The Final Exam

Feeling anxious on the day of a final exam is nothing to see a therapist about, but I thought things would change when I was the one sitting behind the teacher’s desk. Nevertheless, my nerves jittered as I watched my eleven students take their comprehensive one hundred question final. I hope I answered all of the questions on the Scantron sheet correctly, I worried to myself.

Only four weeks prior, these teenage students walked into my classroom for the first time with the expectation to be taught a year’s worth of high school geometry in only sixty hours. For the nine students expecting to place into Algebra 2, they knew they had to have at least an 89 test average. The other two simply wanted to preview the material before the upcoming school year. They knew that we’d be covering a new chapter every day or two. They knew this meant lots of homework for them. What they didn’t know, however, was that their teacher didn’t have one second of teaching experience, nor had he taken a math class since his senior year at the same high school they sat in.

But I knew. And there was not one moment during the course of the previous four weeks that I forgot that I knew. Every time my speech stumbled, every time I failed to maintain order in the class, and every time there was a question I couldn't answer, I was reminded that I wasn't a real teacher. Despite my inexperience and despite my years without math, somehow I survived. We covered all twelve chapters of the textbook in the short time we had, but for some reason I didn't feel relieved.

Trying to appear confident and busy behind my borrowed teacher’s desk, I began double checking the kids’ scores on my Excel spreadsheet. Seeing the scores of the smarter students I thought, I gave them way too much extra credit. Coming across the scores of the students who did not do as well I second-guessed myself, Should I have done more to reach out to them?

I looked at the clock. Damn, only 8:30, I complained to myself. Two and a half hours left and I had absolutely nothing to do but let my anxieties get the best of me. My mind wandered to the day I was offered the job. “You’ll be teaching Geometry. You can handle that, right?” Tom, the summer school director, told me. “Let me get you a textbook.” He came back and handed me the purple hard-covered student edition, a handshake, and nothing else. “So come in Monday by about 7:30 so you can get settled,” and that was all.

I remembered that first Monday and how much time I didn’t spend preparing over the weekend. I remembered my empty sunlit classroom with nothing on the blackboard except for the words “Enrichment Geometry” and “Mr. Barrett” written sloppily. I felt proud – proud for landing the job, proud for playing a part in the education of young people, and proud for taking on this tremendous personal challenge – but that pride quickly disappeared as students filtered into the room. It was time for me to teach. “This,” I paused to point to a dot on the board, “is a point.” I remembered my students’ blank faces and their unimpressed reaction to what I thought would be a mesmerizing revelation.

I reflected on Mrs. M, head of the school’s math department, later that day and our first conversation. As she strode toward me in the hall, there was panic written all over her face with a dash of contempt. She inquired about my math experience and I regretfully informed her it ended in a high school Calculus class. She asked about my teaching history, and had to tell her there was none. She kept asking questions, and, with each answer I gave, her eyes became more and more lost in panic. I reassured her that I would give it my best – and that my best was usually pretty damn good. While I lied to save face, internally my worries relentlessly pummeled my stomach.

Realizing I had become lost in reflection, I jumped back to the present. I peered at the clock. Only a quarter after nine, I silently whined. I did a slow lap around the room, hoping to answer some questions; anything to take me out of my head.

When Plan A failed, I started raiding the cabinets around the classroom until I found shelves filled with Health textbooks. Jackpot, or so I thought. After pages on the dangers of drinking, drugs and premarital sex failed to keep my attention, my mind snuck off to the previous weeks.

I remembered finishing my first week and thinking, This is what I want to do with my life. The sense of accomplishment I felt meeting my daily goals, the chance to be a positive role model to malleable teens, and the chance to continue my life education while helping kids start theirs all kept me waking up at 6:30 and going back for more. I compared teaching to my summer job at a law firm the previous year and recalled how that experience turned me away from a career in law. Those first few days gave me the exact opposite feeling. It felt right being in the classroom.

For however many moments there were that boosted my confidence, however, I seemed to find at least three times as many that made me feel like I should be banished from the classroom for life.

I blushed thinking back on the few times when there were problems I simply didn’t get and had to stall for time by asking one of the brighter kids in the class to explain it. I wondered how much my own teachers did the same when I was in the same seats my students now sat in.

