Out With the Old

A few weeks ago Daniel was sitting on the loveseat in the back of my classroom with Payton. My Philosophy class was taking a quiz when from the back Daniel shouted, “A bed bug! Don’t throw it! We gotta catch it” I looked back to see Daniel scrambling on the floor to recover the dreaded insect.

Then students were up, papers flying, girls screaming, boys climbing on top of furniture. And I instinctively called Ricky, our head custodian. “Yep, looks like a bed bug to me,” he said as he examined the now-dead imposter. I knew what this meant, how difficult it was to recover from an infestation, how stubborn and sneaky bed bugs were. 

After Ricky left to talk to the principal to see how to proceed, I hastily threw the dead bug away. Unfortunately, a few minutes later, Ricky was back at the door. They needed the specimen. So Cassie, one of my sweet students, and I got on all fours and rummaged through the trash to find the bug. Thankfully it was still early in the day, so there wasn’t much trash. But it was enough to be disgusting. I skirted around muffin paper with blueberry muffin remnants lining it. I waded through napkins and cups and candy wrappers. I dodged chewed gum. Finally we found him. He had been hiding in the muffin paper. 

I left Ricky with the bug and my students and went to the restroom to wash my hands. Two of the principals were in the hall, no doubt discussing what would have to happen to my classroom. My room has no traditional desks. It is, or I should say was, filled with couches, loveseats, recliners, eclectic accent chairs, bistro tables. I have no big teacher desk—I keep everything in a pink dresser. We sit on rugs and ottomans and pillows. 

But now there was a bed bug. I knew this could be potentially very expensive and troublesome for my school. I knew I would have to get rid of the furniture rather than fight the potential bugs.

I was crushed. This had been a personal project for me. I had worked on it for years. I had spent a lot of my own money. People had donated used furniture. The central office had bought me a really nice rug we would now have to throw away. My mother-in-law had sewn seat cushions that would be trashed now, along with the chairs she donated that were older than I. The orange winged back seat I had found at a local thrift store—gone. My polka-dot chair given to me by a student’s parents—trash. The couch and matching recliners from Mrs. Koeller—thrown away. The blue recliners and director’s chair given by my neighbor, Beth—removed. The comfy chairs given to by a teacher who moved to Alaska—dumped. All of it would have to go.

As I returned to my classroom after washing my hands, I stopped to talk to the principals who confirmed what I already knew. I walked back into my classroom unable to stop from crying. “I’m so sorry, guys,” I muttered to my students. I wasn’t apologizing for the tears. 

Then Daniel, the kid who had discovered the bug in the first place, came up to me. He hugged me tight. “Mrs. Potter, it’s you that makes this class great, not the furniture. And you’re still here. We still love you.”

The last couple of days before we left for Christmas break, I held my class upstairs in an empty, unused classroom. In this blank, boring space we had our annual pancake party. I flipped pancakes all day for every single one of my students. We played games, ate, and just enjoyed each other. 

That day my principal, Mr. Glass, told me that he and the custodial staff would work on things over Christmas break. He told me to not worry about it. “But I don’t want student desks back in my classroom. And, Chris, I can’t afford to spend any more of my own money on new furniture right now.”

“Don’t worry. We’ve got this,” Mr. Glass said, patting my shoulder. I wanted to believe him.

Just a few days ago, my husband and I stopped by the high school to see my classroom—or what was left of it. I wanted to see how much work I would need to do before classes resumed in a few days. I opened my door not to desks, as I had feared, but several round tables, complete with comfortable chairs, scattered around my room. Bistro tables and stools lined the walls. Mr. Glass, Ricky, and the custodial staff had set up my room to look like a coffee shop. It was perfect. It was better than I could have ever expected. Maybe even better than it was before the bed bug imposter.

At times like this, whether it’s a bed bug or something much worse, my school shines. In times like this, I am reminded that I work in a school where I am cared about. My principal does not see my desire for unconventional classroom furniture as a nuisance. Instead, he supports me. The custodial staff doesn’t grumble about the extra work I create for them; they help me because they know it’s good for the kids. When I am having a bad day, my students are there to dig through the trash with me, give me a hug, or just make me laugh as we eat pancakes together. 

No matter what kind of furniture is my classroom last year or this year or next, I will be there and my students will be there. And that’s what matters.