Church of the Dog Read Online Free PDF Page B

Rob are still dancing. I look through my lens and snap them.

mara
    My first day at work is an orientation day complete with a potluck lunch. If there is one thing I detest about being a teacher, it’s all the potlucks. In the first place, I don’t want to eat what most people eat. I have no interest in eating mayonnaise-based foods or hamburger casseroles made with cream of mushroom soup and crushed potato chips sprinkled on top, and I am not remotely tempted by any dessert made with Cool Whip. Yuck. And, surprise, no one there wants to eat what I eat, either, so there’s really no point in making some nice whole-grain vegetarian dish.
    But since I’m homeless right now, I couldn’t make a dish if I wanted to.
    I go to the store to see what I can bring. Every bachelor in the district will bring chips, so I can’t bring those. That’s inherent sexism in potlucks. I just cringe when a male superintendent or principal proposes a potluck. A potluck isn’t more work for him or any of the men in the district; a potluck is more work for the women in the district and for the wives of the men in the district. I want to say, Guess what, pal? Just because I have boobs doesn’t mean I want to cook for you.
    I pick up a watermelon to bring as my contribution, and for my lunch, since I won’t be eating anything there, a container of yogurt, some nuts, and an apple. Then I drive to the high school’s multipurpose room.
    I sit quietly and feel out of place while other teachers around me catch up with each other about their summers. I think most people are teachers because they liked school. I’m a teacher because I didn’t. I think this is at the root of why I feel like a foreigner in a crowd of them.
    After the potluck we are set free to set up our classrooms. I start with my high school room since I’m already in the high school. I sort through chemicals used in glazes and look for firing cones in the cluttered cupboards. I dump water in the clay bin, knowing it will never soften before tomorrow. I discover there is no blue watercolor paint left anywhere. I find a lot of charcoal and newsprint. I guess I’ll start with that. Drawing is a good place to start.
    Then I drive to the elementary school and explore the art room there. I immediately love it because it’s old and at one time it was clearly a K-12 school. There is a broken kiln, some photography equipment I don’t know what to do with, and a fifty-year supply of tempura paint. Every cupboard is like an archaeological dig, telling the story of the last sixty years in that building.
    The next day the kids come. My day starts off with half-hour blocks at the elementary school, starting with the difficult and self-conscious sixth and fifth graders, progressing to the curious and willing fourth and third graders, and ending with the excited and enthusiastic little ones. I start the year off with a lesson about the first art element, line, and the fourth art element, color, by putting on different kinds of music and inviting students to make different kinds of lines in different colors that interpret that music. I do it with them, and some imitate me. This is all right because they’re learning to think differently, and sometimes you have to imitate at first while you think about why you’re doing what you’re doing or consider other ways to do it. The kindergartners are the most fun because even though many of them just make random scribbles that look the same on every paper for the different kinds of music, I know they understand the idea because some of them can’t contain their excitement and end up interpreting through dance or movement what I had invited them to show me on paper.
    Manuel is the only Hispanic student in the whole school, but he’s confident and proud and the leader of the dancing. During “Flight of the Bumblebee,” he scoots around the room in urgent and frantic shuffles. A few join while others watch, scribble, and giggle. During the music