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THE VIEW FROM HERE
BY EMILY MORRISON
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Her kindness is too much, so I launch into another laundry list. “My son won’t stop leaving his dirty socks in between the couch cushions, under the couch, on the counter. They’re everywhere but where they go. Plus, I signed up for a half-marathon.” “Why’d you sign up for a marathon?” the college sweatshirt kid asks. He’s good at follow-up questions. He’ll make a great teacher someday. “Well, because I’m not getting any younger, children, and it’s been a few years since my sister and I have done one. Only problem is my knee hurts.” The boy in the baseball hat says, “If your knee hurts you shouldn’t do it. Do a 5K or something.” He should know. He’s coming back from a knee injury right now, and it’s no fun. “Yeah, but where’s the glory in finishing a 5K? You need a marathon for that kind of fountain-of-youth, woman in her prime kinda stuff,” I laugh. As they sit there in mostly rapt attention, more engrossed than they’ve been while discussing Sylvia Plath’s mental breakdown, I want to tell them I know I’m talking nonsense. My husband cleaned the house last night and my son’s actually getting better at picking up his smelly socks. I’ve had a break from basketball this week and, honestly, I stream most track meets. I don’t have much to complain about, but I like this ranting thing. I like how it feels when they’re really, really listening. “So, we don’t have any homework tonight, right? Cause we helped you come up with your story?” the future teacher asks. He knows the game. “What? No, that’s not how this works. If I gotta work, you gotta work. When I get paid, you get donuts. Take it or leave it.” “We’ll take it,” they say. I’ll take it too. I’ll take the smart questions and pink clothes and cell phones and baseball hats, five days a week, every week, for as long as I can. They always give me something to write about.
PHOTO: TKTK
WHILE DISCUSSING Sylvia Plath’s novel “The Bell Jar” I tell the seniors in my English class, “I know just how ol’ Esther Greenwood feels.” Hoping I’ll go off on a tangent, they ask, “What’d you mean Mrs. Mo?” All this reading and writing gets pretty dry sometimes, so I take the bait. “Well, Esther knows she’s gotta get writing, but what’s she got to write about? She hasn’t done anything interesting yet, and I get it. I have a column due today and another story tomorrow, and I got nothing to say kiddos.” “Just go on a rant Mrs. Mo!” they say. I know it’s a cheap ploy to distract me from discussing the book, but some days teachers don’t much mind not teaching. “Alright. I’ll rant,” I say. The girls in the back lean forward as they put their phones down, and I know they’re with me. They’re not on Snapchat, TikTok or Instagram. They’re here. The boy in the second row smiles from under his baseball hat as if he’s been waiting to hear what I’ve got to complain about. He could tell me a story about all the late nights he’s fallen asleep with his book in his hands, but he doesn’t. “All I do is teach and go to basketball games and track meets and grocery stores. I eat the same meals. I test myself for Covid every other day. How am I supposed to make any of this sound interesting?” “So write about that,” a boy in a college sweatshirt says and even the girls in the back agree. They’re stuck doing the same old same old too. Come to school. Teachers assign all this work. No time to sleep in or do their makeup in the morning. We’re in it together now so I ask them, “Write about what? Being busy? Everybody’s busy.” “Yeah, but that’s the point,” a shy girl beside me chimes in. Every item of her clothing has pink in it, and I love her for this sweetness. “Everybody has problems,” she says. “What else is buggin’ you?’’
EMILY MORRISON is a high school English teacher, freelance writer and editor from coastal Maine. She is living happily-ever-after with her handsome husband, three beautiful children and two beloved dogs. And a cat.
