The Janitor's Advice

I needed a job. I wanted to teach dance but when a physical education position at a junior high school in Providence, RI became available two months after school began, I took it. I was replacing the teacher described as a tank of a woman, a WAC in WWII, with a booming voice, who spoke Italian fluently—a plus teaching in a mostly Italian neighborhood. I was short, a kid in WWII, spoke no Italian, and, worst of all, my voice at best, could be heard by people closest to me. I was hired on the basis of my resume, over the phone.

There was no orientation. The principal gave me a syllabus created too many years before, told me my supervisor would be visiting within a few weeks, and handed me my teaching schedule. Just before the meeting was over, he said, “I hope your teaching voice is louder than your speaking voice.” 

I left his office feeling overwhelmed. I didn’t want to be teaching physical education. I didn’t want to be in a city where I knew no one. I took the job to get out of New York City, fleeing an abusive relationship. I went into the faculty bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. “You can do this,” I said, out loud, only it wasn’t loud, it was barely a whisper. I tried speaking louder but nothing came out. How was I going to teach kids used to a woman who could holler them into submission? Who, I’d been told, cursed in Italian when she was displeased.

I went to the gym to meet my first class, standing against a side wall. Girls poured in, none of them looking happy. I waited for them to change into gym clothes, then watched as they sat in front of where I should have been standing.

75 girls. Waiting. Why hadn’t the principal warned me I’d be teaching such huge classes. I introduced myself. A girl asked, “Are you checking to see if we take showers?” What? “Our teacher poked her head into the showers to make sure we were wet.”

The idea of checking on shower choices of 75 girls made my head spin. “No,” I squeaked in my voice, made even tinier by nervousness. “If you don’t want to take a shower, that’s up to you.” A girl in the back yelled she couldn’t hear me. I repeated what I’d said but my voice was no louder. How would I teach if no one could hear me?

The syllabus said I had to teach basketball, a sport I wasn’t good at or interested in. How was I going to keep 75 girls involved in a sport that at the time, involved six girls on a team? I noticed the gym had a lot of gymnastic equipment so I divided them up into the number of pieces of equipment and showed them how to use each one. At least I didn’t have to talk much before the period ended. Not every class had 75. The smallest was 22, but each time I met a new group my voice lost more of its not-great-to-begin-with volume. My fear of failure increased exponentially. What if I got fired? I had no money. I was working as a kind of nanny for room and board and a bit of salary until I earned enough to rent a room. 

Lunch period. I was scheduled to be a hall monitor. I didn’t look much older than my students and the boys let me know I was fair game, taunting me as I passed by, threatening/promising to give me a good time. I pretended I didn’t hear, which didn’t help.

By the end of the first day I was exhausted. My voice barely a squeak. Quitting was not an option. I sat in my office, wishing I could disappear when I heard a knock. Opening the door. I saw a man standing beside a cart with cleaning equipment, including a broom and dustpan. I figured he must be the janitor. Why had he come to my office?

I greeted him warily. Wasting no time, he introduced himself. Wasting no time, he told me I needed help. How did he know? Why was a janitor offering to help me? “You have to lower the tone of your voice.” I looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.” He spoke in a voice that sounded like mine, then spoke in a deep tone, authoritative and confident, neither of which I was.

“You’ll be fine if you speak with more authority.” Tell me something I don’t know I thought. Ignoring my lack of enthusiasm, he told me he knew what it was like to have no voice, that he could help me. I didn’t ask what or how he know and he didn’t offer to tell me. “Put your hands on your diaphragm and breathe into it. I did. “Now,” he said, “imagine your voice coming from there.” My imagination wasn’t working. “Look,” he said, “try to make a sound from your diaphragm.” What came out made us both laugh. Better laughing than crying I guess. He kept coaching me, ignoring my squeaks and squawks. He’s a janitor; what does he know? Why does he care?  He kept encouraging me, offering suggestions, until, much to my disbelief, I found the voice he was talking about. I practiced, talking to him as if he were my student, in a voice that was lower, sounding authoritative and confident. When I stopped, too exhausted to keep going, he congratulated me. I thanked him using my new voice.

I expected him to leave, but he continued to stand in front of me, his mouth twitching, as if he were about to laugh. Taking a breath he said, “You have a problem with boys bothering you.”

Shocked, I asked, “How do you know?”

“I see and hear just about everything that goes on in this place. Want some advice?” I nodded, wondering how he could help. “You wear your keys on a metal belt, right?” 

“Yes. So what?” 

“When you walk down the halls, swing your keys on the chain, in big circles.”

“But I might hurt someone.”

He laughed. “If those guys are close enough to be hurt, they’ll learn pretty fast not to mess with you.” I shook my head, amazed at his suggestion. “Oh, and another thing, if you want to release your tension, make strudel.”

“Strudel?”

“Yeah. You have to pound the dough, hard, for as long as it takes for it to blister. After that you’ll be too tired to be tense. Ciao!”  

He was “only” a janitor, but he was right about everything. Speaking with authority gave me a sense of competence. Swinging my metal chain kept the boys in their place. Making the strudel was not only exhausting, it tasted good. 

What unexpected advice helped you face your fear?