However, in my dream, I didn't analyze the architecture of my surroundings. It was the norm. The only thing that was different was that they had fumigated my regular classroom, and it was my evaluation day. I had moved over to this much older classroom and was in the back corner trying to get a stack of papers to graded so that I would have the data to measure my goal for that year. The kids were in the room, and I'd started them on an informal pretest over the lesson objective prior to the principal's arrival. The lesson was over noun clauses, and when he showed up, I'd gather up the little slips of paper, go over a few of them with the class, and begin the lesson. That is why I kept glancing out the screen. I saw the custodian, a pretty Mexican woman, out there sweeping up vine leaves that had drifted down from the high stone walls on three sides of the courtyard. I watched her gentle figure for a while, glanced over at my students, who were still working quietly, and then went back to grading. After several minutes, I glanced back through the screen and saw the CEO of the treatment center walk by wearing an Italian suit. That was unusual. Usually he wore shorts and a t-shirt. But he'd worn the suite to work a couple times before. I surveyed my students again and then returned to my stack of papers. After several minutes, I glanced out the screen again and saw a rhino walk by followed by some tall Maasai. That too was unusual, but not unheard of. What was extraordinary was that there was no sign of my principal. At least twenty minutes had passed. He was usually fairly prompt. I was reflecting on how I could delay my presentation when I realized the class had suddenly grown quite noisy.
I looked up to see what the commotion was, and my principal was sitting at the back of the room, taking notes. I asked how long he had been there. He smiled. "Oh a good while."
In my mind, I stood up to teach my lesson, but my body either didn't get the instructions or refused to follow the orders. I tried again. Nothing. I smiled back at him. "Just a minute."
"Take your time," he said. "Pretend I'm not even here."
As soon as he said that, somehow I zoomed across the room and was so close I could see the hairs growing out of his nostrils. Yet, I was still at my desk, immobile. He just kept smiling and fidgeting with his pen. I was feeling very claustrophobic, so I glanced back out into the courtyard. The janitor was watering the plants that grew along the edges. I studied her slender frame as she bent over, hoping to find some sort of center, some will to get up. The light played softly around her neck.
It was at that point I noticed a figure beyond her, in my regular classroom, which was lit up. I bolted up, horrified. The figure was me. I was standing before the blackboard, diagramming a sentence with several noun clauses. The kids were in there, attentive. So was another version of my principal. Because of the plate-glass window, I couldn't hear anything, but it was clear everything was normal. What wasn't normal was this sickly green classroom with the sickly green mosaic see-through screen and my new immobile state almost in the lap of my principal. I panicked. Surely, I'll get fired if I sit here and do nothing.
It was then I noticed the great blue vase in the center of the courtyard filled to the brim with cool, refreshing water. I didn't know how I didn't see it before as it was between the custodian and my old classroom, both of which, I'd given plenty of visual attention. None-the-less, somehow I hadn't noticed. The cool, deep water reflected the light pouring down into the courtyard from above. It was so calming that after staring at it for a while, I found my desk had returned to its natural position and my principal was back at the far corner of the room, still smiling. I also knew that I could now get up and teach my lesson. The problem was, I no longer wanted to. Teaching had been a good life. I had no regrets. I'd diagrammed a lot of sentences and had fun doing it. I'd read a lot of amazing poems written by my students. Together, we'd listened to a lot of great music--them, quietly working and me grading papers while some grand jazz-funk, like Kool and the Gang's "Summer Madness," played in the background. But it was time to move on.
Without a word, I got up, and walked out. In a moment of bravery, I thought about kissing the custodian gently on the cheek and saying "Thanks" prior to leaving. Then I decided it was kind of creepy--Listening to NPR, I'd heard plenty of stories about the creepy things men do lately--so I just walked on by. The only problem was that after I took a few more steps, I glanced around and noticed the courtyard had no exit and in each corner there was a tiger slowly approaching me. Over some communist-styled propaganda loud speakers mounted on each of the four high stone walls an oriental Khmer Rouge voice kept reciting the first two lines of William Blake's "The Tyger" over and over:
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night...
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