A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (3 page)

Students permitted to remain off-task during
lesson.

Chelsea called O’Connel over. “Mr. O’Connel, I just
don’t see why Paul has to be in our group. He won’t help at all. He
just reads.

Why should Armando and I have to do all the work, and
then he gets the same grade we do? It’s not fair.” Solange smiled.
How would he handle this? “Well, what do you think, Paul?”

“About what?”

“About Chelsea’s complaint. Do you think it’s fair
that you read while they do the research when you’re all graded the
same?”

“No.”

“Well, then, will you help?” Paul said he
wouldn’t.

“See what I mean?” she said.

“Okay, Chelsea, what do you want to do?”

“Can just Armando and I work together?”

“Sure, go ahead. It looks like you’re on your own,
Paul.” When the time was up, they gave their results. Paul set his
book aside momentarily to answer the question posed to him from the
top of his head, using no notes. He had no problems.

Last to come up were the two girls in back who tried
to bluff their way through by aping other presentations.

Solange watched his face, wondering if they were
fooling him.

When they had finished, he read off the grades by
number. There were two zeros.

Outraged, one of the two slammed her notebook to the
desktop. “Why’d we get a zero? We did the stupid thing!”

“You got a zero because you chose to do nothing.”

“That’s not fair!” she said, lip curled back over
small, sharp teeth.

“You can’t just fail people because you feel like
it!”

“Yes, I can,” he said, eyes smiling. “You see, it’s
my job to prevent outbreaks of false self-esteem.” She turned away
in her seat, disgusted. “I’ll have my mom call the school about
this! She knows Mrs. Lovejoy, and she can get you fired.” O’Connel
nodded. “You do that, Kim.”

“Mr. O’Connel,” Moses said, “If this stuff happens,
even though it’s against the Constitution, then what good is the
Constitution?” The room quieted. O’Connel found a perch on the edge
of his desk. “Maybe you’re asking the wrong question, Moses. Maybe
you should ask— if we allow our government to ignore our
Constitution, what kind of citizens are we?” Moses frowned, shook
his head, not getting it.

“Shaw said, ‘Democracy is a device that insures we
shall be governed no better than we deserve.’” Chelsea raised her
hand. “How come I’ve never heard any of this on the news? I mean, I
heard it, but not all of it. This is stuff we should know, isn’t
it?”

“It’s not anyone else’s responsibility to keep you
informed,” O’Connel said. “It’s yours. There’s no such thing as an
unbiased source for the truth. Not me, not the—not the paper, not
the radio.” Chelsea opened delicate hands. “You mean they’re all
lying to us.”

“I don’t know if lying’s the right term—let’s call it
selective truth telling.” Chelsea scratched her blond head.
“Selective truth?”

“Yeah, it’s not exactly lying, is it? Mom asks if you
took the car out for a spin last night, and you say you were in bed
by ten. It’s not a lie—you were in bed by ten. You just happened to
be up by eleven.” She laughed. “Oh, you mean just not telling some
of the truth.” O’Connel nodded. “After Korea, the government knew
that U.S.

POW’s were being sent to the Soviet Block to be used
as human experimental animals. Some were exposed to deadly doses of
radiation or chemical and biological agents, some were used to
train field doctors to do amputations.” Chelsea gasped. “You mean
they cut off their arms and legs?”

“That’s what amputation is, Chelsea,” Paul said,
annoyed.

“We knew it, but if the government had told the
people, we would have demanded they go in and get them back. One
admiral whose son was one of the men taken suggested sailing
nuclear carriers up off P’yongyang and sending a one word
message—produce.

“We could have done it, though it might have started
World War III. But we didn’t. They kept it quiet, and thousands of
young men, not much older than you, were abandoned.” The class was
silent.

“I’m not saying it wasn’t the right thing to do,
trading several thousand lives for tens of millions, though I’m not
sure I could have done it. The point is, don’t expect the truth and
you won’t be disappointed.

Truth is dangerous, it’s power. No one gives power
away.” Chelsea shrugged helplessly. “Then what can we do?”

“For a start, read, read everything factual you can
get your hands on, no matter what anyone else says or thinks about
it. Communist, fascist, liberal, conservative, radical, moderate,
progressive read it all, file it away in your mind. Run it all
through the filter.

