Viewing the Storm

Today was the first big rain of the season, and the world seemed to kowtow to its power. The drive to work was interminable. Traffic splashed along at 35 mph down the 880, and hydroplaning cars geysered leaves and twigs onto my windshield.

My classroom, constructed in the 1950s, provided little shelter from the storm. The roof leaks about 2 feet from my desk, which is just far enough that the school won't immediately rectify the situation but just close enough that tiny beads of splashing water pepper my desk papers.

With every gust of wind outside, the joints of the classroom creaked like an arthritic man easing into a rocking chair. Because there's a hole in the side of the building, the Lucite light coverings flap up and down with each exhaled puff of wind. The lights flickered on and off as the decrepit wiring in the building struggled to keep pace with the vigorous storm.

"Mr. Judo, I can't work on grammar. I feel like I'm in a haunted house." Firetruck sirens from two blocks away alluded to a rain-caused crash. I was safe from the dangers of the slick roads, but even I could not escape the vengeful ghosts who patrol the school.

"Just focus. The storm will be over soon." Nature never misses a chance to make a fool of me.

The wind gained courage and screamed at me to open the door. The thin wooden plank rattled in the door frame like in a Boogie-Man dream. The rain shouted at my students, soaking the windows in its tempest spit.

The students couldn't help themselves. They dropped their grammar books and ran to the window to watch the spectacle unfold. I had to raise my voice to its peak to make myself heard over the cacophony outside. "GET TO YOUR SEATS. YOU'VE ALL SEEN RAIN BEFORE." I had to reprimand them; I can't have students running and gawking at every little hiccup of nature. I felt in control. I felt authoritative.

When the bell rang, the kids armored up in their water-proof coats. Some kids even used my grammar textbook as an umbrella. In the empty classroom, I walked over the window and saw the rain coming in from the side. I imagined myself standing in the horizontal torrent: half my body pelted by slivers of water, half my body dry. I could see the bursts of wind, speckled with rain droplets, pulse and expand like ocean currents across the grass. The amazing powers of nature.

It was a sight worth seeing, and, yet, I had robbed my students just minutes before. My job title has stolen the memories of what it was to be a student: eager, excited, and, sometimes, uncontrollable. In the reign of being a teacher, the unexpected pleasures of students are rarely tolerated.