Dave is a retired teacher who taught language arts to special needs students in Arizona for 39 years. He now resides in California, writing poems and short stories for children and grown-ups. "A Teachable Moment That Became a Disaster Movie" is in Short Circuit #15, Short Édition's quarterly review.
There is a large box in the custodian's office in the elementary school where I work. It is labeled "for lizards only." It has never been used to catch a lizard. Or anything else, for that matter. But if a lizard ever makes its way into the school, I'll be ready.
Unlike the last time.
I am a noon-duty aide at the elementary school which is three blocks from my house in Upland, California. I was retired from teaching for two years when I started missing the kids, teachers, and the general school vibe. So, I applied for the noon-duty aide position and was hired on the spot.
The walkie-talkie I wear during my midday shift chatters constantly with requests from the front office staff. They are typically mundane things like: "Mr. Dave, we need paper towels in the kindergarten classroom. Mr. Dave, there's a spill in the cafeteria Mr. Dave the copy machine is jammed."
But the call I got one morning was unlike any other I had ever gotten.
"Mr. Dave, there's a lizard in Ms. Yang's classroom."
Perplexed not only by the call but by what I was expected to do about it, I flippantly responded,
"That's cool."
"Ms. Yang is terrified of lizards."
"Oh."
So, off I went to Ms. Yang's classroom.
It was quiet when I entered, which is unusual for first grade classrooms. Ms. Yang sat at the front of the room, gripping the sides of her desk, struggling to look calm. The children, sensing their teacher's discomfort, sat silently, solemnly staring straight ahead as if any movement might provoke dire circumstances.
I surveyed the room and found the reptilian culprit cowering in the corner.
"Aha," I thought to myself, "a teachable moment."
Fortunately, my eight-year-old granddaughter—who has a fascination for all things slimy—had educated me about snakes, lizards, turtles, and such.
"Ok, kids," I cheerfully remarked, slipping into teacher mode. "First off, there's nothing to be scared about. This is a western fence lizard, commonly called the blue belly lizard because of its blue underside. They eat insects and are completely harmless."
I could see the kids starting to relax a little as they strained to see the lizard. Ms. Yang loosened her grip on the desk.
"The blue belly lizard grows to about eight inches long, head to tail, which appears to be how big this guy is. Right now, he's more scared of you than you are of him."
Some of the children laughed, clearly beginning to enjoy the show. Ms. Yang smiled weakly.
"Now, typically," I continued, relishing the rapt attention of the class, "I would gently herd this little guy toward the door. But . . ." and at this I paused, letting the suspense build, "but I think just this once, I'll try to catch Mr. Blue Belly so you can look at him up close."
Oohs and ahhs filled the classroom.
Ms. Yang nodded her approval, clearly impressed by my confidence, knowledge, and skill.
She was about to be disappointed.
"Everyone quiet now," I whispered as I crept toward the lizard. "Just a little closer. A little closer. Almost there . . ."
The children gasped as I lunged toward the lizard, who only just realized what was happening and tried to scurry away. I blocked his attempts to escape with my right foot, swung my left arm down low, and snatched the hapless lizard up by the tail.
The class erupted in applause and laughter.
"And that," I announced triumphantly, holding the lizard up so everyone could see him, "is how you catch old Mr. Blue Belly!"
And then something happened that changed everything.
If you were around in the 70s like I was, you probably remember the spate of disaster movies that came out in that decade. They dealt with all kinds of terrifying scenarios—everything from nuclear disasters to invasive species infecting mankind to ocean liners sinking to . . . well, you get the idea.
This was worse.
Mr. Blue Belly did not understand or appreciate my teachable moment. That's because as far as he was concerned, I was a predator—a very large predator who had just snatched him up by the tail, leaving him dangling helplessly in midair. And so, Mr. Blue Belly did what any resourceful lizard would do in such an uncompromising situation.
He disconnected himself from his tail.
And just like that, I was standing before a classroom of screaming first graders, holding the flip-flopping tail of a lizard—a lizard who had just executed an Olympic-style dismount and was now slithering his way across the classroom, scattering children to the left and right like Moses's parting of the Red Sea.
Mr. Blue Belly escaped, thankfully, through the back door and skittered off into a grassy area behind the school where he could, no doubt, begin to generate a new tail.
I skittered off, too, to the safety of the staff lounge, where I quietly disposed of the still twitching lizard tail.
And that is why there is a box in the custodian's office that reads "for lizards only." There will be no repeat of my little safari, no attempt to capture stray snakes, frogs, lizards, or any other intruders from the outside world and conduct impromptu lessons in front of impressionable first graders.
Because as far as "teachable moments" go, I've had mine. It occurred when nature put me in my place, courtesy of a western fence lizard by the name of Mr. Blue Belly.