A much-anticipated field trip doesn’t go as planned.
As a poet, musician, and lover of art, I have always strived to bring artistic opportunities into my life and into my classrooms. Whether they’re creating watercolor renditions of Emily Dickinson poems or acting out scenes from Julius Caesar, students revel in hands-on artsy activities. Some of their most meaningful school experiences revolve around the arts — especially if they get to venture outside the classroom to experience it.
At the dawn of the new teaching year in 1987, I decided to take the whole sophomore class to see a play in Minneapolis featuring a number of short stories that were part of our curriculum. Many of these St. Paulites (especially the West Siders, many of them Latinx) had never been to Minneapolis. Picturing excited students basking in the cityscape as they headed to the historical Orpheum Theater, I eagerly dialed the phone number from the play flyer, booked the show, and arranged lunch reservations at the Nankin, a landmark Chinese restaurant. This would be both an artistic and a culinary adventure.
As October neared, the students were loving Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Monkey’s Paw” by W.W. Jacobs, Guy de Maupassant’s “The Necklace,” and Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” I had every reason to believe they were ready to see their reading brought to life.
However, events outside of school sometimes interrupt a teacher’s best-laid plans. This occurred in October 1987 when the Minnesota Twins defeated the St. Louis Cardinals by one game in the World Series. On Monday, the win was on everyone’s mind, and we were looking forward to a great week — a victory to celebrate and a field trip on Thursday!
An unexpected celebration
As I drove into the school parking lot on field trip day, WCCO radio announced a parade honoring the World Series win, starting in St. Paul and wending down I-94 into Minneapolis. When I entered the front door, I ran into principal Devine, who informed me that he had made a unilateral decision to dismiss the whole school that day so students could go to the celebration! Like the murderer’s heart in Poe’s mystery, my own heart began to pound. Could I cancel the field trip? An impossibility. The buses were due at 10 a.m. sharp, the students had bought tickets, and the show was still on, restaurant reservations made. First bell rang.
The students had embraced the idea of this trip, but now the parade was falling on the same day! One chaperone, Mr. Walsh, came to me right before departure and gave me the I-am-sorry-but-I-cannot-go-because-I-have-to-take-care-of-my-sick-wife speech. The principal arbitrated, speaking of obligation, duty. Feeling a slight headache, I heard the buses rolling up. The students shuffled their feet as they boarded, heads down. I tried not to hear, “This sucks!” and “Odio mi escuela!” and “This is SO not fair!”
Ninety-eight pissed-off sophomores and three harried chaperones neared Minneapolis. Because streets had been cordoned off for the parade, the bus drivers couldn’t get to the front of the Orpheum to drop us off. Cars jammed the streets, as fans in pinstripes and ball caps began to gather. We circled and circled until the drivers, spotting a clear curbside, dropped us off near some porn shops and seedy bars, three blocks from our destination. Two homeless men sat on the street, one drinking from a paper bag. Some men approached two girls, engaging them in conversation, harassing them: “Looking good, girly. What’s your name? Where are you going?” Maria Ramirez flipped her hair and flirted with a tall youth. I ran back and forth along the sidewalk, ushering students to the theater while they stepped over broken bottles and puddles of urine.
The show goes on
The students settled into the velvety seats, reading programs. The show was delayed for 20 minutes, no doubt to give patrons time to make their way through the traffic. Soon, the lights dimmed, and the curtain parted. First up, “The Tell-Tale Heart.” The actors were very animated and dramatic, the lighting and sound effects mesmerizing. After the monomaniacal narrator screamed his final words, “The Necklace” was dramatized. This production moved a bit slower.
Glancing around, I noticed empty seats where students had been sitting. Thinking they had gone to the restroom, I gave it no second thought until I saw a few others, ducking down, leaving via side aisles. After the second performance, I slipped away to the restrooms where I caught three girls in the last stall, smoke billowing all around. Anita Saucedo stubbed a cigarette out on her shoe. Sticking my head out of the Orpheum front doors, I spied six students loitering on the corner, trying to blend in. Sprinting down the sidewalk, I led them back. Mrs. Wasko, another chaperone, ran after two other groups of escapees during “The Celebrated Frog.” I don’t even remember “A Monkey’s Paw,” what with all the chasing. After yet another foray outside, I spotted Paco Contreras and three friends amid the Twins’ fans. I also realized I had not seen Mr. Walsh for some time. Mrs. Wasko and I spent the rest of the show standing by the doors, preventing any more breaks.
