A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room by Dave St.John
Authors: Dave St.John
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barely half
its length, passed muster, and Sally returned to her seat. She
shook out heavy arms. This was it—now she would write. She got
comfortable in the seat. Her pencil, sharpened to perfection, hung
poised over the blank sheet. Electricity charged the air.
Solange found herself anxiously waiting for Sally to
go to work.
Surely she was ready now. Surely she would have to
begin.
Wait.
Something was not right.
Sally sat up, squinting down at the sheet of blank
paper. She cocked her head, looked again. No, it wouldn’t do. She
brought out her notebook, and again found the correct spot. She
opened the rings, and delicately replaced the unsullied sheet.
Yes—she would write in the binder after all. She slumped into a
comfortable writing position.
Now, she could get down to business.
She looked up at the board.
She frowned.
She squinted.
She pursed cherub lips.
She moved her head forward, back, side to side.
Another rummage through her pack yielded a case
containing a pair of glasses. These on, she once again regarded the
chalkboard.
Shaking her head dramatically, she took them off.
Incredulous, Solange watched as once again Sally
rustled in her pack, coming out with a tissue. A couple of noisy
exhalations on each lens, and she gave them a thorough rub down.
Sighing heavily, from the effort, Sally glanced up at the clock,
then settled back in her seat.
At last she was comfortable.
At last she was prepared.
Her pencil descended, coming ever nearer the surface
of the paper.
Solange gripped the edge of her desk, knuckles white.
Now! Now, at last she would do something! O’Connel glanced at the
clock, came to his feet. “Time’s up.
Pencils down, please. Have your periodic charts
out.
Sally’s mouth fell open wide in dismay. She was
crushed. After all her painstaking preparations, she would not,
after all, be able to copy down the experiments. Taking this
disappointment in stride, she sat up and earnestly began to search
her backpack for her chart.
Solange looked up, and O’Connel, meeting her eye,
came very close to smiling. He had expected this, she could tell.
Dear God, it went on like this every day? O’Connel came from behind
the lab table to sit on the corner of his desk. “Okay, we’ve been
talking about the elements, and today we have several gases to
test— oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, helium, neon, and a mixture of
acetylene and oxygen. Volunteers will test each for combustion and
explosion. First is nitrogen. Take a deep breath.” They breathed
with him.
“You’re breathing mostly nitrogen right now. Some
plants can take it out of the air and make their own fertilizer.
Legumes— beans, peas, locusts are all legumes. Beans are good for
you because they contain a high percentage of protein.”
“Is that why they give you gas?” It was Sally.
“They give you gas because you can’t digest them
completely, and what’s indigestible ferments in your colon.”
“You know how they say you should light a match?”
Sally said.
“Why do they say that?” The class was paying
attention, now. This was killing them.
“They say that because gas is part methane, like what
comes out of a gas stove, so it burns.”
“Is that why it stinks when you fart?” This sent them
into hysterics.
Solange hid her mouth behind her hand. This was the
first time she’d seen him with such a young group. He was taking it
pretty well, she thought.
“It smells because it came out of your bowel.” A
dozen hands went up, each with a story about methane, but O’Connel
waved them down. “Okay, guys, save your stories until after we get
done. If we have time, then, I’ll let you tell them. The first
person to tell me the mass of nitrogen will be our volunteer.” The
volunteer was given a pair of safety glasses and a long bamboo pole
to the end of which was secured a match. This was lit, and placed
under the balloon.
It collapsed with a dull pffft.
The experimenters were outraged and disappointed
its length, passed muster, and Sally returned to her seat. She
shook out heavy arms. This was it—now she would write. She got
comfortable in the seat. Her pencil, sharpened to perfection, hung
poised over the blank sheet. Electricity charged the air.
Solange found herself anxiously waiting for Sally to
go to work.
Surely she was ready now. Surely she would have to
begin.
Wait.
Something was not right.
Sally sat up, squinting down at the sheet of blank
paper. She cocked her head, looked again. No, it wouldn’t do. She
brought out her notebook, and again found the correct spot. She
opened the rings, and delicately replaced the unsullied sheet.
Yes—she would write in the binder after all. She slumped into a
comfortable writing position.
Now, she could get down to business.
She looked up at the board.
She frowned.
She squinted.
She pursed cherub lips.
She moved her head forward, back, side to side.
Another rummage through her pack yielded a case
containing a pair of glasses. These on, she once again regarded the
chalkboard.
Shaking her head dramatically, she took them off.
Incredulous, Solange watched as once again Sally
rustled in her pack, coming out with a tissue. A couple of noisy
exhalations on each lens, and she gave them a thorough rub down.
Sighing heavily, from the effort, Sally glanced up at the clock,
then settled back in her seat.
At last she was comfortable.
At last she was prepared.
Her pencil descended, coming ever nearer the surface
of the paper.
Solange gripped the edge of her desk, knuckles white.
Now! Now, at last she would do something! O’Connel glanced at the
clock, came to his feet. “Time’s up.
Pencils down, please. Have your periodic charts
out.
Sally’s mouth fell open wide in dismay. She was
crushed. After all her painstaking preparations, she would not,
after all, be able to copy down the experiments. Taking this
disappointment in stride, she sat up and earnestly began to search
her backpack for her chart.
Solange looked up, and O’Connel, meeting her eye,
came very close to smiling. He had expected this, she could tell.
Dear God, it went on like this every day? O’Connel came from behind
the lab table to sit on the corner of his desk. “Okay, we’ve been
talking about the elements, and today we have several gases to
test— oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, helium, neon, and a mixture of
acetylene and oxygen. Volunteers will test each for combustion and
explosion. First is nitrogen. Take a deep breath.” They breathed
with him.
“You’re breathing mostly nitrogen right now. Some
plants can take it out of the air and make their own fertilizer.
Legumes— beans, peas, locusts are all legumes. Beans are good for
you because they contain a high percentage of protein.”
“Is that why they give you gas?” It was Sally.
“They give you gas because you can’t digest them
completely, and what’s indigestible ferments in your colon.”
“You know how they say you should light a match?”
Sally said.
“Why do they say that?” The class was paying
attention, now. This was killing them.
“They say that because gas is part methane, like what
comes out of a gas stove, so it burns.”
“Is that why it stinks when you fart?” This sent them
into hysterics.
Solange hid her mouth behind her hand. This was the
first time she’d seen him with such a young group. He was taking it
pretty well, she thought.
“It smells because it came out of your bowel.” A
dozen hands went up, each with a story about methane, but O’Connel
waved them down. “Okay, guys, save your stories until after we get
done. If we have time, then, I’ll let you tell them. The first
person to tell me the mass of nitrogen will be our volunteer.” The
volunteer was given a pair of safety glasses and a long bamboo pole
to the end of which was secured a match. This was lit, and placed
under the balloon.
It collapsed with a dull pffft.
The experimenters were outraged and disappointed
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