The Laughter

Thank goodness that car hit me on the drawbridge in South Haven.  Gosh, I have a hard time even imagining my career without that story, that harrowing tale to share each year as I introduce myself to my 6th and 7th graders.  Retelling that story year after year– each class period, I’ve perfected the telling.  I know just when the kids will be most intrigued, most shocked, and most tickled.  I love, best of all, anticipating their laughter.

I start the story by asking who is familiar with South Haven and who has seen the drawbridge.  They raise their hands and tell me all about day trips to the beach town, camping trips at the Van Buren State Park,  and visits to Sherman’s Dairy.  I have their attention, and I continue the story then by telling them that South Haven is where I grew up and it was the place where I got hit by a car.  They gasp and question in disbelief, “You got hit by a car and LIVED?!?!”  I nod and continue sharing that each day I walked to and from school with friends.  I lived on what was, in the late ’70’s and early ’80’s, the poor side of town, the North Side, and each day’s walk included a trek over that bridge.

One day, while in the 6th grade, I was walking home with one little gaggle of girls, and I spotted another friend walking on the other side of the bridge with a different group.  Impulsively, I stepped off the little sidewalk and began running across the bridge.  I was mid-run when it occurred to me to look both ways.  When I finally did check traffic, it was too late and I saw the car coming right for me.  Here I slow down the story just like the moment moved in slow motion all those years ago.  I look out at my class; they are quiet and still, waiting for me to share the gory details.  I tell them that in the moment I felt I had two choices–try to turn back mid-run or continue moving ahead, hoping I’d beat the car.

At this moment, a few students usually pipe up with what they’d do.  I tell them I took my chances and decided to just try to outrun the car and make it across.  I tell the kids I closed my eyes and rushed forward, but I didn’t make it.   I tell them I’m not really sure if the car hit me or if I ran into the side of the car because my eyes were CLOSED, after all.  The tension of the story is broken, and the kids laugh at the thought of “little me” running into the side of the car with my eyes shut tightly.  They also laugh when I tell them that my friends wailed from the sidewalk, “She’s dead!” as I lay on the pavement for a moment, stunned by being thrown in the air and landing hard on the road.  I share how I thought, “I’m not dead!” and began to get up.  At first it appeared I had no injuries until I felt a sharp pain in my mouth.  When I pulled my hand away from my mouth, I saw all the little white pieces of my front tooth in my palm.  I had chipped my front tooth!

The kids exhale and some even say, “That’s it?  Your only injury was a chipped tooth?”  Clearly they are disappointed, and I seize the opportunity to play this up.  I tell them this is the worst injury because my mom had warned me for years about being careful to not chip my front teeth.  When I jumped from the stool in the pantry with the light chain in my mouth and landed in a crumpled heap, my mother had warned, “That’s the sort of stupid stunt that’s going to chip your tooth!”  When I was whipping my hair back and forth to get maximum volume and inadvertently hit my mouth on the side of the sink, my mom had checked on me and said matter-of-factly, “If you’re not careful, you’re going to chip your tooth!”  The kids begin to understand the enormity of this particular injury.  I continue with the narrative and tell them I started crying and saying, “Oh no, my mom is going to kill me!” over and over.  I share how the driver of the car tried to comfort me by reassuring me my mom would be happy I’m alive. 

The kids, now assured that I’m going to be fine, laugh openly at what the driver must’ve thought.  They laugh at the crazy close call stories of near tooth-chipping.  We laugh through the whole anecdote, and I end the story by reassuring them my mom wasn’t mad at me.  Just like the driver of the car had said, she was just glad I was alive.  The story introduces my students, who are all 11-13 years of age, to 11 year old me, and it lets me hear the humanity in their beautiful laughter. 

Teaching is a rare job, for sure, with its countless opportunities for shared laughter.  My students and I laugh together daily.  My fellow teachers and I laugh through even the toughest of days.  I don’t think other jobs have this very special fringe benefit–the laughter woven through each and every experience.  I’m grateful for this laughter.  It connects us and keeps us young.  Maybe most importantly, it reminds us to find the joy in all the mess that is life. 

Yep, I return to teaching year after year… just for the laughs!