After Accreditation, Now What? A New Teacher’s Story

After the simple and heartfelt graduation at the teacher accreditation in April in Aston, Pennsylvania, I linger a bit to say my goodbyes; place the single white rose each has been given by Alba in the side pocket of my computer bag; and make my way back to Philadelphia to board a local bus that will take me home to Asbury Park, New Jersey.

By car, the trip is 90 minutes. The bus takes a whopping four hours. I love this ride because it keeps the experience of the accreditation with me awhile longer.

At each small New Jersey town, the bus becomes the town’s local bus, as it detours to the shopping mall, hospital (including a Veteran’s Administration site), a military base, and Fort Dix; twice, the bus loops around nearby community colleges.

I’m keenly interested in who boards, and this day I see each passenger as a prospective T’ai Chi Chih student. A mother gets on with two children, but before they climb aboard, she deftly opens the cargo hold, herself, and lifts in a child’s red wagon, with a huge laundry bag affixed to it. Fifteen minutes later, she does this in reverse, as one of her little girls waves goodbye to the entire bus. Wouldn’t a mother living in a rural town without a car and two kids in tow, be well served by the moving meditation that is TCC?

At both community colleges, only one or two students get on, textbooks still open in their hands. I wonder if it could be possible to visit both colleges in a single day? At a drug and alcohol rehab, a man and woman (whom I’m certain look much older than they should), laugh hysterically trying to stand up as the bus pulls to the side of the road. They are drunk. The woman falls onto the seat next to me, and I grab the rose out of my bag, just in time to keep it from being crushed, then watch in amazement as they make it off the bus without mishap. I’m thinking now about a TCC group at the rehab centers not far from the bus route. You can see where I’m headed; no doubt you recognize the eagerness of a new teacher.

For the entire trip, there is always somebody sitting up front talking to the bus driver, and when that passenger gets off at their stop, another passenger immediately moves to the front seat and begins a conversation with the driver. I empathize; it’s like my own therapy office. This happens without fail at every stop, through towns with names like Mt. Laurel, Brick, and Point Pleasant Beach, seventeen stops in all. Twenty minutes before our final destination, I’ve pinned my hopes on the bus driver, and I dutifully take my turn on the seat next to him.

I learn that he’s been driving this route for ten years, and that he has a twenty-minute break before heading back to Philadelphia. I imagine the two of us standing outside the Asbury Park Transportation Center, doing Bird Flaps Its Wings, and wondering how the other drivers might react, and I picture a group of drivers in a circle following along, while their buses idle nearby. A long line of passengers breaks into a beautifully choreographed set of Working the Pulley.

Three weeks go by. I’m surprised and dismayed that my enthusiasm begins to wane. It’s fear. Plain and simple. Each morning practice seems to bring up the question: “Where and when are you going to teach?”

It is now nearly two months after the accreditation. I find myself chatting with my barber, while he cuts my hair. He is the owner of this busiest and hippest barbershop in town, and, I find myself turning the conversation to TCC. A thriving community gathers regularly at the shop. Like him, a lot of them are surfers.

A couple of weeks later, and my barber is now a weekly student. As I hoped a surfer would be, he’s a natural, and his weight shifts are wonderful to behold. I’m picturing a shop full of barbers doing their TCC practice, first thing in the morning, before opening for business, and there’s me at the front, with my new group of passengers, heading out on a new journey.