Lavender Purple

Today, I woke up with a heaviness on my body that felt more uncomfortable than usual. I’d cope well with injuries and body sores, but I was feeling as if a peridotite was being pressed against my chest, leaving me no chance to move or even escape, as if I was fighting with my body to get off my bed. What was that even about? Well, I had to — bills need to be paid, and duties must be done.

I snoozed my alarm for the fifth time and finally gathered the courage to stand up, straying to the bathroom to wash my face. I felt a bit dizzy but ignored the feeling when I checked the time and realized I was almost late for work. My heart started pounding and my thoughts raced insistently. You can’t be late again! Swiftly, I changed my clothes and sprinted to my car.

Perhaps the universe was telling me that it would be a smooth day because the traffic was clean and there was no sight of people roaming down the street. I stopped at the nearest convenience store and had a cup of coffee and a sandwich for breakfast. I must not have been the nicest person, judging by the way the attendant belittled me with her eyes — as if she was sensing I was trying to rush her — when in fact, I was battling against the clock and myself.

I arrived at school around 8:00 a.m. and darted to my classroom for breakfast before the students came in. I usually take certain steps as soon as I get into my room, starting with turning the air conditioner on, opening up the curtains, unlocking the computer cabinet, and opening up my laptop so I can have a glance at my to-do list, which is usually extensively long. I didn’t have much to do today as I had caught up on most of my open tasks last week, so I only had to worry about replying to parents and grading.

We were in the middle of the semester and there were a few upcoming events, including the parent conferences, therefore I might as well have all of my grades entered into the system by then. Being a teacher is usually very stressful and there aren’t many perks that come with it. I had to teach from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon, with a one-hour break in between which was set aside for administrative tasks combined with marking homework, grading assessments, and planning more lessons. By the end of the day, my brain is exhausted from thinking, planning, strategizing, recording, calculating, managing…the list is strenuous.

I couldn’t discern the reason why I chose to be a teacher, as if it was something somehow ingrained in my will, waiting for the right time to flourish. For several years, I tried marketing and creative writing before applying for a teaching course, which left my parents slightly surprised.

“But you can’t even stand staying next to children!”, my mom exclaimed with a frown between her brows.

“I guess I’ll have to try and see”, I said with little exasperation.

It wasn’t a magical journey with golden pots at the end of the rainbow, but I could say it was worth it. I still have recurrent dreams where I am teaching and engaging with the kids while they are fascinated by learning, trying, and discovering new things. Maybe that is the reason I chose to be a teacher. It inflates my ego to know that someone wants to know a thing from me, hear me, see me, has their eyes on me (repetition intended).

When I plan my lessons or teach them, it feels like I am putting my soul and my heart into it, and if a student dislikes or disapproves of something I do, I sense a sharp arrow has crossed into my heart, ripping it all out. In addition, I wouldn’t know what to do if I quit teaching someday. Maybe be a ghostwriter? Or, even worse, a copywriter? The thought of doing either of these options gives me goosebumps, and I try to wash them away. As of now, I’ll try to hold on to teaching until I have no energy left.

The clock marks nearly 9:00, and I get ready to welcome students by the door, forcing a smile and a bright figure as they come in loudly and wildly. This is the absolute worst part of teaching: repeating myself a dozen times a day and still having to look at a confused glare as if I were speaking another language. Children weren't made for routine or for following instructions because their young souls are still adapting to a system that narrows us down and forces us to fit in. This does not happen painlessly and requires a lot of giving up important parts of ourselves to adapt to a norm that convinces us there is no other way around. And I know that the school system plays a huge part in this.

Every single day, I have to remind them to follow the procedures: put backpacks in the cabinet, turn in the homework, and get the writing journals, pencils, and erasers on the table; if they have a job, they are asked to do it before the first period, and when they are done with their writing prompts, they can read silently. And yet, I still need to remind a few to follow the expectations, albeit we all know they refuse to do so. The bell rang and it was time for period one, hence the students got their scientist kit composed of a pair of gloves, a coat, and goggles, and sat down at their desks.