Shake it, sift it, and keep an open mind while you do
it. Question, suspect—everything! “Subject every source to the test
of reason, of logic, and let it stand or fall on its merit. Think
for yourself— and always, always ask— Why am I being told this?
And— What is it they aren’t telling me? And most important of all—
What do they want me to think about this? And eventually, maybe,
you’ll find what’s true for you.

“But you’ve got to be a cynic, don’t let anybody do
your thinking for you. It’s not easy, and it’s not fun, but no one
who doesn’t can think for themselves. Adolf Hitler said— ‘What luck
for rulers that men do not think.’ Herr Schicklgruber had it right.
Without thought, a people cannot remain free.” A blond with a
radiant smile raised her hand.

“Anna.”

“But how do we start?” O’Connel smiled. “For now,
read, listen, think. That’s enough to make you different from most.
The rest will come.” The bell rang, and when the class filed out,
Anna stayed behind.

“You know, Mr. O’Connel, I read a whole bunch. I love
reading.” Solange made one last entry on her laptop, listening,
fascinated.

O’Connel nodded and smiled as he gathered up the
booklets.

“That’s great, Anna”.

She followed him, notebook clutched to her chest.
“And I’m trying really hard in school this year, and I’m going to
pass all my classes. I want to get a good job to support my little
girl.” He stopped, dropping the booklets in his case. “How is
she?”

“Growing like a weed.” She smiled proudly. “I’m due
again in May.” Shocked, Solange looked up to see her gently
caressing her swollen abdomen through the jumper.

O’Connel held his face carefully neutral. “I didn’t
know.” She nodded, beaming. “Yeah, I’ll have two in the nursery
next year.”

“Well,” he said, “ I’m glad to hear you’re working
hard, Anna.

Keep it up, okay?” She breezed to the door. “Sure
will, see you.” When she had gone he looked up at Solange, then
away. “A good girl, but she can barely read. She’s sixteen.”

“My God,” she said, stunned, crushed under a great
weight of hopelessness. “What was that about? Why’d she stay?” He
smiled sadly. “A little attention, maybe, a little pat on the back,
that’s all she wanted. Sometimes I think it’s the most important
thing I do.” Rain beat heavily against the windows.

Solange looked down at her laptop.

“Did you intend to give the activity closure? I mean
if Moses hadn’t asked that question?”

“Closure—” He smiled, snapping his briefcase closed.
“I haven’t heard that since teacher training. Oh, I know how it’s
supposed to work, but the last thing I want is closure. I try not
to give them answers. I just try to get them thinking. I never have
been very good at wrapping it up in a neat little package and
sending them on their way. It’s never closed; it’s never done. I
want it to nag them, to drive them to distraction. Maybe, if I do
it right, they might just switch off the tube long enough to read
something.” He clicked off the lights, leaving the room in near
darkness.

“I’ve got to return a call to a parent. Coming?” She
had to struggle to keep up in her heels. The passion he felt for
the job surprised her. Nothing like what she’d been led to expect,
he had the fire in the belly, she could see that—anybody could.

Halfway down the crowded hall she remembered what
he’d said before class. “I want to know what you expect for all
this cooperation.

Because if you think I’m going to go easy on you—” At
the head of the busy stairway he turned abruptly to face her.

She reached out to stop herself, and drew back a hand
from a chest taught as a horse’s flank, bringing it to her
throat.

“Don’t misunderstand me.” He leaned close, face
hard.

She could smell him, a man smell—good, clean,
familiar. Her father’s smell. The pulse throbbed on his bull neck,
and in that endless second she was ten years old, a girl wanting a
father’s approval.

Blinking rapidly, she stepped back, fearing somehow
he might read her feelings. It was insane. It was her job to get
rid of him, destroy his career, his reputation. It was no time for
weakness, for daydreams, for romantic fantasy. What was happening
to her? He spoke slowly, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m not
asking for any favors.” He stabbed a thick finger at her heart, and
she flinched from an impact that never came.

