Terry the Desert Tortoise arrived in my tenth grade English classroom by way of my ex-girlfriend’s dead grandmother, a sun-leathered Mojave-living amateur witch. From the three times I had lunch with her prior to her death, she scried something that inspired her to bequeath me her final pet when she went up to the big smoking lounge in the sky.
There was no inheritance dispute; every other relative had been hoping Terry would pass them by. No one wanted a twenty-five pound tortoise who was only thirty years into his eighty year lifespan. I didn’t want him either. But things were rocky between me and Mackenzie, and I thought taking a stand for commitment, responsibility, caregiving, etcetera would be good.
We broke up six months later. I won’t get into details; it was thoroughly my fault. Which was why I decamped our shared two bedroom for a studio, the only apartment that would rent to me furnished on such short notice. It had a strict no-pet policy.
“Could you make an exception for a large desert tortoise?” I asked my landlord.
“Absolutely not.”
This was August. I fired off a panicked email to my department chair, detailing an exciting Writing the American Desert unit I’d dreamed up: Claire Vaye Watkins, Edward Abbey, Joy Harjo, um um Cormac McCarthy? That Didion essay about a murder in San Bernardino? At the bottom, I mentioned my idea of keeping a desert tortoise as a classroom pet? Which wasn’t really a thing in high schools but maybe worth thinking about in the name of experiential learning? And might even help set our small private school apart from the excellent local public schools? Or something? And also could she please pass this along for approval ASAP, especially the bit about the tortoise? Please?
The good and bad part of going through a life crisis as a teacher is that, for five forty-eight minute periods a day, five days a week, it has to be ok. So on the first day of school I smile through a vicious hangover to greet my tenth graders by name. The only end of summer ritual I’ve come to enjoy is memorizing a new roster of names and faces, then seeing those faces come to life from last year’s school pictures. Hard-baked tans, fresh piercings, dyed hair, fuzzy beards sprouted overnight.
Even with these mini-transformations, it’s easy to recognize Elijah from when I caught him vaping in the bathroom last year. There’s Adrienne; Cathy warned me about her. I’ve got Emma in my third period class, and according to Mike, she’s the smartest kid in the grade. I can smell Axe, which I didn’t know anyone still wore, and too much cloying perfume, and impossible-to-hide sweat.
Over the course of the day, I introduce myself five times and read through the class policies five times. Five times I highlight the Desert Stories unit, whittled down to a poem by Joy Harjo, an essay by Claire Vaye Watkins, and a Cormac McCarthy excerpt expertly culled to the absolute bare minimum of severed body parts.
Five times I guide the class to the back of the room, where they huddle around Terry’s terrarium. He stares at us through beady eyes, probably knowing by fifth period I’m going to feed him some lettuce so the kids can see his beak in action. Allie says Terry’s legs look like an elephant’s, Justin says Terry’s tail is stumpy, Olivia says Terry looks like he’s a million years old, and they’re all right. They’re alright. I mention how long Terry will live, that Terry and I are the same age. Adrienne sarcastically promises to take care of him after I die. I think she means it, though.
The final activity of each class is a journaling exercise. It’s a simple prompt: What are your goals for the year? Keyboards clack, pencils scratch, and these are my favorite moments as a teacher, when I can just fade into the background. Especially today, the first day of a new year, when everyone’s trying so hard to be good. I’m trying too, so I start writing.
My goal for the year is to teach without crying. My goal for the year is to keep Terry alive. My goal for the year is to remember we start over in September, again and again and again.
