that this is where I belong.
Plot twist: The teacher for whom I subbed is retiring this spring. She discovered that, due to a shortage of funding, the district will not pay her for her surplus of sick days — which they are contractually obligated to do, but I digress — so, she’s taking off every Friday for the duration of the school year. And because I gelled with the students and the paraprofessionals, the teacher asked that I serve as her long-term sub.
Overjoyed at the vote of confidence, I accepted. So I’m returning to the same classroom next week.
Now, mind you, I still have to bone up on my whiteboard skills, but the paraprofessionals assured me that I’ll know my way around that thing in no time.
We’ll see about that.
I’m not sure where this journey will lead, but I’m excited for the ride.
I wish I had a roadmap, though.
I know, I know: No one uses those anymore.
I meant navigation app.
