Matt Kindelmann

Chalk it up to naivety, but when I was an undergrad I assumed the field of education was as wholesome as the milk the schools sold in their cafeterias. I soon learned that behind the polished apple facade, a job in education is no different from working in a lumberyard or a car dealership or a diner. If somebody in a higher position doesn’t like you, no matter the reason, the waters can get choppy for you.

I felt the slings and arrows during one of my first job interviews. It was late August 1997, 2 days after I returned from my month-long cross-country road trip. My bushy hair was trimmed, my whiskers were shaved, and I was wearing the new suit my parents had bought me as a good luck gift as I enter the next chapter of my life. I was waiting to be interviewed for a part-time leave replacement for a middle school reading teacher, which was not my dream job, but it was a foot in the door. My uncle was an assistant principal in one of the district’s high schools and told me about the opening.

A petite woman in a pant suit with epaulets was also waiting for an interview of the outside the office. I overheard her making small talk with the secretary, commenting that she was “a product of the district” and acting like this was a formality for her. She was older than I and clearly very comfortable with the interview process. She introduced herself and didn’t miss a beat when I said my last name. 

“Ah, nepotism,” she shot back with a condescending smile and in a voice loud enough for the secretary to raise her head from the typewriter. When I was called into the office, she turned to me and with her tongue planted firmly in her cheek, wished me good luck. 

“Must be nice when your dad has pull,” she said.

“My father sells windows and doors,” I said as I arose and walked into the office.

Mr. R the interviewer was a slight man with a collection of degrees proudly displayed behind him on the wall. He sat behind his dwarfing desk and scanned my resume as if looking for a keyword on which to pounce.

“So,” he said with an emerging grin. “Stoneonta. You went to school at Stoneonta.” He was clearly mocking Oneonta State, the school where I had proudly earned my degree. Taken aback with his unprofessionalism, I wondered why he’d insult me ten seconds after meeting me. I still had a lot to learn about my field, but I knew enough to display decorum. 

“Yes, Oneonta State,” I said. I enunciated my alma mater clearly. “I received a fine education there.”

“Yep. Stoneonta,” he repeated. There was a pause. His smirk intensified and he removed his reading glasses to better read my face. I kept my synthetic smile, but felt my cheeks redden. Satisfied when I didn’t correct him again, he replaced his specs and plowed through his textbook interview questions and I answered with the responses that I learned in those education classes at Oneonta. 

When I returned to my parents’ house an hour later, my uncle called me and asked why I didn’t head over to the middle school for the next step of the interview like Mr R directed me to do. What? I assured my uncle that Mr R never told me anything about that. I hung on every word the man said, I reported. I hightailed it to the middle school for the second half of the interview where I was flustered and apologetic. Epaulets eventually got the job. 

I began subbing in the district a few weeks later. The gig was not tenure tracked, it didn’t offer health benefits, and it paid peanuts. It was thankless drudgery for the most part with many snobby teachers and entitled kids. By spring there was an opening for an English teaching position for the following fall and Mr R granted me an opportunity to teach a demo lesson of a specific Robert Frost poem to a class. Unfortunately, it was scheduled during 9th period on the Friday before spring break. Undeterred, I rose to the challenge, memorizing the work, writing up extensive notes, constructing a cardboard display, and even finding a recording of Frost reciting the poem from the library. I was hell-bent to show what this teacher from Oneonta could do. 

I had to take the day off (without pay) to be sure to get to the demo lesson on time. Two hours before I was to teach I was practicing my lesson in front of the mirror in my apartment when Mr R called to tell me that he had told me the wrong poem. “My apologies,” he said with a hint of humor. I was deflated, but with the clock ticking, I rallied and punched out a new lesson plan on my typewriter. I taught the poem to teenagers who, though they liked my lesson and participated, were clearly and understandably more interested in their forthcoming spring break flights to Florida. Near the end of my lesson I noticed Mr R and the classroom teacher jovially chit chatting in whispers in the back of the room as loud yellow diesel buses idled outside the window.

After teaching summer school, I landed a full-time job in Brooklyn that September and waited on tables to make ends meet. Mr R called me one night and without so much as a greeting, cut to the chase. He needed someone to teach English for a few weeks as an immediate temporary replacement. I sensed the urgency in his voice.

“It’s for about a month. Standard $75 a day. I am going to need you to -”

“I now work for the New York City Board of Education, “ I said, cutting him off. “I can’t help you there.” Oneonta State popped into my head, as did the memory of my speeding on the Northern State Parkway to get to that second interview he purposely never told me about. I thought of his smirk and lines from that Robert Frost poem I never had the opportunity to teach.

“My apologies,” I said with an inauthentic sigh. For a second, I thought about suggesting Epaulets for the job, but decided to stay on the high road. I was beaming when I hung up and it was the most delicious interruption I had ever experienced.