“Sonofa…” 

She stared at the blinking lights. Freaking Maxwell. Not only did this man have the gall to use up all four copiers at the end of the day, he’d left not one, not two, but all four jammed for her to find this morning. The only male on their side of the building, Maxwell stalked the halls with his baritone, high-fiving kids as he wormed his way into their hearts all while half-assing his job – constantly using their shared community space and leaving it a disaster zone of paper scraps and pencil shavings, his total lack of prepared sub plans any time he was gone. He was a mess the rest of them were constantly cleaning up after.

Exasperated, she pulled open the ancient drawers of the behemoth, spinning this knob, pulling that lever. Viola! three crimped papers spit out, and the machine clicked back to life, spitting out Maxwell’s initial job.

“Oh nuh uh,” she said as she stabbed the cancel job button. It was her turn.

She glanced at the clock as she programmed her copies. Twenty minutes till the bell; it was going to be tight.

She checked the pages, glad they were coming out clean and sighed. Not for the first time, she lamented her dependence on paper; ten years into her career, and she was already feeling archaic. 

Her colleague Val was never up here willing massive quantities of copies to beat the bell. No, Val had gone completely digital. It was in these moments she envied Val most, but she just couldn’t shake the belief that math was easiest, most learnable, on paper. Besides, Lord knew her students were glued to their screens 24/7. She intentionally structured her class to be screenless; a forty minute reprieve, if nothing else. 

Except those punks sneaked in screen time anyway. Zombified by notifications, texts, Snaps, TikToks. She’d gone to administration, asked to create a more stringent schoolwide policy, but administration was reluctant, said they really couldn’t police phones. It was best left to the teacher. Oh, but if she was looking to join a committee, could she help create the new social emotional lessons for the school? No, no it wasn’t paid, but we could all agree there wasn’t a price on kids’ mental health couldn’t we?

The machine blasted three beeps, and her stomach clenched. She did not have time for another jam. Luckily it was just in need of more paper. She dropped two reams in, cringing at the vast amount. The note packets were gigantic, but the district stopped purchasing textbooks years ago – not even digital licenses – so it was all up to her. Any resource she wanted she had to cobble together from a hodgepodge of online searches. Sure, the content creation could be fun, but it was time consuming. Just once she’d love to have a ready made resource to fall back on – or at the very least consult.

In the absence of resources, collaboration was a necessity. But collaboration with Val was a farce. Val sold her prep, taught seven out of seven classes, not to mention the many committees and clubs she ran. Collaboration was always sending off a rushed, mid-class email that remained unanswered for days, sometimes weeks before Val’s 11:30 pm response would roll through. My bad, just seeing this now. All good?

Was it ever all good?

She didn’t blame Val though. Prices were soaring; in the last year Val’s rent had gone up $200 a month. In contrast to Val, at least she herself had an income partner in her husband. Less educated than her, less experienced than her, her husband chilled behind a computer from home five days a week making almost two times what she did.

Which, in a way, was good because daycare costs were through the roof. They were lucky their neighbor ran a small, affordable out of home deal. Though at drop-off the other day Kari had casually mentioned she was thinking of taking a break. She didn’t even want to consider what they’d do if that happened. Even without considering waitlists, her paycheck wouldn’t cover care for both her kids. She couldn’t be a full time parent; she’d learned that on maternity leave. She was a better parent when she balanced her life with a job. But maybe she could do something in the evening? On weekends?

It might be nice to get out of a school. Every time a door slammed, her blood ran ice as she thought, “Oh no, here it is, an active shooter”. Just a week ago there had been that one in Texas. In another week there’d be another one somewhere else. And her state legislature was talking about arming teachers and bringing more resource officers to schools. Yes, please, let’s pack these already stuffed halls with even more overwhelmed and underpaid employees – ooh and let’s arm them!

The copier churned out her papers, and she watched them fluff out to make a stack, her mind running. How about instead they made gun access as difficult as they’d made family planning? How about instead they diverted funds to actual mental health professionals to support students? How about instead they raised the minimum wage? How about instead they closed the pay gap?

Her copies complete, she took in a slow measured breath as the morning bell sounded its three familiar chimes. She shuffled the copious stack into her arms, the cacophonous hallway sounds penetrating the faculty room walls. She sighed as variegated outfits flitted past the doorway window. Unprepared to meet the chaos just yet, she shifted her gaze. There, across the room, the motivational poster taped to the microwave, a trite platitude that had been there for years: Teachers are superheroes!

She scoffed, the comparison raw on her nerves. Superheroes stood on an altruistic pedestal, no need for compensation as they selflessly used their powers for the greater good.

She set down her enormous stack of copies. She wasn’t a superhero. She was an educated woman who was damn good at this impossible job because she worked incredibly hard to be good at it.

And she was tired. So tired of being underpaid and overlooked, unseen and unheard.

In a swift motion, she tore the poster from the microwave, scrunched the paper between her palms and tossed it in the garbage.