“Ah, miss, why you cryin’?” That’s my bass drummer. “Miss, you not crying because the sub, are you?” I’m not sure what that means.
But the intercom was just beeping in at that point. “Did someone buzz from this room?” And my mentor teacher: “Yes, we need a substitute as soon as possible in room 407.” About seven more times of repeating that information in various forms and intensities, and I decide that I should probably remove myself from the situation. Students should probably not see their teacher having a panic attack before the day even starts.
My AP came to the bathroom and tried to understand what was going on—I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t asked straight-up if I wanted to go home. But then she went to my room and got my things, and we walked down to sign out with the clerk. But nope, on the way I’m still breathing more and more, and students are walking by on their way to first period–which you think would stifle it but just made it more escalated and embarrassing. She turned me around and we started heading to the nurse’s office. … In a wheelchair. Tardy students in the hallway, students crowding the door to the nurse’s office… a whole lot of wide-eyed 10th-grade stares directed at that really young white teacher holding a sweatshirt up to her mouth and looking down. I tried to do Laura’s breathing thing with one nostril. Softspoken school nurse lady made me lie down and eat ice chips to try and get me to breathe through my nose. Then I calmed down a bit, and she graciously started talking a lot about low blood sugar and how that can sometimes trigger panic attacks. Blood sugar. Right. After vitamin water and crackers, and a random conversation about kids with knives and spending money on better calculators instead of more teachers, I needed to be OUT of that building.
Turns out buses actually run on time during the day. Turns out San Antonio is beautiful in September when it’s light out. Huh.