Nothing seems to be going right. You’ve lost control.

 

Things have to turn around. In order to make this happen, you may have to consider a . . .

 

 

Class Action Suit

 

     The damage had been done. There might not be anything I could do about it. I sat at the kitchen table, with my head in my hands, wondering if I’d make it through the rest of the school year.

     I stared out the window. It was a sunny Sunday morning in mid-April, but the wind blew with such force the trees appeared to be conducting an orchestra and motioning me to join them. I was tempted to go—to be part of their ensemble. I had to escape what was going on inside me. My gut ached.

     I turned away from the window and shook my head, hoping to get rid of the confusion that wracked my brain. As I did, Nina entered the room. She looked at me with a weird expression on her face.

     “Anson, what’s wrong? You look lost and scared.”

     “Everything’s falling apart. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

     “What’re you talking about?”

     “I don’t know if I can continue doing it.”

     “Doing what?” she asked.

     “Teaching.”

     “But you love your job. Your life revolves around your students.”

     “It’s broken. Destroyed. It can’t be fixed.”

     “What can’t be fixed?”

     “Everything.”

     “What do you mean by everything?”

     “I can’t talk about it now.”

     “Can’t, or don’t want to?”

     “I gotta go.”

     “Go where, Anson?” Nina asked, frustrated with my lack of a response that made any sense.

     Without saying anything more, I got up and left the kitchen. If looks could kill, I’d be dead and buried.

     I avoided talking to Nina the rest of the day. I hid out in my den until dinner. Nina poked her head in. “Are you eating supper with me tonight?”

     “Yeah, I guess so.”

     “Then let’s go into the kitchen and have something to eat.”

     I didn’t answer her. I looked out the den window and watched the cloud formations, as they moved slowly off into the distance.

     Nina screamed, “Are you coming?”

     Startled, I grunted, “Okay.”

     I followed Nina into the kitchen and settled into my seat at the table. She looked at me, somewhat surprised. “What are you doing? Do you expect to be served? This is a joint venture, you know.”

     “What’d you say?”

     “Shape up, mister, or your life at home is going to be far worse than anything that’s happening at school.”

     Without saying a word, I pitched in to get the dinner on the table. Then Nina and I sat in silence and ate.

     As we cleared the table, Nina asked, “Do you want to talk?”

     “About what?” I queried.

     “Whatever’s bothering you.”

     “Why? You can’t help. It’s my problem and I have to figure it out.”

     “But I’m your wife.”

     “I know. But what does that have to do with my problem?”

     “Bounce your ideas off me. I’ll let you know which ones I think will work.”

     “Not now. I’m not ready. I’ve got to get prepared for tomorrow. That’s when everything has got to come together. It’s do or die!”

     “You’re making a really big deal out of this. It isn’t the end of the world, if you don’t pull it off. Whatever ‘it’ is, you’ll live to see another day.”

     “That’s what you think. But you don’t have to face them—thirty-five, seventeen-year-old seniors. They try to rule my life each day.”

     “Rule your life? How?”

     “I can’t talk about it.”

     “Why not?”

     “Just drop it already.”

     I knew I was driving her crazy. But this was something I had to do by myself. I headed to the bedroom to get out of the line of fire.

     I believed, in my heart, I had to take control of a world that was falling apart. If I was going to succeed as a teacher, I had to stand in front of each class I taught with pride.

     I awakened every morning in anticipation of a wonderful day. I taught five English classes—two sophomore, two junior, and my afternoon senior honors English class. I instructed the first four in a way that pleased me. But the fifth was another story. They fought me for control, and this was no longer acceptable.

     Looking back, this past Friday had been an utter disaster. When I entered my honors English classroom, dressed in an open collared shirt and Levi’s, Justin treated me as if I was one of the boys.

     “Hey Anson,” he yelled. “Want me to start the class? Don’t answer, I’ve got it covered.”

     He caught me off guard. I didn’t know what to say, so I sat down behind my desk, as he began to talk to the class about writing the essay I had assigned about their goals for the future. Dressed in an open collared shirt and Levi’s, he looked just like me. I’d become one of the crowd. I blended in and disappeared.

     Marissa raised her hand and stated, “I have a question.”

     From my seat, I said, “Yes, what is it?”

     Before she could reply, Justin, spoke, with authority, “This is my class! What is your question, Marissa?”

     But this wasn’t his class, and my permitting him and the others to be independent, to take charge of their lives in preparation for the future, had gotten out of control. I needed to get my class back, but how? The bell rang and the class filed out. I left for the day. My spirits were at their lowest level ever.

     When I arrived home, I went straight to the bedroom and walked around the bed three times. Maybe getting my steps in would lead to an awakening of my mind that would give birth to the answers I sought. However, all I did was stub my toe on the footboard of the bed. I bit my lip to keep from screaming out in pain. But then lights flashed in my brain illuminating a picture of me, the “strong, confident me,” in front of my honors English class tomorrow afternoon.

     I appeared in the kitchen the next morning to grab something to eat in the car on my way to work. Nina stared at me, with an inquisitive look on her face. “What’s in the suitcase?” she asked.

     I smiled and replied, “My ‘Class Action Suit.’”

     “You’re going to court?” she inquired.

     “It may lead to that, but no,” I quipped.

     I left the house and headed to Richfield High for my afternoon of reckoning. Just before my honors English class, I snuck into the faculty bathroom, locked the door, and opened the suitcase.

     Seven minutes later, I exited wearing a trench coat, buttoned from top to bottom. I entered my classroom and stood before thirty-five seniors engaged in conversation. Not one noticed me. I cleared my throat and spoke, “Ladies and gentleman, please give me your attention.”

     In slow motion, they began to look toward the front of the room. By that time, I was standing on my desk. Confused, they stared at me in disbelief.

     Then I blew them away. I unbuttoned the trench coat and let it slip off my shoulders and down to my feet, leaving me completely . . . (No, I know what you’re thinking. Not nude!) . . . dressed in formal attire—a most prominent “Class Action Suit.” For the first time, in a long time, I had their full attention and I was in control.

 

 

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