An incomplete lunch
As the performers took a final bow, the students halfheartedly clapped. Time to fight the crowds for our Nankin lunch. Exiting the theater, we plowed through mobs of fans screaming and cheering, blowing horns, surging toward the street to glimpse their heroes. Like border collies, we three chaperones — Mr. Walsh having suddenly reappeared — nudged, snapped, and snarled whenever our charges strayed from the herd.
When we finally arrived at the restaurant, the maitre d’s seemed befuddled by the large group. They had assumed we wouldn’t come because of the celebration. Undaunted and hungry, we sat down anyway. After 15 minutes, two waitresses finally emerged from a back room, bearing menus and filling a few water glasses. After 10 more minutes passed, the waitresses took orders, continually glancing toward the windows, where they could see the parade was in full swing. While waiting, students pressed their noses to the windows, watching the churning crowd.
By 1 p.m., an hour after our initial reservation, we still hadn’t been served. The students talked loudly, threw napkins and paper, and blew bubbles in their Cokes, whining about slow service and being stuck here.
By this time, I had given up disciplining the students. I could understand their frustration with the situation, and my main goal was just to get everyone fed and get them home. When a waitress told us the City Center, a nearby mall, had to be evacuated because the upper floor was in danger of collapsing, a few curious students scampered away. Mr. Walsh went after them, dragging them back into the restaurant as fights broke out on the street. Police cuffed several rowdies. Trash, confetti, and ticker tape littered the sidewalks. Inside, the students grumbled. Their stomachs growled. By 2 p.m., a few of us had been served lukewarm fare. The manager kept apologizing, but the sad little lunch had to cease since it was time to go.
Just when I could take it no longer, the bus drivers called to say they could not pick us up at the designated spot because the roads were blocked; we would have to walk four blocks. It was now approaching 2:30 p.m., our expected return time. Parents were expecting us soon, and some students had sports or other activities to attend. I called the school to let them know we were running late. As we prepared to leave the restaurant, about a third of the students told me they never got any food and begged to stop at a taco shop along the way. But, given the delay, there was nothing we could do but plow through the celebration. Finally, we spotted the buses idling behind an empty warehouse.
Leaving Minneapolis, the buses crept along. When we finally reached I-94E, we stared at the massive number of parked cars along the freeway. The students nearly cried when they saw the aftermath of what had been the great celebration. We finally returned to school after 5:30 p.m. Worried parents sat in their cars. Mr. Walsh stalked off. Mrs. Wasko wandered into the night, muttering, while I waited with the last student. Once he jumped into his father’s Chevy, I tore out of the lot.
The next day, several students were absent, and the rest looked tired, crestfallen. After announcements, I turned to the class and ruefully said, “Lo siento.” Rather than accost me, the students waved the apology away. I asked them to take out their journals and write about the play. Most wrote about missing the parade, about not getting any lunch. Anita wondered about her impending punishment. Not many mentioned the actual theater experience, although a few had liked the beating heart.
The aftermath
The classroom is empty. Wads of paper litter the floor. Someone left his notebook under a desk. Copies of “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” lie on a side table. I try to staple some papers, but the stapler is broken. I pick up a batch of tests and add them to the stack to be graded. Someone is playing “Für Elise” on a piano. A distant locker bangs. The clock reads 4:22 p.m. I have just finished my last writing appointment.
I’d like to plan a field trip to St. Thomas University Library so the juniors can do film research, but I can’t imagine it. I want to go home and write poetry. Maybe I’ll write about this fiasco or other field trips gone awry: Skittles lobbed at Lennie in a production of “Of Mice and Men,” boys wandering away from the University of Minnesota to peruse local sex shops, managerial accusations about chewing gum under movie seats. Is it even worth it? When I think about the students who have wiped away tears at a performance of “Othello,” sat in shock after hearing the gunshot at the end of “All My Sons,” and enjoyed toro and hamachi at a sushi restaurant, I know that it is.
After teaching for 40 years, I am still a fan of field trips, despite the disasters. These forays outside the classroom have helped students see the world with new eyes. Yes, there might be missteps along the way, but it’s worth the stumbling. It’s good to see young people having real-world experiences rather than virtual ones. In 1987, my students and I did not get to party in the streets, to boogie with Kirby Puckett, to frolic with friends, but, in some way, we doubled our fun and left with two kinds of stories, those on the stage and those in the street.
Note: Student names are pseudonyms.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Donna Isaac
DONNA ISAAC is a poet and teaching artist who organizes community readings in the Twin Cities of Minnesota. Published work includes a poetry book, Footfalls , and three chapbooks, Tommy , Holy Comforter , and Persistence of Vision .
