Publisher's Prompt: Write About a Series of Mishaps

MISS HAPS

Miss Haps always started her first period class by dropping something. Sometimes she dropped a text book, sometimes a piece of chalk, and sometimes a tissue that she always kept tucked into her sleeve for her ever-runny nose.

Her students were used to their perpetually-dropping teacher. Whenever an earthquake drill would take place, commonly referred to as a “drop drill”, they would laugh and shout out things like, “Hey, Miss Haps- this is your kind of drill!” Or when the series of short bells would go off, they would say, “Under the desks everybody, we’re having a Miss Haps drill!”

They would say these things with a smile and affection, for they loved their teacher and they found her dropping habit endearing.

Miss Haps good-naturedly accepted her students’ rubs, for she knew that they weren’t criticizing or making fun of her- well, at least not making fun of her in a demeaning way.

During passing periods, on her way to grab a cup of coffee or to make copies of lesson plans, Miss Haps always tripped in the hallway. Sometimes there would be a sticky place on the floor that would catch one foot and make her lose her balance, or she’d trip on one of the stairs in the stairwell, usually as she was going up, but sometimes as she was coming down. And sometimes, she’d just trip over her own feet.

Some faculty members passing through the hallways would roll their eyes, not in an unkind way, just in a “there she goes again” way, while others would rush to help her, concerned that she might have hurt herself. The students who were passing through the hallways just would yell things out like, “Taking another trip, Miss Haps?” “You’re a real trip, Miss Haps!” And Miss Haps would just smile, and sometimes blush, and wave them off knowing that her students were just giving her a good-natured tease.

In the cafeteria at lunchtime, Miss Haps never failed to drip spaghetti sauce down her chin and onto her blouse, or knock over a container of milk, spilling it across the table, or to open a bag of chips, only to have them burst out of the bag and fly in ten different directions.

The kitchen workers would let out sighs, grab a wet cloth, a broom, or a mop, and with affable irritation (if there is such a thing), clean up yet another mess. While the lunching students would yell things out like, “Don’t cry over spilled milk, Miss Haps!” “Don’t worry, Miss Haps- just let the chips fall where they may!” And Miss Haps would just blot the sides of her mouth with her napkin, and smile a half-way-embarrassed grin at her silly foibles.

But that was just how Miss Haps was: all-thumbs, with two left feet, and a bit ham-fisted. Every day brought a new series of spills, tumbles, plunges and plummets. And it didn’t matter. Because for all her klutziness and clumsiness, Miss Haps had an inner grace. Her students knew it, the faculty knew it, and even the kitchen workers knew it. But most importantly, Miss Haps knew it. She made mistakes, and took missteps, but perhaps that was just so she could be an example for her students and co-workers. To have grace, you also have to be a little bit ungraceful- and accepting that about yourself, means that you accept your humanness. When you accept your humanness, you give others permission to accept theirs. And because of that, Miss Haps was one great teacher.