Room 14

Eminent domain.

As spelled out in the Fifth Amendment, it refers to the right of the government to take private property for public use. 

Think transcontinental railroad.

Think interstate highways.

Think national parks.

Think Room 24. (kinda)

As the time grew closer to evict me from my beloved classroom home, I sought out my inner spotted owl. Surely if my feathered friend could halt logging in the Pacific Northwest, then I could rally enough support to stop one sledgehammer. 

Sadly, no.

Apparently, my bitterness, sarcasm, and resistance to change were no match for a Capital Campaign. 

In the end, they sent the nicest man in the world to kick me out. Steve looked at my impressive tower of boxes with admiration and nodded. "I see you're done," he said. I glared at him. "I'll be ready tomorrow," I snarled. He backed up a bit before delivering the final blow. "Amy, we're moving you out today." If I'd had a beak, I would have pecked his eyes. With my sharp talons, I'd have lunged for his liver. This...the kindest man in the world. A man I've attended Sunday worship with. 

Without a word, I stood and, with a dramatic sweeping gesture, used my arm to clear the remaining items from my desk into a nearby box and stomped out of the room...down the hall.. and out of the school...

Let's just say, I did NOT go gently into that dark night.

All summer, I REFUSED to think of Room 14. I'd been short-changed a syllable. My secluded cul-de-sac was now situated at a busy intersection. I was no longer in line with my 4th grade team...I was (gasp) kitty-corner. 

I was notified, by the 3rd week of August, that I could begin the unpacking process whenever I wanted. 

Oh no.

My usual routine this time of year, when we're allowed in, is to sit in my classroom (When I say "My classroom," I am, of course, referring to "Room 24") and stare, overwhelmed, until I can't stand it any longer and have to leave without accomplishing anything.

"I think you'll have to come in with me," I told my husband, who had done the bulk of packing up Room 24 when he'd realized it was taking me an hour to sort and organize items before committing them to each cardboard home. I had watched, with horror, as Brad had heartlessly stuffed the contents of shelves, cupboards, drawers, and counters into the boxes without rhyme or reason. "Sure," my husband answered, "but why?" "I'm afraid I  might go fetal," I admitted.

We agreed to an hour. Look. Make a plan. Get out before I got too overwhelmed.

Three hours later, Brad had wrestled my furniture into place.

We ignored the 50 cardboard elephants sitting in the middle of this strange room.

Over the course of the next two weeks, I would unpack and attempt to sort out the jumbled mess that used to be Room 24. Committing something to a shelf, drawer, or cabinet had me up at all hours.

2 am

I sat up straight in bed.

"What's the matter?" Brad muttered.

"I put my board games in the wrong place," I told him, horrified.

He stuffed his head under the pillow.

And the next day, he watched, wordlessly, as I emptied two cabinets to "fix" this problem.

Chlo in Room 14

Four of my nervous breakdowns in and twenty boxes to go, Brad momentarily lost his patience as I meticulously situated each student-and-staff-selected stuffed dachshund on a top shelf in Room 14. "We still have twenty boxes to unload," he told me, exasperated. "I still have twenty more dachshunds to fit on this shelf," I explained. The last furry friend in place and, suddenly, things began to click. Room 14 was beginning to feel familiar. I wrestled "Buster Bear" and "Ladie Liberty" up on walls. I felt like I could breathe again. A student-made stool was tucked in by my desk. Pictures chronicling my family's annual visit to the State Fair "seal"-ed with a kiss decorated my bookshelf. Student art went up. The glass apple my mom gave me when I received my teaching job at Letchworth was placed on the window sill. 

Now I was ready to work.

Brad was unable to deal with the number of costumes housed in my classroom. "You have more craft stuff than Michael's," he observed, stuffing a bag of feathers into a bin. "Why do we keep buying stickers?" he asked as he filled a second drawer with scratch-and-sniffs and smiley faces. 

I danced into the room as Brad was unsealing the remaining two boxes. "Great news!" I told him, "The school is going to pay us (me) for five hours of unpacking!" My husband froze. "You weren't getting paid for this?" he frowned at me. "You must have forty hours in at this point!" I elected NOT to tell him about the several hours of mandatory video training I still had ahead of me...where I could watch it at home on my time or use my planning time to get it done. Every year. 

Rule #1 in Room 24...er...I mean, Room 14 is:  Life is not fair. 

I love what I do. I love the people I work with. I love my students and their families. My administrators, office staff, and maintenance and custodial departments have been scrambling to help, encourage, and lend a sympathetic ear even though they are over-loaded as well. Sacrifices are definitely made regarding remuneration. Obviously this is my limited and over-simplified view of things. I respect the people I work with...it is the process with which I often disagree. Government budgets are unimaginably tangled like the Greek myth of the Gordian Knot. Funds are strictly channeled; departments are encouraged to spend instead of being rewarded to save. Climate-confused outdoor classrooms cloud our views. Our athletic fields are flourishing but teacher salaries stagnate...we are told that our financial compensation is directly related to the economic prosperity (or lack of) and industry of our region. So...here we are. My fellow elementary teachers and I. All frantically unpacking, on our own time, to ready our rooms for September. Because we love what we do. I work with some amazing people...they inspire and motivate me. I am truly blessed.

Chlo in my 6th grade classroom

The final touches on making Room 14 feel like home came with the christening of Chlo. She has been a constant companion in each of my three classrooms. "I don't remember it being this hard," I complained at one point to Brad, "moving from 6th grade to 4th grade." "That's because all you had to move was your stapler," he reminded me. I laughed. It wasn't quite that easy but I saw his point. We brought my little dog in once everything was in place and gave her the tour. Seeing her in this new space filled the empty space in my heart that I'd been experiencing...I do not handle change gracefully. But thanks to Brad, my colleagues, and Chlo...everything is going to be owl-right.