25 Years of Teaching and I Still Can’t Get the Copy Machine to Work

I’ve mentored new teachers, led curriculum overhauls, wrangled behavior plans, and taught through uncountable math programs. But there is one opponent I’ve never managed to conquer:

The copy machine.

Every school has one. Usually tucked into a corner that smells like toner and despair. And somehow, despite decades of professional development, not one administrator has offered a workshop titled “Copy Machine Survival 101.” You just walk in with hope and paper—and leave with jammed trays and trust issues.

My Typical Copy Machine Experience

Step 1: Approach the copier like it’s a wild animal—slowly, without eye contact.
Step 2: Select double-sided, staple in corner, collated. Feel competent.
Step 3: Machine whirs, beeps… then flashes ERROR CODE: B403.
Step 4: Open every door and tray like you’re defusing a bomb.
Step 5: Curse quietly.
Step 6: Someone walks by and says, “It worked fine for me this morning.”
Step 7: Leave with nothing but your stack of original copies and rising blood pressure.

It’s like a rite of passage no one wants—but everyone gets.

Why This Feels So Personal

I can handle classroom chaos. I can differentiate on the fly. I can walk into a parent conference with no warning and still sound like I have a plan.

But the copy machine? It humbles me. Regularly.

Maybe it’s not about the machine. Maybe it’s what the machine represents—constant demands, outdated tools, and the quiet pressure to do a hundred things at once… perfectly.

It’s never just about making copies. It’s about carving out time for your students and still having the system jam on you.

Lessons from the Copier (Yes, Really)

1. Always have a backup.
Printed extras. Digital versions. Whiteboard markers in your pocket. The “plan B” mindset is not paranoia—it’s survival.

2. Ask for help unapologetically.
That tech-savvy para? The office manager? The one teacher who somehow understands the copier's moods? Use your lifelines. Community over pride.

3. Let it go.
You can be an expert at curriculum and a disaster at copying. It doesn’t make you less of a professional. It just means you're human. And likely out of toner.

Final Thoughts

I may never master the copy machine. That’s fine. I’ve mastered so much else—building relationships, managing chaos, sparking curiosity, staying in the game after 25 years.

So the next time it jams, I’ll take a breath, slap a friendly “Out of Order” note on it, and walk away knowing this: the copy machine may have won the battle, but I’m still here teaching.