Beginning teachers have a lot to learn, but no lesson is more important than how to hold it, and by holding it I mean holding it. This is so important because the alternative is quite messy. Of course it is obvious how messy one outcome can be, but the other possible outcome is also quite messy. Think about it; an entire class of prurient and belligerent youngsters in the chaotic dawn of their adolescence whose whims and fancies are unmarshaled by their absent teacher who has chosen relief over duty. Yes, this is the messier of the two options.

The room in which I was forced to learn this lesson as a first year teacher was at the western end of the north hallway of building 801. Building 801 was formerly occupied by 8th graders, but had at this time been turned over to a haphazard collection of educational programs from gifted and talented to special ed. The program that employed me was the fledgling alternative program. It was supposed to educate students who were well behaved (meaning quiet) but undirected (meaning failing) in their scholastic efforts. Although the program's purpose was approved by the school board and literature was sent to all the junior high schools in the district detailing the mild mannered nature of our target student, the principals of each of those schools used this new program as an opportunity to help their own well behaved (previously defined) undirected students (also previously defined) by keeping them and sending us their poorly behaved (meaning criminal) and undirected (still meaning failing) students in spite of our many protests.

I was the only male teacher in this new program. My classroom was at the far western (deserted) end of the north hall. I thought at first that this assignment was because the decision makers trusted my keen classroom skills. I soon realized, however, that it was instead because the ladies in our program had conspired against me. You see, they tackled the "hold it" skill through cooperation and confederation whereas I would have to learn how to "hold it" through sheer bull-dogged determination. They, the ladies teaching in the program, managed to have all of their rooms in two adjacent alcoves. This allowed them to assist each other in marshaling their prurient and belligerent students and find relief all at the same time.

Two weeks into the new semester, I was doing pretty well. Of course, we know what pretty well means (I didn't have to leave my class unattended because of an emergency). This was pretty amazing to me because it was during these first two weeks of the program that I first became aware of the previously mentioned fact that the students in my room were not the well behaved, unmotivated students I had bargained for. Nope, instead these were the most difficult 7th and 8th grade students that my very large district had to offer. Well, I take that back. There were those students in police custody, but we are not counting those. With this understanding, I took great care not to have any need whatsoever to leave my room.

There was a close call, however. It began with breakfast. It apparently had a personality conflict with my stomach, and during the first two hours of my school day, I was completely uncertain whose fault it was, and I was just as uncertain about who was going to win the argument. Finally, after dismissing my students, I had a planning period and I had already planned what I was going to do.

I scurried out of the small alcove where my classroom was hidden and raced to the teacher's workroom ignoring the occasional tardy and undirected student on the way. But, as luck would have it, the room that was the target of my quest, the staff restroom, was occupied. I was a bit enraged. Well, maybe I was just peeved, but I thought, "Those ladies, now they are even late to their own class." This mental berating was because all of our plans were staggered so that none of us had a planning period at the same time as another staff. This was to cut down on conspiracies against the administration. It was ineffective.

Anyway, Plan B was engaged and I hurried further down the hall to the student restroom. The student restroom was past our own office and almost, but not quite, to the special ed classrooms that were housed in the building.

Thankfully, my planning was during a time when all of our programs were in class. In school detention, gifted and talented, alternative, all of the programs on my side of the office were in class and would be for a while. "Good," I thought, "I may need awhile.

I found a stall and locked myself in. I was quite content, not just because of my need to be there, but also because for a few brief moments I would be by myself and away from unmotivated, criminal students. It was seven minutes into my siesta when I heard it. It began faintly like a sewing machine and grew into a steady machine gun staccato. It was the sound of a couple dozen hard soled shoes tapping on the hard tiled floor. Next, I heard the faint sounds of small children laughing and talking, followed by the gentle reproving tones of a caring teacher. In my haste I had not taken into account the special ed. department's break times. Now, as I heard the sounds gathering in front of the restroom entrance I remembered how every morning on my way to my classroom I would pass the classroom filled with a dozen or so Down Syndrome boys. They all had short crewcuts, rolled up jeans and thick glasses. They were always active and always happy. It was these same children now gathering outside the restroom who were about to destroy my quiet meditation time.

They came in with purpose and determination to have as much fun as possible out of their teacher's watchful eye. They laughed and they ran and they splashed and occasionally one would use the restroom. I saw it all from the narrow cracks on either side of my stall door, and occasionally I would get a glimpse from under that same door of a pair of black leather shoes scurrying from one side of the restroom to another. Then it happened.

As one set of shoes scurried past my stall door I made contact with the magnified eyes of their owner. The shoes stopped and so did the eyes. For a full second and half we contemplated the intent of the other, then, without warning the owner large baby blues yelled, "Teacher!!" as he scurried up to the space between the door and the stall to get a better look. Suddenly the sound of rapid clicking converged on my door. I was greeted by the sight of a dozen magnified eyes fighting for their own view of the teacher on the pot. It was a silent time again. I was a paramecium struggling on a glass slide. I waved. They said, "hello," in unison.

The teacher waiting on them was apparently alarmed by the sudden outbreak of silence. She yelled, "Boys you better hurry up, or I am coming in."

I prayed, "Dear God, let them hurry!"

Suddenly they all gave up their privileged vista of the teacher on the pot and clicked their way back into the hall.

I thanked God for answered prayer.