Science class went smoothly as we reviewed the properties of matter with an experiment in which the kids observed how solid ice melts into liquid water when warmed, turning into gaseous steam when heated further. This process allowed them to understand how matter changes states under different conditions. Thankfully, none of them got burned, and they were all respectfully engaged throughout the lesson, sharing the notes from their observations with peers at the end. I was proud of myself and even complimented my teaching skills mentally.

Then, I dismissed the students to morning recess and collected some of the leftovers, ensuring the classroom was tidy — although they can be well-taught, children will still leave their mess to be cleaned after, just like dogs when marking their territory. I was so focused on getting things ready for the next period that I didn't notice when Samuel came in. For an instant, I felt as if he was standing by the door, staring at me for a while, but I immediately brushed the thought away.

I began to panic slightly as he came closer to my desk. I managed to glare at him briefly but immediately looked down, not wanting to make eye contact for too long. Samuel looked different; his eyes were warm, replacing the furious gaze that had greeted me a month ago. He walked casually, and a slightly excited smile appeared when he caught me staring at him.

“Hey, Gabs,” he said casually. I hated when Samuel called me by that nickname. Who did he think he was? A close friend? The thought of it made my skin crawl. This was the same person who had come at me with rage in the eyes because he thought I had lost the report card file, ravenous because I had walked past him without saying anything. And now, suddenly, he was all casual and intimate. I couldn’t let this slide.

“My name is Gabriel, please, and thank you”, I replied, sharpness in my tone.

“Sure, sorry. So, Gabriel”, he emphasized my name with a small touch of sarcasm, making me despise him immensely. “How are things going? I mean, you seemed unwell that day when I saw you at the supermarket, and I haven’t seen you since. Is everything alright?”.

You could try to convince me using a plethora of arguments that Samuel Giggs actually cared about my well-being or that he was genuinely interested in how I was coping after my panic attack, but I could easily refute every single one, dismissing every possible train of thought with counterarguments based on reasoning and evidence — I’m an outstanding writing teacher and this would be easy peasy for me. What puzzled me, though, was why Samuel was suddenly so interested in my state. What was his angle? Why would he be so keen on understanding how I felt, and why l looked miserable that day? I could not let him pry any further.

“I’m fine, thanks. May I help you?”, I asked, as dismissive as possible.

“Umm, I… well… actually, I guess… Jeez, I don’t know… I mean” " Why was he stuttering? Was he nervous? About what? “Oh yeah… The science fair is coming up, and we need to plan it and get all the necessary supplies. Could we meet after school today?”

“Yes, sure. Thanks for the reminder.” I had forgotten about the science fair. Even after years of organizing it, I still hated it. It was too much work over a frivolous event, meant only to please kids and parents. It was as if we had nothing better to do than plan all these leisure activities to give families some “fun time” at school. Trust me, school events are meant not for academic purposes, but merely intended to attend to guardians’ demands.

“Oh, that’s alright! I actually have some ideas that could save us time and money. I used them at my previous schools, and they worked really well.”, he said excitedly. I wondered why he seemed so eager about this fair. Sometimes he acted as enthusiastic as some of my students.

“Okay, we can discuss them later.”

“Alright, see you then.”

I didn’t bother saying anything in return. I had several unfinished tasks on my to-do list that needed attention before the students arrived from recess. Still, I felt a bit strange as Samuel lingered by the door as if waiting for me to say something more.

Sometimes I wonder why I am like this. I realize that my lack of social skills is a significant barrier to my ability to engage in simple conversations. My mind is too logical and practical, and I only focus on things I deem meaningful or purposeful; so if I understand that a conversation is going nowhere or is futile, I’ll dismiss it without a second thought. That‘s why it’s so easy for people to give up on me, and honestly, I don’t blame them.