Don't You Just Love Teaching

romie noriega

      Working with children is a lot of things. 
      It can be silly, like when you pause the sound of a violin version of Disney music to an abrupt stop in the middle of the chorus. Then you press play only to press pause a moment later. The horde of cute gremlins clad in purple leotards, pink tights, and messily tied black skirts cease their attempted turns, leaps that are akin to bunny hops, and clumsy interpretations of elegance. Giggles fill the silence at the constant interruptions to their movement as they stand frozen, looking, to see when the music will start again.
     It can be nostalgic, like when it’s time for curtsies. A herd of bouncing buns in various degrees of messy rush over. You extend your arms to the side, fingers stretched, thumb and middle fingers just a hair apart. One leg extended, feet pointed, with a soft strength that took years of practice. Then you brush the extended leg behind, lower your arms, and bend your other knee slightly. Seeing the girls is like looking in a mirror made of time as they mimic the action with various arm heights of T-poses, some with slight bends in their knees, or flex in their toes. You repeat the action to the other side with affirmations of “Good job!” or “Less talking next week,” and part with a brief applause.
     It can be overwhelming, like when the main teacher calls twenty minutes before class starts to tell you they’re sick, leaving you and the other assistant at the mercy of 20 eight-year-olds on a Saturday morning. You rummage through your bag for your adapter for the aux because you are the sole android user in the studio while trying to figure out how to turn on the stereo again. You and your companion rush to lug the barres, heavy as baby elephants, out into the room. As little girls in purple leotards begin to trample in, you realize you don’t have a lesson plan, so you scroll through your phone for a picture of last year's list of combos. 
     It can be tedious, like when you finally get class started and at the barre you have to go back over the step they learned last class. 
     “Who can show me a pas de bourrée?”
     Your question is met with a silence louder than the tap shoes next door. Yet there is always one hand that is waved around. You look around to see if there is someone else who you haven’t called on yet. The hand begins to wave to get your attention. You love the enthusiasm, you really do, but you need everyone to know this. Unfortunately, no one else does, so you pick the frantically waving hand. She shows you three steps with feet flexed and all the grace of a duckling.
     “Very good. What does it mean?”
     “It means back, side, drop!” 
     “Yes, that’s right–” 
     “You have to cross your foot to the back not the front!”
     “Right, now let’s–”
     “And you don’t kick your legs super high!"
     “Yes, now let's get back to the combo!”
     You spend the combo walking through the barres like a general inspecting their regiment, only yours is all limbs flailing, surprisingly on-beat this time. As you pass by each pair of hands with a death grip on the barre you occasionally stop. Sometimes by the girl whose focus is everywhere but class, always looking around at the ceiling, her feet, or out the window. You remind her to watch the assistant in front of the mirror. Sometimes you stop by the girl who refuses to give any effort. You try to get her to turn out her feet a little more or lift her chin just a bit but you can’t hover around her. You move on with a unanimous order to point their toes and repeat everything for the next combo.
     It can leave you exhausted as you and your assistant sit on the chairs by the stereo, drinking water to soothe your tired throat and sipping coffee to reenergize for the next class. The two of you go over the attendance book together trying to figure out who was here. After you are satisfied with a result that is probably right, you look at your lesson plan and start thinking of ways to make it just a bit harder for the next class. Girls in blue leotards slowly trickle into the room.
     Working with children can be heart stopping, like when a mom pokes her head into the room to tell you she can’t find her kid. 
     Who was in your class. 
     Oh God. 
     Your assistant is the best and goes to help look, leaving you to keep preparing for the next class and stew in your internal crisis simultaneously. You were so focused on prepping for the next class you didn’t even see if a girl was looking around for her mom. Did she go into the parking lot? You peak over through the window and the clear glass door. The lot is full, but you can vaguely see the street behind with one car after another flying by. Please don’t say she went onto the street. This is why parents should wait in the lobby not in their cars, you think as you search for a good song to practice dégagés. Just as you find a song that isn’t too slow or too fast, your assistant comes back in. 
     “She was in the bathroom.”
     “Oh, thank god.”