Chapter 7
Hanging Ten While Interviewing
Click.
I leaned against the bathroom door with my left hip, protecting it from Panama, which was still clinging to my right leg and arm in the form of grainy black mud.
Corndog… You got lucky this time. There are handles on the sink.
I remembered a theater in the States I’d gone to with Jane. Someone there must have had a sense of humor. They rearranged the Batman movie lettering, so it read FATMAN BOREVER. Catwoman called herself, “Corndog” whenever she did something stupid.
I understood that.
That forty extra pounds you put on having kids isn’t your friend right now, is it?
I considered rinsing my leg in the toilet.
It’s spotless.
Everything in Panama is spotless and filthy at the same time.
People are paid to clean and make the porcelain shine.
The porcelain shines.
The floor doesn’t.
At least this is a staff restroom.
I could be dodging a microbiological maze of tissue wads.
165 pounds and I can still put my foot in the sink.
The mud slid off easily as water ran over my ankle.
With some splashing I cleared up to my knee.
By the time I started on my arm, the leg had already taught me how easy it was.
That’s not nearly as hard as I thought.
Pieces of Panama stayed with me as stains under my fingernails and toenails.
I could lead with my left foot — now also shoeless — but shaking hands with my left hand would be awkward.
I had heard on day one here that wearing sandals without socks in Panama meant you were poor.
I wonder what walking into a job interview barefoot means.
It is what it is.
I walked from the bathroom towards the secretary’s desk.
While motioning at the office door she said,
“You’re right on time. They just asked for you.”
Relief.
Pure relief loosened my shoulders knowing I wasn’t being marked late.
I adjusted my grip on my official transcripts and turned the handle.
The only thing I felt nervous about was why I was shoeless.
My bare feet will make an unforgettable interview question.
I took three steps into the office.
Half as many as the last hole I found myself in.
Neither man looked up.
The younger one held out his hand, palm up, without looking at me.
“Transcripts please. You can sit there. This won’t be long.”
I handed him the papers, resume on top.
I had done two years as a substitute teacher in Mannheim, Germany.
Having never had a full-time teaching job, the resume was double-spaced and leaned mostly on my education, travel, and volunteer work.
He stared at the pile. “Never mind, this will be a minute. How many colleges have you attended?”
“Eight, Sir. If you don’t count community colleges, seven.”
“Which one has the final total?”
“UNC. On the bottom.”
“That makes this faster.” The younger man—I assumed the vice principal—began calling out statistics from my transcripts to the man standing beside him.
“168 total credits. English 18 — middle school level. You have a reading proficiency in German?”
“Just 12 credits sir, not enough to teach with.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Not a word, I plan to learn.”
“Don’t. These kids need total immersion, and it’s best if the are forced to hear as much English as possible.”
The principal was leaning back in his chair with his eyes shut. I couldn’t tell if he was absorbing the conversation or blocking us out.
The vice-principal continued.
“High school math over 24 credits. History, science cleared — biology and chemistry.”
The principal smiled slightly. “She’s still a point behind Hernandez.” He leaned back in his chair.
The vice principal looked at me. “Do you have special classifications?”
“Pardon?”
“Military service? Non-obvious minority? Military spouse? Married to a Panamanian—”
“The last one,” I interrupted. “Military spouse.”
“How long is his station?”
“Three years, just started.”
The vice principal looked back at the older man, not at me. “That gives her two.”
The principal’s smile disappeared. “That’s it then.”
“I’m Dr. Franks, principal. This is Mr. Thomas, vice principal.
Welcome to DoDDS, the Department of Defense Dependent Schools, Central America, Panama, Balboa High School.”
Neither man glanced at my stained nails.
“You passed Doris coming in. She’ll get your books and materials.
Next week we’ll show you to your classroom.
You’ll be in the morgue the first half of the day, so wear a coat.”
The vice principal interrupted. “We were supposed to get a normal air conditioner for that.”
“Request denied, they hand delivered the memo this morning.”
The vice principal added, “The faculty meeting is in the park Friday, 1700. Bring the family. Let your husband know there will be two kegs.”
“Thank you, sir. He’ll be happy to hear that.”
Doris had one book waiting. Web Design. I looked at it sideways.
“They said math and science.”
“Yes — computer science, biochemistry, and Algebra I. Only computer science has a book. Algebra has a student edition, but the copy machine is through that door and we don’t limit copies. No codes.”
I stared at the keys she handed me.
“That pile is for my classroom?”
“Only one is. The rest are for the padlocks you’ll unlock on your way.
Don’t worry. I’ll show you how they work.”
Doris was still explaining which locks went to what gates when it hit me.
No one had asked.
Not the secretary.
Not the vice principal.
Not even the principal.
I looked down at my bare feet.
No one had noticed.
Daniel's Den 