An Excursion Into the Dark, Seamy Underbelly of the Education Profession

I try not to write about work very often on this blog. But I've nearly exhausted The Pony, and Hick has been too close to civilized lately to get any good material. So I'm exposing a sordid secret that you education outsiders may not be ready to hear.

Teachers are not allowed to fart.

Oh, there's no official rule about it. Not in the faculty handbook, not on the school website, not in a memo stuffed into a cubbyhole mailbox in the teacher workroom, not in a mass email. Still. Ask a teacher if they can fart at work.

Here's the thing. The pupils can let 'er rip. Toot to their heart's content. Walk up to my desk and emit a silent but deadly invisible cloud. Lean over on one cheek and let it reverberate off the dark blue plastic chair. Stroll to the wastebasket and putt-putt-putt like a motorboat.

But teachers can't.

In fact, sometimes a pupil tries to pin one on Mrs. Thevictorian. His nearby cronies will gag and gasp. Chastise him for fouling their air. Yet he will deny.

"It had to be you! We all heard it! You stink! Who else would it be?"

"I don't know. Mrs. Thevictorian walked by here handing out papers..."

Let me tell you, I nip that kind of uncalled-for aspersion right in the putridly-fragrant bud. But don't think I haven't considered such a tactic. As payback for the desk-pooters.

No, teachers must hold it in. Hold it. Hold it. HOLD IT until they're ready to explode. Because really, when do they get a chance to release the roiling gases that could more than likely keep the Goodyear Blimp aloft? Or maybe it's more like the ill-fated Hindenburg.

First-year teachers really need to be informed. Once the morning bell rings, you're out of luck. You're surrounded by kids for 50 minutes. And don't think you can let one slip during the four minutes between classes! Before the last pupil leaves, two from your next class will already be inside the room. Standing in the hall to supervise class-passing is not conducive to gas-passing. You'll have a little buddy who wants to stand with you and chat. And hall traffic sideswiping you from both directions. You'll have lunch duty to hustle to. And you don't dare let it out in the faculty women's restroom during your plan time, because the entire faculty population of another lunch shift (less one doing duty alone) takes up residence at the table in the teacher workroom, and they'll hear your butt trumpet, even through a heavy wooden door. More of the 50-minute torture in the afternoon. And don't think you can let that quitting time whistle blow after final bell. Because then the teacher workroom fills up with pupils shoving dollars in the soda machine. Which is not allowed, but try to yell that through a heavy wooden door while sitting on the pot clenching your butt cheeks to hold in a wind to rival a Santa Ana AND an Oklahoma plains sweeper.

So today, I thought I'd found a solution. Besides the fact that I should not eat steamed broccoli/cauliflower/carrots on a school night. On my plan time, I thought I might be able to sneak one out. I made sure to move away from the common concrete-block wall I share with my neighbor next door. Even under the cover of the 50-or-so enthusiastic freshmen she has that hour, right after their lunch, I was afraid to let it rumble wide open.

It was almost time for my next class. The third lunch shift was winding down. I moved over to the file cabinet to retrieve some study materials for a student's request. As I slid the metal drawer back in, I let some gas slip out. The resulting sound might have been a raspberry blown by the lips of a love child of Mick Jagger and Lisa Rinna. Louder than I had planned. Probably more aromatic that I had planned, too, what with the broccoli/cauliflower/carrot roughage last night. But I had no time to gauge the air quality because

THE DOOR TO MY CLASSROOM WAS YANKED OPEN!

I turned. Like a deer in the headlights. Val in the spotlight! I assumed it was a student coming in to ask for something. And I planned to get rid of them right away. "Wait until the bell. Come back then. It's my plan time and I'm in the middle of something." Oh, how I WAS in the middle of something! But it was not a pupil invading my domain.

IT WAS THE COUNSELOR!

"Oh. I was just getting a couple of files. What to you need?" I walked toward the door. Hoping the gaseous trail was not following me like a comet's tail.

"Where is The Pony?"

"The Pony? Oh. He's eating lunch down the hall. In his teacher's room. A lot of the kids do that."

"Oh. I was looking for him and didn't see him in the lunchroom." Obviously. Now go find him. Go find him now! The bell is about to ring. Just go. Because if you don't, you're going to be sorry.

"Nope. He's in the classroom."

Blessedly, she went on her way. It was all I could do to tighten that once-opened gas valve while she was IN THE ROOM. With the door closed!

And now you know. Why teachers are not allowed to fart. Let's keep this our little secret.