The secret lives of teachers

We judge them, test them, label them. We stare at them, terrorize them, pull pranks on them for an hour and a half, then abandon them. Beyond the classroom, we know nothing; below the surface is a mystery. Silver Chips is about to take you inside a different part of Blair, a part you've heard about but never seen, to uncover the secret lives of teachers.

most exclusive: MAGNET DEPT.

To gain entrance to the magnet office, you first have to knock. A teacher will step out into the hall to receive you, but entering the office is so taboo that no one even thinks about it. On Nov. 18, Chips catches the department off guard: Magnet science teacher Angie Bosse listens to Chips' request, then withdraws into the depths of the office where, after five minutes of what is later reported to be intense debate, the magnet teachers make an exception.

Past a few messy desks and around a corner is the focal point of the office: a table where teachers are sitting, talking and eating. The magnet office looks like any other department during 5A lunch. But wait"there is a graphing calculator on the table.

A teacher dashes into the office in a panic, spewing out words like "batch file,” "handy board,” "work station” and "runtime error.” Magnet math teacher Judy Bishop and magnet computers teacher Dennis Heidler offer him sympathetic looks and words of encouragement.

"Don't worry,” says Bosse. "I didn't understand anything he said either.”

Magnet Program Coordinator Eileen Steinkraus explains that the door is always locked because confidential files are kept in the office.

Magnet science teacher Bob Donaldson adds that with the door locked, teachers feel comfortable discussing their students without worrying about another student eavesdropping. It appears that magnet teachers want to feel free to gossip about their students.

Heidler offers a more obscure explanation. "We have valuable items in here"I won't say where"that we don't want stolen,” says Heidler. He's talking about computers again.

most social: SOCIAL STUDIES DEPT.

Unlike the magnet office, the social studies department's door is always unlocked. "This department is a very open, student-oriented place; we allow students to come in any time during the day,” explains Resource Teacher Cherie McGinn. "The teachers do a great job"”

"Aw, you're talking about me again,” says social studies teacher Jake Lee with a sly smile as he hands McGinn a copy of a crossword puzzle.

"We have a crossword contest every day,” explains McGinn.

"I wouldn't call it a contest,” corrects Lee. "I usually let you win.”

Minutes later, Lee and McGinn are sitting side by side, silently working away at their crossword puzzles. McGinn has made an error; she deftly flips her pencil over and erases furiously.

"Making mistakes already,” says Lee, shaking his head.

"Need my help yet?” asks McGinn.

"Yeah,” admits Lee. "Thirteen down; I don't watch that dumb show.”

McGinn laughs. She knows the answer but offers no help.

The phone rings. "If it's for me, I'm not here,” says Lee, without looking up from his crossword.

"Social studies department,” says social studies teacher David Whitacre into the phone. "Jake…”

"I knew it!” says Lee.

"Nah, it's for Cherie,” laughs Whitacre, handing the phone to McGinn.

A few minutes later, Lee triumphantly flips over his finished crossword puzzle.

"It's not fair,” complains McGinn, tearing up her unfinished puzzle. "I was on the phone.”

"You're just mad because I beat you,” says Lee.

Social studies teacher Kevin Shindel sums up the social studies department in one word: collegial, which is funny because that's the exact word English teacher Phyllis Fleischaker later uses to describe her department located just down the hall.

most grammatically correct: ENGLISH DEPT.

"But we know how to spell it,” says English teacher Malik Wilson when he hears the social studies department's collegial claims.

"C-O-L-L-E-G-I-A-L, collegial,” spells English teacher Valerie Josenhans.

"We're superior,” proclaims English Resource Teacher Vickie Adamson. Well, when it comes to spelling and grammar, that just might be the case. A few years back, the social studies department posted a sign on its door reading "Social studies is the funnest department.” The English department quickly honed in, red pens in hand, and corrected the grammar.

Now, with a Chips intruder in their midst, a self-conscious hush falls over the English teacher crowd. "Did you notice the loud silence?” asks English teacher Sherelyn Ernst, who then adds, "That's an oxymoron.” They laugh. English department humor. The ice is broken.

The ladies of the English department sit around their table, eating their bag lunches. "Oh, you have to see what my seniors did today,” Ernst says like a proud mother, pulling out copies of her students' poems.

Ernst passes the poems around; the ladies crowd around Josenhans as she reads aloud "An Ode to Eyeliner.” They nod their heads and make note of the good use of metaphor.

"Here come the young'uns,” announces English teacher Cody Therrien, as a markedly different generation of English teachers files in, Santucci's subs in hand, and sits down at the second table.

The "young'uns” are talking about movies as they munch on their subs and slurp their sodas. They really enjoyed Elf and think that Jamie Foxx should win an Oscar for his performance in Ray. At the table next to them, the ladies are eating low-salt Triscuits and talking about ceiling tiles.

Science teacher Leslie Van describes the science department as fun. During sixth period on Nov. 17, congregated around a large table in the center of the office, the teachers are trying to solve a riddle. You are in the basement of a house with a first floor and a basement. There are three light switches in the basement, one of which turns on the light on the first floor and the other two which do nothing. You need to find out which light switch turns on the upstairs light. You can only make one trip up the stairs to check. What do you do?

"Can you check the switching gauge?” asks Physics teacher James Schafer, leaning forward in his chair at the table.

No.

Now Horticulture and Environmental Science teacher Leslie Backus is interested. "And you don't have any tools?” asks Backus, abandoning the work at her desk.

Nope.

The teachers are stumped.

"I got another one,” says Schafer. "How do you keep a moron in suspense?”

But Van is too quick for him. "Is this the one where you just sit there and wait?” she asks, mockingly.

Schafer bangs his head against the table. He still can't figure out the riddle.

Then, a look of enlightenment spreads over Schafer's face, and his eyes light up with the answer. "I've got it,” he says. "You turn one switch on. Go upstairs; if that's not it, go back downstairs and rewire the circuit so that the switch you turned on is guaranteed to work.” Everyone laughs. That's just the physics in him talking.

And there you have it: Teachers exist outside the classroom. They breathe, have conversations, tell jokes. And then laugh. These objects of our scorn, the ones we so quickly classify as "the enemy,” are more like us than we care to admit.