The Substitute
| October 14, 2020Sometimes it’s just about making it through the weeks without letting on that you don’t know the answers
In your students’ classroom, there’s Morah: smooth, familiar, and predictable. The superhero.
Then there’s you, the substitute.
Substitute teaching means six weeks of high pressure and high pay. It means a ready-made class and start-from-scratch lesson prep. It means a strong framework and an unnerving unfamiliarity. It means well-established classroom policies that the students know better than you.
As a substitute teacher, you enter the classroom as a guest and have to instantly become its master. You display just the right combination of dignity, I’ve got this — while relying on the students to fill in all the unknowns you never thought to ask Morah before she sailed off into her maternity leave, leaving you stranded in a sea of questions.
And there are so many questions. Sometimes it’s just about making it through the weeks without letting on that you don’t know the answers.
You don’t have the crutch of a long-standing relationship behind you when dealing with a recalcitrant student. You don’t have that intimate knowledge of who can handle a difficult Rashi, who to allow to hide behind their Chumash without ever reading aloud, who to challenge and who to gently encourage.
You barely have a handle on the material you’re preparing, and you hope you’re not repeating, or worse, contradicting, a lesson that Morah gave a few weeks ago. You breathe a sigh of relief when a lesson passes undisturbed, because if you’d mess up, you would know, and the highest praise is when the students take to your lesson as naturally as if you were Morah herself.
And then, just when things are proceeding as smoothly as a frozen lake in midwinter, you schedule a test. And you suddenly notice cracks in the ice, and the steady glide of your skates turns into a swerve to avoid a crested wave that froze in place. You’re disoriented but your students are all watching so you need to pretend you were just doing a figure eight, because hey, I got this.
Still, it’s hard to think fast when you’re so unsure.
“Morah gives us a booklet of questions and answers to help us review for tests. Will you?”
You blink, because preparing the test took two nights already, and to create sample test material will take five times as long, and can’t they just use their notes like you did when you were their age?
You push it off with a vague suggestion for them to try without, but they’re persistent. They like how Morah lets them review in class, how Morah assigns chavrusas, how nothing on the test is a surprise if they’ve mastered every question on the sample test review guide.
“We just want to do well,” they tell you, all wide eyes and endearing smiles. You want them to do well, too, but you’re confused about whether you should give in or not, maybe it’s even detrimental.
They’re going to be in high school soon. Maybe it isn’t a favor to spoon-feed them like this. But Morah’s done it till now, and she’s going to keep doing it when she comes back, and what difference is your little attempt at chinuch going to make, anyway?
And you’re so unsure if giving in is weakness or kindness; if standing firm is education or inflexibility; if it’s part of your job to accommodate and let the bigger picture slide; or if a substitute teacher still has the responsibility to look out for her students’ growth even if things don’t stay status quo until Morah comes back.
You make a decision and you’re still unsure of it, but no one can tell.
You keep teaching and the students keep learning. You keep calm, keep smiling, and remember that you’re just a small slice of their learning experience this year. And whether you decide to give your students the comfort of stability, doing things just as Morah always did, or push them a tad further out of their comfort zone — you might be right, you might be wrong, or a confusing combination of both.
But you’re doing your best to fill shoes a few sizes too big, and you hobble around the classroom hoping desperately you don’t trip out of those oversized heels, because you’re trying.
You’re trying to make snap judgments but not condemnations, you’re trying to serve up that comforting familiarity when you’ve never tasted Morah’s lessons yourself. You’re bridging a gap and making the best of things and doing it with a smile and head held high. You’re a substitute superhero, but a superhero nonetheless.
And although your students would never guess it, you’ll be the happiest to see Morah back.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 713)
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