"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
As Eddie Sanchez faced the first day of his new existence, the other hero of our story woke to face her own first. It was Wednesday and Megan Sanchez was starting another school year, teaching the students of the six to nine age group at Independence Montessori School. It was September and Megan woke for the first day of class.
This year marked her sixth with Independence. Accordingly she had moved up to an older group of children. With the change came a more advanced level of preparation, in keeping with the school’s alternative form of education. It was a new challenge and Megan liked new challenges. Challenge kept things from getting boring and it gave her a sense that she was progressing as a person. And from her perspective the change came right at the perfect time. After three years of teaching the three to six group she was beginning to sense a malaise that made the early mornings and evening workload almost seem tedious. It was with a good enough degree of motivation brought on by her new position that she was able to stifle the urge to destroy when the alarm clock blasted the quiet at fifteen minutes to seven in the morning.
Through high school, college, and grad school she never succumbed to the temptation of caffeine, the occasional Pepsi drank for the flavor, not the jolt. It was a point of pride for her that she made it through those long, stressful days without the aid of a percolated crutch. But now, at thirty-five, not a single workday began without a warm mug brimming with piping hot acidic brown nastiness. She hated every sip of it but couldn’t function without it. During the summer she could manage to go without, the freeform days allowing her to wake when she chose. But in the school year it was a downright necessity. She was powerless without it.
While the coffee drizzled slowly into a pot in the kitchen, Megan ironed a white cotton button down and a brown paisley, ankle-length skirt. As liberal as the parents of her students were, it was still customary for the teacher to dress on the conservative side. By the time she was done ironing the coffee was ready. She poured a cup with a spoonful of CoffeeMate and two spoonfuls of sugar. It was far too hot for her to drink, so she showered as it cooled.
After an hour of consciousness and two cups of coffee Megan started up her Impreza wagon and headed off to school. Independence was only a short drive from her apartment on P Street in Georgetown. She easily made it by eight o’clock, settled in before the first of her students arrived.
“Megan Sanchez?”
Megan was seated at her desk, slightly wired from the rapid injection of caffeine, yet still sluggish from the sudden change in her waking schedule. The classroom was empty save for the one new arrival, a young slender brunette pulsating with enthusiasm. Before she could look up from organizing her desk, Megan yawned trying to respond to the girl’s inquiry. “That’s me,” she said, swallowing the end of her yawn.
“Shannon Driscoll,” the exuberant thing said, extending a hand in greeting. She shook Megan’s hand with conviction, the release of energy from the simple motion almost causing an electric shock.
“The new Non-teaching Assistant,” Megan said, identifying the girl.
“Right. That’s me,” her excitement barely contained. A rookie. Megan had seen this before. Hell, she’d been this way before. It would pass.
Megan got up from behind her desk and began to wander the classroom, Shannon following closely behind. The elder was making a last minute sweep to see that everything was ready for the approaching onslaught of thirty pliable minds. Looking over the various stations, math, science, art, and so forth, everything appeared to be in good order. She sat down at one of the computers and decided to quickly check her e-mail with her last few free minutes. As she clicked onto the Internet and typed into her Yahoo account she decided to size up her new ramora.
“So, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, Shannon.”
There wasn’t even a pause to collect her thoughts. “Well, I’m twenty-five and I’m working on my second Masters, this one in Education. My first is in Art History—I love the Pre-Raphaelites. I just got back from a year with the Peace Corps over in Uzbekistan. We were rebuilding houses. They sent me there because they saw I had experience with Habitat For Humanity—I volunteered three summers while in college. I also volunteer on weekends as an escort at a Free Clinic in Arlington. Sundays I teach an advanced Hatha Yoga class. And I’m a strict vegan, no dairy in my diet.”
“Well,” was all Megan could say to the barrage of information. “Are you single, married?”
“I’m not sure that I believe in marriage. It seems like such an outdated institution, a hold over from the days when women were considered a way to increase a man’s property. I like to think I’m more than just a possession.”
“I’m separated, myself.”
And then the awkward pause as Shannon realized she’d put her freethinking foot in her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, compassion being the only option she could think of. “Is this just recently?”
“Almost a year now. I’m dealing with it.”
“I hope it wasn’t any kind of bad situation.”
“Could have been worse. He didn’t beat me or run around on me. He was just too wrapped up in his work. The job always came first, you know.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“Oh, he’s a superhero.”
Shannon was stopped and stupefied. The door opened and thirty little beasts swarmed into the room, thirsty for alternative learning.
Two hours into the school day and Megan was just starting to hit her stride. The gears were rusty at first, but she had managed to work them back to smooth motion. Shannon wandered the large classroom, non-teaching, introducing herself and spending time individually with each student. Megan was already working up odds for the other guides to bet on how long before the newbie started to crack. It was obvious that her latest assistant arrived intoxicated with a romantic image of shaping young lives and having a significant impact on the future. Soon enough Shannon would face the bitter realization that teaching is like moving a mountain, at best you can only hope to carry away a few rocks.
But that was the bitterness talking. Apparently the lethargy of the previous year had festered over the summer break into something a bit saltier. Or maybe it was just age. All Megan knew was that she wasn’t looking at her job with the same sunny disposition that she once had. Hopefully it was something that would wear off as she relaxed back into the daily grind.
While Shannon discussed art—Pre-Raphaelite, of course—with Terry Henley, Megan organized books in the small classroom library. As she alphabetized the novels, Sandy Mead came over and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Mrs. Sanchez,” the tiny redhead said in a soft, innocent voice, “I wanted to talk to you about setting up a program.”
Megan put the books down and turned in her chair to face her student. “That’s great Sandy. But I wasn’t expecting to discuss learning contracts until tomorrow.”
“Oh, this isn’t about a learning contract. I wanted to set up a diet and exercise program.”
Megan’s eyebrows went up in surprise by Sandy’s unusual request. “Well, physical fitness is always an important part of staying healthy. I’m sure your mom is taking care of making sure you get nutritious meals. And you seem like a pretty active girl out on the playground.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Sandy corrected in a frustrated tone. “I need to set up a program to lose ten pounds.”
Things changed from the unusual to the unfounded. “Sandy, I don’t think you need to worry about losing any weight. You’re only seven years old and you’re the perfect size for your age.”
Sandy grew more upset. “Bethany O’Hara is eight pounds lighter than me and we’re the same height. Mom says that I need to confront it now before my weight turns into a problem.”
And from the unfounded they go to the ludicrous. “Your mother told you you were overweight?”
“She saw all the other girls at Junior Pilates class in their leotards and told me that I should be aware of their development so that I can keep mine on the same course and not let it get out of control.”
But you’re only seven years old!, Megan wanted to scream. With great restraint she slithered out of the situation. “Well, let me give it some thought. We’ll discuss it again later.”