I beat myself up on those days when great ideas for demonstrating the formula for volume or explaining tangent rations popped in my head twenty four hours too late. If you put more time into preparation you would’ve thought of this, I scolded myself.

I felt my stomach wrench with embarrassment looking back two days prior when a young Indian woman came in to observe my class. During our fifteen minute break, I found out that she had been subbing for five years, that she absolutely loved geometry, and that she was just beginning her teacher certification program so that she could fulfill her dream of being a geometry teacher.

“What track did you do?” she asked.

I paused, confused by her question, and responded, “What do you mean?”

“Which certification track did you pursue?” she clarified.

“Oh,” I stumbled, embarrassed by what was about to come out of my mouth. “I’m actually not certified.”

Her face dropped, and her eyes gave me a look that said, Then what the hell are you doing in front of a classroom?

“At a private school you don’t necessarily need to be certified. I just graduated from college and am only teaching this summer,” I quickly continued, feigning confidence.

She hesitated thoughtfully, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “Well, what did you study at university?”

Damn it! “I studied philosophy and political science.”

“You did not even study mathematics?” she exclaimed, looking at me like I just sacrificed her new kitten.

It came as no surprise later that morning when she tossed away her silent observer status and commandeered my classroom. As I struggled to explain a problem to a student on the board, she stormed from her seat to the front of the classroom. I guess I didn’t mind the extra help in answering students’ questions, but I’ve never felt like more of a schmuck.

Just a few moments before ten, I was brought back from my not-so-pleasant reverie when the first student to finish turned his test in. I hope I answered all of the questions on the Scantron sheet correctly, I thought again as I looked at his test. Seeing an opportunity to kill time and keep myself out of my head, I started double checking my work with my student’s. Before long, all of the tests were turned in and my summer teaching responsibilities were officially done.

After my students’ left, I had to sit down face-to-face with Mrs. M, the same woman who expressed her fears to me that the summer enrichment class needed “a real math teacher” only four weeks prior. After grading my students’ exams – and after correcting my own mistakes on the answer key – I printed out my grade sheet and headed to the teacher’s lounge for my final meeting.

“So, all done?” she asked in a tone as friendly as a Brooklyn accent can get.

My heart raced. I pulled in my seat carefully.

“Yes ma’am,” I responded trying to sound polite yet humorous.

“Good. And how’d they do?”

“Most of them did well,” I responded slowly, taking my time with my syllables, making sure not to betray my nerves. I slid the grades sheet and my mind went on overdrive again.

Did I give them too much extra credit? Oh no, she’s going to call me out on that.

I continued, “ Two St. Joe’s guys didn’t do so great and –“

“But that’s what we expected,” she interrupted, “So that’s ok.”

Did I fill in all the answers on the final correctly? What if I messed up my students’ grades?

“Right. And the two public school kids didn’t do so great, but their grades don’t ma-“

“Yeah, they don’t matter,” she interjected.

Should I have paid more attention to them? Did I cheat them out of their learning?

As I watched her examine the scores one more time, my stomach became a contortionist, twisting and folding in unfathomable shapes.

She stopped. She looked up at me. Her eyes – the same ones that were filled with panic only 27 days before – were now relaxed. In fact, her whole face was at ease and her lips unfolded into a satisfied smile. “I think this worked out well,” she said to me honestly as she looked me in the eyes. “I think this worked out very well,” she repeated, as if the words brought her the same relief they were bringing to me at this very moment. My stomach returned to its normal posture, my heart slowed, and that same flow of pride I felt at the end of my first week tingled through my veins again.

We chatted for a couple more minutes about the summer. Without the burden of my anxiety spinning my mind, I could speak openly about my experiences – good and bad – teaching. And to my surprise, Mrs. M expressed similar moments of pride and defeat, of accomplishment and frustration.

“So Tom, how about you come back and teach this course again next summer?” I couldn’t believe my ears. I passed, I cheered inside my head. “I’d love to,” I blurted out, overwhelmed with excitement.

In all my life I never thought I’d have to repeat a class, and I definitely never thought that I’d look forward to doing it.