I was somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, and was growing restless because I couldn’t seem to fall asleep despite my exhaustion.

The bearded, middle-aged man sitting next to me didn’t speak a word of English, and had spent the first four hours of the flight buried in his book of Sudoku puzzles.

My tossing and turning must have alerted him to my restlessness, and sensing that something was eating at me, something was on my mind, he put away his Sudoku book, pulled out a sheet of paper, and drew a tic-tac-toe grid.

He passed the grid my way.

We played tic-tac-toe, in silence, for ten minutes — long enough for me to get my mind off things, for me to stop worrying about work, about the future, about my ailing grandma, about friends that I was missing terribly. Stop worrying, at least, for the time being.

After ten minutes, he put away the sheets of paper, and I leaned back into deep slumber.

As we got off the plane and went our separate ways to our connecting flights, I nodded at him. He nodded back — an unspoken, wordless way of acknowledging my thanks.

(Photo by frozenchipmunk.)

At the school across the street from my apartment, half the children are huddled up under the awning near the door, waiting in anticipation to get inside, while the other half are outside, enjoying the light drizzle from the sky as they run around in the playground and await the schoolbell.

Today is the day after Labor Day. Today is the first day back at school.

We all have our memories of back-to-school, full of nervousness and excitement and apprehension and wonder. I can remember getting on the bus and sitting next to Elizabeth on my first day of kindergarten, or sitting next to Jonathan, Joanne, and Tiffany in history class on my first day of sixth grade, or getting picked up by Catia at the airport on the first day of my first year at Pearson.

As students, our first days are often filled with glee and sometimes filled with sadness. They shape the school year ahead, and back-to-school memories become stories we tell in subsequent years as we grow older.

But what about teachers? Is the first day of classes a memorable occasion for them? Do they get nervous, excited — are they unsure of what to expect, like their students?

Last week, I spoke to my friend Aurelia who is entering her fifth year as a third-grade teacher. I asked her about the impending first day of school; she told me she was terrified.

I was intrigued. She had lived through almost twenty back-to-school days as a student, and five as a teacher: how could she be terrified?

“What students don’t realize is that teachers have the same fears, the same nervousness as they do. They want to make a good impression. They want to be seen as interesting and cool, they want to be be saying the right things and be carrying the right accessories. They want to be subject of positive conversation in the schoolyard.”

“As a teacher, a large part of my effectiveness is making sure I can connect to each student and make an impression on each one. We’ve been preparing for weeks — months — for the first day, and the night before, we ask ourselves the same questions the students do: what if the kids in the class don’t like me? What if I say something wrong? What if I mess up and nobody wants to hang out with me at recess?”

“The first day back at school is daunting for teachers too — it’s just that the students don’t know it. But as nervous as you are the night before, you always wake up in the morning knowing one important thing that’s going to help you get through the first day…”

“Today, I’m going to make a difference in a someone’s life.”

(Photo by Joseph Robertson.)

Orange line to New Carrolton, 8:15 on a weekday morning.

The train was already crowded by the time it rolled in to Rosslyn station, full of grumpy commuters in suits, many of whom were quite obvious with their displeasure at having to be crammed into a barely-air-conditioned subway so early in the morning.

Mark was already on the train when I got on, rocking back and forth on his feet, occasionally spinning in place, fidgeting more than the usual antsy morning commuter. Every few seconds, he apologized to someone for bumping into them, but yet, he continued his rocking, his spinning.

Many of the passengers on the train met Mark with stares of disdain; some muttered obscenities and insults. Mark was not oblivious to the reaction he was causing. Still, he continued his uncoordinated dance.

I had seen this behavior before. I grabbed the pen out of my pocket and scribbled one word on my hand and flashed it at Mark:

“Claustrophobic?”

He nodded at me with a small frown on his face.

Another friend of mine had once told me about her way of dealing with her claustrophobia: when forced into crowded spaces, move around so that it looks like you’re making space for yourself — and keep doing it until you’re able to escape the cramped situation. Mark was doing the same thing, while the commuters around him looked at him with scorn, unaware.

At the next stop, I managed to maneuver us both between the crowd so that Mark was positioned between me and the train doors. There, he could move around, sway and spin, without fear of bumping into anyone but me and the doors. We made light conversation about the upcoming baseball playoffs, ignoring the other passengers around us. I rode the extra two stops after my own until he got off, hoping that the small frown I had seen before had finally shaken off while he spun in place in front of me.

(Photo by Rik Koenig.)