Coffee first. Then people.

This isn’t a lifestyle choice. It’s a safety protocol. 

Somewhere between waking up, getting ready for work, unlocking the classroom door, and logging into email, caffeine must be introduced into the system. Without it, words come out wrong, patience becomes theoretical, and facial expressions betray thoughts better left unspoken. Teachers aren’t antisocial in the morning—we’re buffering against chaos.

Coffee, in this context, is not a drink. It is a nutrient. An essential life element, like oxygen—or common sense, except both of those seem to fluctuate wildly from day to day. Coffee is the thin line between intention and reaction, the buffer that keeps minor inconveniences from spiraling into an internal monologue best left unspoken. It restores basic functions: listening, nodding, choosing words carefully. Without it, even the most dedicated educator runs on emergency power, one unexpected question away from existential despair. With it, the day becomes manageable. Not easy—but survivable.

Coffee isn’t optional in education—it’s PPE.

And there is a critical distinction between the first cup and the second. The first cup restores basic function: it allows a teacher to answer the same question twice without visible evidence of irritation. The second cup is preventative. It guards against emails, meetings that “won’t take long,” and conversations that begin with “Quick question…” Veteran teachers know precisely which cup they’re on and what level of patience it provides. Administrators pretend they don’t notice. Everyone notices.

Teachers will insist they aren’t superstitious. This statement is usually followed by a list of rules they absolutely never break.

No teacher ever says, “This should be an easy day.” That sentence has power. It invites chaos. Fire drills, surprise assemblies, broken projectors, and the sudden return of students who have been absent since October all respond immediately to this declaration. The universe is listening, and it has a sense of humor.

Lesson plans are treated with similar caution. The more detailed, color-coded, and thoughtfully prepared the plan, the less likely it is to happen as written. Teachers learn to plan thoroughly and detach emotionally, knowing that schedules will change, technology will fail, and students will arrive carrying needs that were not listed in the objectives. Planning is essential. Expecting the plan to survive intact is optional.

Language matters too. Certain words are never spoken aloud, especially before noon. Chief among them is the Q word—like a villain whose name must not be said. Uttering it is believed to immediately curse the day.

“Quiet.”

Say it out loud and something will happen. A fight in the hallway. A fire alarm. A phone call from the office. A student appearing mid-lesson with paperwork, questions, and a story that requires immediate attention. Veteran teachers don’t say it. They won’t even spell it. New teachers learn this lesson once, usually the hard way, then spend the rest of their careers correcting students who say, “It’s really quiet today,” with a look that communicates both disappointment and fear. This is why coffee must be consumed before language is trusted.

Other phrases are avoided as well. “They’re a good group.” “This period is always calm.” “I think they finally get it.” Optimism is allowed, but only internally, silently, and preferably after dismissal.

Objects carry their own significance. ID badges are checked obsessively, even while hanging securely around the neck. Forgetting one creates immediate panic, as though the building might deny entry—at least for those of us who actually wear them. Keys are patted down instinctively. Comfortable shoes are chosen with care, because wearing them seems to guarantee extra walking, surprise duty, or an unannounced meeting on the far side of campus. Red pens appear and vanish like seasonal wildlife, only to reemerge exactly when they are needed—or perhaps when they know they’re not.

And then there is the copier.

The copier senses urgency. It waits for deadlines. It jams only when time matters. Teachers approach it with caution and respect, performing small rituals—adjusting the paper stack, tapping the tray, pretending not to be in a hurry. No one speaks badly of it out loud. Most teachers attempt the copier only after at least one full cup of coffee, knowing better than to test fate while under-caffeinated.

Parents are another variable entirely, like a species of wildlife you only partly understand. Some are friendly, cooperative, and perfectly predictable. Others arrive armed with half-remembered rules from last year, internet research, or an urgent sense of injustice that seems calibrated to hit precisely during your prep period. 

Phone calls and emails arrive at odd hours, often phrased as “Quick question”—a phrase that has been known to induce dread. There is no rhyme or reason, only patterns you learn over time: the parent who emails at 7 a.m. every Monday, the one who appears at dismissal to “just say hello” but ends up in a twenty-minute debate over a minor grade. Managing parents requires the same rituals as teaching itself: coffee, patience, strategic nodding, and a clear mental firewall between what you can control and what you cannot.

Weather plays a role too. Teachers watch it the way farmers or sailors do, except our forecasts are based on experience and vibes. Windy days bring restless energy and an inability to sit still. Papers fly. Doors slam. Voices get louder. Rainy days remove recess, compress spaces, and shorten patience. By mid-morning, the building feels heavier. Windy days and rainy days both require a stronger brew and lower expectations.

Snow days are discussed carefully—spoken only in hypotheticals—because wanting one too badly is believed to guarantee school remains open. I know this only from what I’ve read and been told by those who live where it actually snows. Here in the Imperial Valley—California’s southernmost corner, sitting at the lowest point in a basin smack in the middle of the Yuha Desert—snow days are a pipe dream. The idea of shoveling a driveway or skiing to class is as foreign as a fire drill in the middle of a sandstorm. We deal in wind, heat, and the occasional confused rainstorm; snow is the stuff of legend, stories traded by teachers in far-off states like an exotic myth.

But I digress…

None of this is written anywhere. New teachers learn the rules by breaking them once and never doing it again. Over time, these superstitions become rituals, and the rituals become routine.

Because teaching is controlled chaos. Schedules shift. Needs escalate. Emotional temperatures rise without warning. Superstition fills the gaps where control ends. Ritual gives the illusion of order—and sometimes that’s enough.

Students rarely see any of it. They don’t see the coffee cooling on the desk, the deep breath before the door opens, or the mental switch flipping from human to educator. By the time they arrive, the coffee has done its work. The rest is performance.

So yes. Coffee first. Then people.

Not because teachers can’t care without caffeine—but because facing organized chaos without it would be reckless.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.