“First, you need the juice pot.”
I stood there in my oversized 5K t-shirt and purple running shorts anxiously trying to take in every detail as my tutor slammed a lopsided metal pot onto the metal counter with a menacing clang. I was here to carry on the prestigious tradition of the Camp Roger juiceman. And I wasn’t going to miss a single detail.
“Next you take the concentrate, and slosh it into the pot. Then add water, until it tastes good.”
I awaited the next instruction; it never came. That was it. That was all the instructions I was going to get. There was no measuring, no precision whatsoever. I just had to wake up every single morning, make it up, and hope it tasted half decent.
I still feel like that most mornings, as the minutes tick closer to 8:02 and I will have to present my new and made-up lesson to the unforgiving middle school eye. I dumped in some contents from the book, and added questions and activities until it seemed like something children might glean meaning from.
Every morning as I scuffled around the kitchen in my grandpa’s trucker hat, I made my coworker Nick taste my juice concoction. Over and over and over again. No matter how little sleep he had gotten the night before, no matter what eggs he was supposed to be stirring on the stove, no matter what Spongebob episode he wanted to relate word for word, he would patiently taste the concentrate and tell me how bad it was.
I loved every single sunrise-soaked second of those mornings. I would take my place at the front counter of the kitchen and spread out my work station: misshapen pot, empty pitcher, Dixie cups. I would pour, stir, taste, and repeat. As I cycled through the imprecise recipe, I would survey my territory. A sea of empty tables that would soon be filled with dozens of campers ready for a new day. And at every single seat would be a cup mixed, poured, and placed by me.
It was my gift to every person every morning. An hour and a half of work to gift each person a personalized Dixie cup full of haphazardly diluted juice concentrate. I would cross my fingers for a compliment on the particular quality of my mixing each day.
When my students walk in the door tomorrow morning, I hope to channel that joy. The joy of imperfect care bestowed lovingly upon another human.
I treasure my legacy as a juiceman. It was hard to pass on the job to another eighteen-year-old the next summer. I hoped they would take the beauty just as seriously. Some mornings I would cry for the chance to mix concentrate in that ugly, ugly pot one last time.
Susannah currently lives in New Jersey and works as a 7th grade ELA teacher in East Harlem. When she is not teaching or writing, she can be found exploring independent bookstores, going backpacking, and trying to roller-skate on all the cool trails in the city. She is also recently experienced in the art of citrus skunk repellent (I know you’re impressed).
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Dope- your student
Hey, fellow teacher.
1. The juice always turned out great. (Or at least good enough.)
2. Keep making it and dishing it out.
Glad to have you in the profession.