She gazed down at the crumpled piece of paper in front of her, a collection of letters and numbers that did not quite make sense. She recognized most of the words, but this map of sorts seemed to confuse her more than it did lead her in the right direction.
The bag hanging from her shoulders was heavy; she wanted to be prepared for anything. The journey she was about to take was daunting.
She took a deep breath, five steps forward, and tapped the nearest shoulder. "Could you tell me where... Morgan Hall is?"
No one ever said spending a semester at a strange school in a foreign country would be easy.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Again!
The teaching profession is one gigantic double-edged sword. The teacher must find the delicate balance between challenging students and nurturing their talents (and sometimes delicate egos) to guide them to their ultimate potential. Throw in about twelve third grade girls, an insanely hot upstairs room, and a chronically malfunctioning stereo, and you have a monster of a storm brewing for a 22-year-old dance teacher who is knee deep in the first week of fall semester classes.
It was a typical Thursday night. She arrived at the studio after a fifteen minute drive that involved closed Topeka roads "due to [infinite] construction" and countless Topeka drivers who refused to drive at or above the speed limit.
She felt a moment of relief as she finally pulled into the "Faculty Only" parking lot. However, the moment was only to be short lived, as she realized the "Faculty Only" lot was filled with clearly "non-faculty" vehicles. Annoyed, she settled for a distant parking spot and made her way into the studio.
She quickly prepared for her regular third and fourth grade tap class and made the trek up the stairs to the Red Room, or more affectionately, "the Inferno." The tiny room at the top of a long stair case had little chance at ventilation - a terrible fate for a class of dancers during hot summer months.
She closed the door, turned on the music, and began leading the youngsters in their normal drills. One student's off-beat rhythm caught the teacher's attention. She stopped the music, and asked the student to perform on her own. "Again!" the teacher commanded, until the step was completed properly.
Feeling defeated, tears began to pour from the small dancer's eyes. The teacher faced yet another dilemma, the perfect ending to a quite tragic day. Wanting more than anything to hug the student, to make everything OK, she chose to "build character" turning the music back on and continuing with class. The tears soon dried, class soon ended, and the teacher was soon in bed. Recovering.
It was a typical Thursday night. She arrived at the studio after a fifteen minute drive that involved closed Topeka roads "due to [infinite] construction" and countless Topeka drivers who refused to drive at or above the speed limit.
She felt a moment of relief as she finally pulled into the "Faculty Only" parking lot. However, the moment was only to be short lived, as she realized the "Faculty Only" lot was filled with clearly "non-faculty" vehicles. Annoyed, she settled for a distant parking spot and made her way into the studio.
She quickly prepared for her regular third and fourth grade tap class and made the trek up the stairs to the Red Room, or more affectionately, "the Inferno." The tiny room at the top of a long stair case had little chance at ventilation - a terrible fate for a class of dancers during hot summer months.
She closed the door, turned on the music, and began leading the youngsters in their normal drills. One student's off-beat rhythm caught the teacher's attention. She stopped the music, and asked the student to perform on her own. "Again!" the teacher commanded, until the step was completed properly.
Feeling defeated, tears began to pour from the small dancer's eyes. The teacher faced yet another dilemma, the perfect ending to a quite tragic day. Wanting more than anything to hug the student, to make everything OK, she chose to "build character" turning the music back on and continuing with class. The tears soon dried, class soon ended, and the teacher was soon in bed. Recovering.
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