ALOE FOR THAT BURN

I have a gazillion aloe plants on my windowsill at school. Okay, maybe not that many, but at least a dozen.

Last year a trio of students gave our entire grade-level team aloe plants. One each. In containers. Strict instructions: "Let your plant dry out completely then water generously. Watering should occur once every two weeks."

Perfect! The only plants I have been able to keep alive are pothos. They'll grow if you just look at them. "Forgetting" to water a plant except every two weeks? Now, here's a plant that can live (and I do mean "stay alive") with me!

Not only does it stay alive, it reproduces. And reproduces a lot. Apparently, aloe is the rabbit version of the plant world. 

I spend an afternoon repotting the babies of all of my plants (pothos and aloe) so that I can take them to school with me. I have to use hole-less containers because heaven forbid any water gets on the windowsills at school! I'd never hear the end of that taxpayer fiasco.

It takes several shopping bags to gently transport my newly replanted babies to work. So much trauma over the course of twenty-four hours between new bowl digs and then new sunny digs. My classroom faces the sun pretty much all day. It rises to my left and sets to my right, so my three giant windows at school are terrific for plants (and, to be realistic but morbid, perfect for random target practice from the woods).

Eventually, when I'm certain that the plants have survived my non-green thumb, I might give them away to others. But, for now, they are enjoying the excess carbon dioxide in the room dominated by tweens and young teenagers who simply cannot, will not, and should not keep their mouths shut. If we suddenly have a mass outbreak of cuts, sores, or skinned knees, I have enough fresh aloe available to soothe whatever ails all of them.

In the meantime, I am decorating the rest of the windowsill with little random items: A Bob Ross figurine that talks, a solar-powered Queen Elizabeth and one of her corgis, inspirational signs that say things like "I don't like morning people. Or mornings. Or people." I've moved my desk across the room so that I am sitting directly in front of the window and my plants, which makes me somewhat happy all day long. Maybe I'll add battery-powered fairy lights, too. 

A couple of years ago, someone complained about my inspirational posters. Yes, the ones anyone can buy at a card store or a teacher supply store. My empowering, positive messages actually offended someone, so I ripped them all off the walls, taking fresh paint with me because I was so perturbed. I am taking this new phase of my teaching encampment as a hopeful sign. Plants today? Maybe, just maybe, I'll wish someone a nice day. Maybe.

I don't want to push my luck. But, if I do, I'll add some aloe to the burn. That, in and of itself, is progress.