The Faculty Christmas Party.

Two weeks before the last day of school in December, I get a pink flier on a half-sheet of paper in my box, which says, “Come to the faculty cafeteria to practice caroling for the Christmas party!”
In the cafeteria, the college counselor sits at a lone table wearing a Christmas hat, holding a stack of printed lyrics to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
“We’re practicing for the Faculty Breakfast,” she says. “This is what we’re singing.”
I look more closely at the lyrics, which are rewritten to say, “Oh the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me: seven seniors sleeping, six cell phones ringing, five IEP’s!”
“That’s okay,” I say, beginning to walk backwards out of the cafeteria.
“Come on!” she urges. “You’ve never been to one of our breakfasts before. It’s really nice. Everyone goes to the cafeteria and they serve us a nice, catered breakfast and people sing songs.”
My friend who works at a private Jewish school received a Visa gift card loaded with seven hundred and fifty dollars as a holiday bonus, donated by the PTA. I receive a tiny pin decorated with a snowman’s face and a free breakfast. I’m hoping for something in the vein of lox, béchamel sauce, maybe with a swan carved out of a melon.
Upon arrival, the fluorescent-lit cafeteria is decorated with white tablecloths, and a karaoke machine is set up in the corner next to a fake Christmas tree. The principal is wearing a red striped apron, scooping potatoes from a pool of orange oil onto my plate, along with some gray scrambled eggs and a ball of crumpled bacon pieces. “Merry Christmas!” he says.
I arrive too late at faculty meals to sit with my real faculty friends, which is how I end up sitting next to the librarian, the Spanish teacher, and across from the middle school students who played in the Christmas band. The MC, a counselor sporting a thick mustache, grabs the microphone.
“We’re starting the festivities soon,” he says. “First, let’s introduce the woman with the vision of God! She worked in the front office for at least 200 years!”
He hands the microphone to an older black woman with elaborately curled hair, who rises up her hands and says, “I see God in all of you. You all helped me through my bereavement and glory to God who saves us and takes us under his wing!” The audience smiles and gives her a round of applause.
Meanwhile, I wait next to the high-tech toaster, designed like a conveyor belt; slices of toast are dropped in one end and plop out the other. The toaster is stuck.
The special education director kicks it with his black hiking boot.
“That should do it,” he says.
“That won’t help!” cries the office assistant.
I decide to eat my bread untoasted, and return to my seat to pick at my eggs with a plastic fork and talk as sparingly to the people around me as possible. The show has just begun.
“Here is Mr. Diaz,” the MC says, “Impressing us with his singing skills yet again.”
Without warning, the karaoke machine clanks up, and a young male teacher I have seen in passing, wearing a burgundy blazer, begins an earnest rendition of “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.”
Everyone stares at him in amazement, eating their eggs silently. His polished rendition would be excellent for any nightclub or shopping venue. “He’s just great, isn’t he?” the Spanish teacher murmurs.
“Just great,” the MC blabbers, “and next up, we have Ms. Charles, who is directing our school play!”
Ms. Charles, a large black woman who is dressed in a ruffled shirt, pencil skirt, and stiletto heels, clearly once had bigger dreams, like being on Broadway.
“Please excuse me, it’s early in the morning,” she says, clearing her throat like Mariah Carey. I’m waiting for the music to begin when I realize in horror that this is an unaccompanied song; just Ms. Charles and the microphone.
She leans in close enough to hear breathing on the mic and closes her eyes, which is disconcerting, especially as I’m munching on bacon.
“There was a baby Jesus,” she sings in a high, quavering voice. Everyone is mesmerized. I look down at my eggs, turning pink.
“In the manger,” she warbles. “The baby Jesus in the manger.” She whispers a line, and then belts out the next as though she were playing Effie White in a production of “Dreamgirls.” After a long, excruciating ballad, she finally finishes and takes a bow.
“Next we have the line dancers,” the MC announces. A pregnant counselor, another wearing a cowboy hat, and the whole large group of Filipino teachers take the stage. The karaoke machine cranks out “Achy-Breaky Heart” for at least five minutes while they line dance. After this, the faculty chorus performs, and no one laughs at the rewritten lyrics to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” I feel guilty that I did not participate, but not guilty enough to wander up and join, as some teachers do.
“Somebody already put that on YouTube!” the MC cracks. “Now, for our final number.”
Ms. Charles and Mr. Diaz arrange themselves for the finale, with Ms. Charles sitting on Mr. Diaz’ lap. She musses his hair and rubs his chest. “Ew,” one middle schooler says. They begin an elaborately choreographed rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” about a guy cheating on his girlfriend.
“Please don’t go, baby,” Ms. Charles cooes, clinging to his shirt.
“It ain’t so, baby, I have to send this text,” Mr. Diaz ad-libs, and the audience howls.
“They’re just great!” the librarian shrieks.
Everyone gives them a standing ovation and rushes off to pick at the last of the free food. “Take two plates for lunch,” the Spanish teacher advises. Another teacher and myself are trying to get the last of the coffee out of the silver urns without scalding ourselves. After the requisite raffle that I don’t win, we all start to wander back to our classrooms to prepare for the last day.
“Wait, before you go, we are giving everyone a complimentary mouse pad with a picture of our beautiful high school on it,” the principal announces.
I’m appreciative of the breakfast. What better way to show your teachers love than feed them potatoes? But when I try to commiserate about the performances with someone, anyone, no one seems to think them odd or weird at all, which is, of course, the weirdest part.

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