Once, long ago, there was a little middle school teacher with a passion for Greek Myths. She had accumulated, over the space of many lessons, resources and artifacts to help bring these stories to life, Pygmalion-style. Stern lectures would precede this exhilarating unit, explaining to students how flash photography did not yet exist circa 500 BC so only statues, pottery, and paintings were used to depict the gods and their many diabolically lurid exploits. Hence...there was a LOT of nudity (Now you can see why it is such a popular subject!). We maturely discuss the difference between sophisticated art and dirty pictures before I threaten my scholars with the loss of their scheduled end-of-unit Greek God Gala where we all wear our mother's white sheets to school, hoping no one thinks we're currently engaged in a rowdy re-enactment of key moments from the Civil Rights Movement. Not foolish enough to believe that my stirring speech will keep the hundred roving eyes of my students from seeking the forbidden...knowing that they, like poor Orpheus, will be unable to look away...I spent HOURS carefully coloring bikini briefs and tops on all my Greek Myth figures.
Or I THOUGHT I did.
It was an ordinary type of day when a sudden knock at my classroom door would alter the course of Amy Mosiman's history.
The administrator of ALL administrators was requesting a moment of my time. This was an unusual occurrence (Not like the appearance of a Super Moon which seems to happen every other week...What is with that? There wasn't a single Super Moon when I was growing up and BLAM-O...they're everywhere!). This was an unheard of occurrence. He had NEVER visited my classroom before. I wasn't even sure he'd ever been in my corridor of the school before. I briefly considered what sort of award or accommodation he must surely be presenting me as I ushered him to my back table. I hadn't thrown a kid's sneakers out my first floor window in over a year so it probably wasn't a consultation of my disciplining strategies. I waited with bated breath.
"The 4th grade will be undergoing some major re-structuring next year," my administrator said quickly, getting right to the point, "We'd like you to consider filling one of the anticipated openings."
I stared above his head, seemingly lost in thought. But no. I WASN'T lost in thought. I WASN'T thinking about all the changes ahead of me as I moved to a new room, switching from middle school to elementary, while tackling a whole new curriculum. No. I was staring at an informational art card of the Greek God Apollo, dangling from a string from my ceiling. Apollo. In all his magnificent glory. WITHOUT his colored-on bikini briefs. Spinning, painfully slow, over the head of my administrator. I didn't know where to direct my eyes. I was trapped between a rock and a hard place. Panicked, I squeezed my eyes shut and my boss waited in silence. Concerned (or annoyed) that the weight of this decision might be too much for me to bear, he said, "Perhaps you'd like time to consider your decision and then let me know." Finishing my desperate prayer, I opened my eyes and nodded. He stood, bumping gently against the card, and then walked out of the room. With a herculean effort, I lunged for the card, ripping it down. In no time at all, Apollo was sporting the latest in swim fashion and the two of us would soon be on the way to the 4th grade. A valuable lesson was learned that day. As everything Midas touched turned to gold, every worksheet, book, or resource pertaining to Greek Myths that Amy Mosiman encountered transformed the gods and goddesses to members of the Olympic swim team. Pandora may have let everything out but I am intent on keeping it all covered up.
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