"Men get all the breaks!" the veteran   teacher announced to me. A cold greeting. Her stare stabbed like an icicle  . "Hello," I countered, extending my hand. "I guess we'll be teaching together this year." "I swear, all you have to do is wear pants and walk into an elementary school and they hire you! It makes me sick!" I would have responded, but she turned her back to me and stomped off down the hall. Who would have imagined that the biggest challenge I would face during my first year on the job would not be students, but fellow teachers? "You can't put that there!" Another teacher burst into my classroom. "You can't put the teacher's desk at the back of the room!" "Pardon?" "If you put your desk way back there, you won't be able to see them cheating!" Next I was told I must not arrange student desks into abutting clusters because "the students might talk too much." At home my wife kept assuring me, "You're there for the kids. When you meet your students, things will be different." And she was right. One day the bell rang and there were thirty-five wonderful sixth graders sitting at their desks (still arranged in clusters) and it was different. I was happy. "Welcome to sixth grade." I began the year as I'd rehearsed for months. "You'll notice," I continued, "my desk is at the back of the room." They chuckled. "I don't want that desk between us. I want to be involved in your learning and involved in your lives." In the days that followed, I ate with my students at lunch (" _ "); I played with my students at recess (" _ "); I read with my students in the library (" _ "); I even stayed after school with some boys who got in trouble with the principal (" _ "). I went home to my wife. "Don't worry," she said. "They're just threatened by you because you're new and you're good. Let the other teachers know you're not a threat. Just keep being nice to them." Obediently, I pulled out the Golden Rule, dusted it off, and vowed to start again. As I did with the children, I started looking for specific, positive things I could build upon and reinforce sincerely in my colleagues: "Nice job on the announcements this morning!" "Wow! I like that worksheet you made up." "Man, your kids walked down the hall so quietly." "I heard your class singing great songs. You do a super job with music!" "I like your bulletin board," I said to Mrs. Icicle Eyes. "Really?" she asked. "It's just the same old thing I put up every year." She reached out and straightened a sagging border. Then, not unlike one of my students, she added, "Do you really like it?" "Yes," I answered firmly. As sure as sun beams, the Golden Rule was shining, and things were finally warming up. That very afternoon, a few parents went to the principal's office asking if their sixth graders could be moved into my class. Of course the students were not transferred, but when the grapevine circulated the request, up went the old barbed wire fence. Complete with machine guns. I continued to do the best job I could. I worked. I taught. I cared. I waited for a breakthrough moment. Months passed. It was lunch recess. I asked a boy walking down the hall. "Have you seen Mrs. So-and-So?" I was, in fact, searching for Mrs. Icicle Eyes. I needed to consult with her. Grinning, he came toward me as if sharing a secret. "She's outside shooting baskets with the girls!" "She's playing basketball with the girls?" I asked incredulously. "Yeah," he nodded. I smiled. I didn't say another word. But my smile inside was even bigger than the one on my face. What was the Golden Rule the writer followed?
He should encourage the students as much as possible. He should separate his colleagues into friends and enemies. He should adopt a positive attitude toward his teaching career. He should learn to appreciate the shining points in people around him.