Moving day, again

I moved again, the other day, though it wasn't my idea. I've moved so many times that my actions are automatic, my patterns predictable, a tic triggered by cardboard boxes and packing tape. I liked where I had settled and would much rather have stayed, but, despite the muttering, the bitching, the ranting, and the raving, once I got started, I almost couldn't help but work efficiently: stripping the walls, clearing the shelves, filling boxes in an altogether organized way. It's just second nature. Then, right on schedule, it got tedious.

I didn't have time to quit, to wander away and come back to my mess some other time or, even better, some other day, so I had to skip right to phase three: randomly packing boxes full of crap I probably will never need, just to get it out of my sight. Sure, it's a character flaw, made worse by being the teacher called on to teach everything to whomever walks through my door. I might need that Albanian-English dictionary. I might use that chemistry book from the class they don't teach any more, not that I ever understood chemistry. It could happen. Just like that one time when the biology teacher switched back to the old book and I, more prepared than any boy scout, had two. See? Thank baby Jesus I have no budget; if I did, I'd need to figure out how to get a Ryder truck into the hall to move my junk to my newly exiled spot. Because yes, it's my classroom, not my home, that I'm moving, but August through May, what's the difference?

Though I know there will be much cursing when I go to unpack those same boxes, I plow through the tedium, even managing to fill the recycle bin and the big trashcan I stole from the hallway in the process. Finally, I face that last layer of debris, the stuff that seems as if it should all fit in one box but instead could fill ten more. Where's a lighter when I need one? Doesn't anyone around here smoke anymore?

I eventually decide against challenging the sprinkler systerm, tenure not being that permanent, throw the last bits into empty file cabinet drawers, and call it done. With all my stuff down from the walls, out of the closet, and off the shelves, the space is no longer mine, so I go to see what will be.

And honestly, the new digs kind of suck. They're far from everything but the band room, which means I'm in for students who are chronically tardy and an all-day, everyday serenade. Then again, come basketball season, maybe I'll acquire a new appreciation for Rock and Roll, Part Two. In the meantime, there's no closet, no bulletin boards, and one misplaced network connection when I need at least three. But there's carpet! everyone keeps repeating, as if I'm a kindergarten teacher who sits in a circle on the floor. And I have promises, too, for cabinets, and a white board not covered with musical staffs, and who knows, if I can force myself to be the squeaky goddam wheel, I may really get those things.

What I have for sure is the loyalty of the custodial staff who thinks I got cheated in this deal right along with them (they had to clean two rooms twice), and that's worth plenty. And I also have a challenge--to make this room function, to make it my own--and I'll be damned if I'm not kind of looking forward to it. That's a good thing, of course: the world does not need one more disgruntled teacher. But whatever my feeling is, it's less about work and more about moving. A new place, no matter how crappy, has always inspired the same reaction. I guess it's easy to love the impression of a fresh start, at least until I look into those jumbled file cabinet drawers, or those sloppily packed boxes full of nothing I'll ever use. But that bit of reality will come later. Much, much later. In the meantime, don't tell anyone, but I'll be down here in the South 40, enjoying my imaginary blank slate.