Triple Dose

It took me 3 months since we’ve moved here, and 2 months since I’ve been working as a sub, talking to as many teachers and admin as possible to understand how to get a contract position, to discover that I’m actually not authorized to teach in Quebec yet. I need to take a 3 month course in order to obtain a “Permis d’enseigner au Quebec” and then, maybe then, the board might consider me for full-time.

Gee, thanks for letting me know. And all this time I thought I just wasn’t high on their seniority list.

…you see this in a classroom:

Tide laundry Detergent. Tide: Takes the shit right off your shirt

For the past 8 years, Saturday mornings have been a mix of weekend laziness with the accompanying elaborate breakfasts and getting to school frenzy. My mother is the founder and principal of Manhal-Ul-Eman Academy, a weekly school dedicated to teaching Arabic and Islamic religious studies. Since high school, I’ve held different jobs at the school, from teacher’s assistant to office assistant to teacher.

For the better part of 8 years, I begged my mother to not go: I created excuses ranging from physical illness to  mental fatigue to school work. My excuses were elaborate, planned from the beginning of the week for a final finish on Saturday.

Nothing worked on my mom.

After patiently listening to me, week after week, she’d always end by telling me that I only had a few minutes left to get dressed.

Now I find myself waking up late on Saturday mornings to a quiet house and a different feeling of responsibility. My husband wakes up soon after me and we excitedly get to our tasks, his in the office and mine in the kitchen, rolling out the scone dough that I prepared the night before.

Sometimes I miss our previous routine, but then I see the satisfaction on my husband’s face as eats scone after scone and I think, this is exactly how Saturday mornings should be.

Recipe: Morning Raisin Scones

Overheard in class:

My mom doesn’t let me hang out with anyone she doesn’t know. So there’s like, only 5 people that I’m even, like, allowed to talk about at home because they’re okayed by her. It’s so retarded even, the other day, my friend’s mom dropped me off from school not right in front of my house but to the side, you know, cuz it was on her way, and I got grounded cuz my mom couldn’t see who dropped me home cuz like, it could’ve been anyone.

It’s so retarded man, so retarded…

The students trickle in and sit quietly at their desks. They stare at me, standing at the front of the class. I stare back. I notice the bright purple wall at the back and the Far Side poster on the side, advertising their calendars of 2002. There’s a Simpsons poster right beside it with all the characters that have ever appeared on the show. There are so many, they fill up the poster.

More students are now staring at me looking around the class. I suppose I should say something but the more time that has passed, the more awkward it’s become. Deep breath. I’m the teacher here, I’m in control, even if it’s  not my regular class.

But really, I have nothing to say. I have nothing to for them to do and their teacher left nothing assigned. I’m loathe to tell them they can waste their time but what choice do I have?

Quick, is there a game I can play with them? They’re too old for cheesy games, they’ll laugh if I suggest it. At least time is passing by– that’s good, right?

No. Part of my job is to talk.

“Good morning, my name is Ms. Teebi…”

I received my first “vintage” item from etsy in the mail today. It’s a small bulletin board with a wooden frame that I thought would be perfect to make into a chalkboard. Apparently, the word vintage when used to refer to items for sale is now synonymous with “scratched up” and “battered”.