Bearly Hanging On: My Final Week as Principal

This column is a series of fiction stories inspired by reality. We publish short stories written by teachers each week.

If anyone ever tells you elementary principals, have it easy in May, they’ve never tried to corral 600 sugar-charged children through Field Day, an awards ceremony, end-of-year testing, and a surprise visit from a full-grown black bear — all before 3:00 p.m.

It all started like any other last week of school morning in May in Kentucky. The sun was already heating up the blacktop behind Lauderdale Elementary School*, Coach Trujillo*, and at 7:00 a.m., he was inflating dodgeballs like his life depended on it. The cafeteria staff had proudly laid out 200 Capri Suns like they were pouring mint juleps at the Derby.

Thursday: Field Day Chaos

Field Day kicked off at 8:15 sharp. Coach Trujillo* shouted into his megaphone like he was directing troops at Normandy Beach:

“Let’s go, Panthers! Hydrate or evacuate!”

Kindergarteners waddled toward the water balloon station like joyful ducklings. Fifth graders prepped for tug-of-war like they were going to war. My teachers were giving their classes their best pep talks to make sure they won their selective competitions. Meanwhile, I was trying to locate two lost walkie-talkies and an entire bin of hula hoops that somehow vanished overnight.

“Principal J!” yelled little Jason from first grade. “Emily ate the blue popsicle and now her tongue looks like a Smurf butt!”

Emily grinned proudly, blue-faced, as I sighed and radioed the nurse.

Over at the parachute station, Coach tried to run the classic “mushroom dome” game. But as soon as the kids launched the parachute, a gust of wind caught it and sent it tumbling across the blacktop like a UFO trying to escape the hot summer air.

By 11:30 a.m., two children had puked from excitement, one had a Band-Aid on every limb (no real injuries, just drama), and the fifth-grade girls had staged a protest because the boys wouldn’t let them DJ the musical chairs playlist.

I ducked into the front office for 30 seconds of peace when my secretary, Ms. Georgia, said:

“You have twelve parent voicemails. One’s mad we didn’t serve gluten-free popsicles.”

Perfect.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into snow cones, spilled juice, and one very confused substitute trying to figure out if he was supervising sack races or just existing nearby.

When the last bus pulled out, I dropped into my chair and whispered to myself:

“One more day. One. More. Day.”

Friday: The Bear Necessities

Friday started quietly. Suspiciously quietly. The kids were tired from Field Day, teachers were giving out goody bags like Oprah, and the biggest drama before noon was a heated Uno tournament in the media center.

At 12:47 p.m., just as I was microwaving my sad little Lean Cuisine, Coach Trujillo’s voice crackled over the walkie:

“Uh, Principal Johnson… we’ve have a Bear here.”

I froze. “A new student or a BEAR?”

Coach Trujillo voice crackled.“A Bear. BIG one. Walking behind the gym like he’s late for dismissal.”

I dropped my fork.

Seconds later, the school buzzed like a kicked beehive. Kids pressed their faces to the glass, yelling, “IT’S A BEAR! IT’S A REAL BEAR!” Teachers were trying to close blinds while simultaneously filming on their phones.

As I walked the hallways to ensure all outside doors were secured, the excitement and fear were palpable.

Ms. Franklin from 2nd grade whispered, “Do we need to shelter in place or can we just shelter in spirit?”

All I could think about was the Bear getting into the school and me having to decide whether to fight the bear with my walkie-talkie or run.

I decided to put the school on hard lockdown- no movement, everyone stays in their classrooms.

I hopped on the intercom:

“Attention staff and students. Please remain in your classrooms and do not approach any windows. Yes, we are aware of the bear. No, this is not a drill. Also, no, you may not name him.”

Fish and Wildlife was called. One brave dad (who works for animal control) showed up in Crocs and a fishing net, looking ready to fight the thing himself.

Meanwhile, I had 40 missed calls from parents asking:

“Is the bear inside the building?”
“Can I still pick up early?”
“Did the bear come from a zoo or just… the woods?”

While my front office staff manned the phone calls, I was able to draft and schedule a parent notification letter, basically telling our parents we would not dismiss until the bear was gone and not to come to the school.

By 2:40 p.m., the bear wandered back into the woods like he had other elementary schools to visit. The buses rolled in at 2:50, and with the grace of a NASCAR pit crew, we got every child loaded safely without a single bear sighting near the parking lot by 3:20.

One kid yelled from the window:

“BYE, BEAR! LOVE YOU!”

Friday Night: Bourbon and Inbox Doom

At 5:58 p.m., I finally walked through my front door, purse on one arm, Chromebook under the other, my shoes in hand. I collapsed onto my couch and stared at the ceiling like I had just survived a three-act opera.

My inbox showed 298 unread emails from parents (who didn’t have the right phone numbers for Infinite Campus) who accused me of lying about the Bear incident.
My GroupMe had 84 unread messages from my colleagues at other schools asking for pictures of the bear or asking me to send my parent’s draft letter to them in case the bear showed up on their campuses.
My body had given up.

I kicked off my shoes, changed into fuzzy socks, and poured a glass of bourbon — neat, because I earned it.

I took a long, quiet sip and thought:

“Field Day. Bear. Testing Results.Emails.”

Then I raised my glass and whispered:

“God bless the public school system and the people who run it.”

And may no bears ever find our bus loop again.

*The names and places in this story have been changed.