“I know what you’re here to do—I don’t kid myself
about that.” Heart pounding, she stood her ground, holding his eyes
with hers. She could take it. If he was tough she was tougher.
“Then what is it you want? because you’ll get nothing from me.” He
nodded, his smile making her somehow ashamed.

“I know it.” The woman was maddening. The worst of it
was that he was sure she knew what she did to him. Why else would
she stand so close? Maybe that was the way she worked—using that
face, that body to fluster the men she went after, making them
muddled, vulnerable.

if he hadn’t known better he might have thought she
was embarrassed. Her cynicism sickened him. He knew it existed, but
to see it in front of him, in such a face, behind such eyes —

Slowly, he turned and went down the stairs. “Forget
it. It was a stupid idea.” Hands moist on the cold railing, she
followed down the wide staircase. What had she seen in his eye?
Revulsion? Attraction? Hopelessness? She would have to watch
herself There was something here scared her. Something she couldn’t
understand, couldn’t control.

if she was sure of anything, she was sure he was not
going to be one of the easy ones.

Not even close.

• • •

For Celia, it was just another day.

Sorting mail for the teacher’s boxes, phone cradled
at her neck, she made copies while pinching the nose of a sobbing
kindergartner, his face smeared scarlet with blood. Dark hair
trimmed short, standing barely five feet tall, Celia was a hundred
pounds of high strung competence. Though she never raised her voice
in anger, she ran the office with all the languor of a Marine drill
instructor—a DI with a cute figure and an elfin smile.

Teachers respected Celia. Those that didn’t soon
learned their mistake. Some feared her, but most, like Solange
herself— couldn’t conceive of running the school without her.

As O’Connel came through the door, Celia handed him a
message.

“Mrs. Sandoval just called again. You can use Dean’s
office.” Solange caught her eye as she passed through the swinging
door at the counter. Celia knew why she was here and didn’t like
it.

Why should she be different? Recoiling from the
frosty stare, Solange followed O’Connel inside, curious what to
expect.

The vice principal’s office was a small, windowless
room not much bigger than a janitor’s storeroom. A small desk and
two chairs filled it. An old paddle, drilled with holes, hung on
the wall, thick with dust. Solange hated the look of it. If
inflicting pain was the only way you could reach kids, you’d lost
already.

O’Connel shut the door and punched up the number,
putting the call over the speaker. Mrs. Sandoval spoke as if she
had just bitten into a lemon. “Yes, thank you for returning my
call. Vincent received an F on his mid-term report, and I would
like to know what happened.” She was not pleased.

O’Connel ran a finger down the open grade book. “What
happened was, he didn’t do the work.”

“What work did he miss?”

“Well, I’m between classes now, I can’t list them for
you, but out of twenty assignments, he didn’t bother to do ten, and
the grades he does have are mostly C’s and D’s. He’s bright enough,
he just doesn’t seem to care. What he does turn in is usually
incomplete.”

“Yes. Could you please send me a list of the work he
has missed? I’ll have him make them up. We’ve always told Vincent
that his school work comes first, and that before he is to go out
with his friends, he is to have it all done. We ask him every
night, ‘Do you have any homework?’ and he says he has it all
done.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sandoval, but your son’s been lying.
And I’m sorry to say I don’t allow any make up work in my class.”
There was a long pause. O’Connel smiled across the desk at her.

He’d been here before. He knew what was coming.

“You don’t allow any make up work?” Storm clouds
gathered in her voice.

“No, I don’t. Your son thinks my class is a joke, my
assignments are a joke, and sees no reason to do a thing. He spends
his time in my class talking. I don’t see any reason to let him
make it up now.”

“Vincent’s father and I do not allow Vincent to get
any grades below a B.”

“Well, Mrs. Sandoval, I’m afraid you’ll have to make
an exception this time. Vincent’s failing.”

“What are you going to do about this F?” she said,
voice edged.

“I’m not going to do anything, Mrs. Sandoval. It’s
simple. Your son didn’t do the work, and he failed.”

“Well, what are his father and I supposed to do if
you won’t allow him to make up the work? We’ve got to get his grade
up.” O’Connel shook his head, nudging wire rims back in place.

“You’re not supposed to do anything. There are only
two weeks left in the quarter now. It’s too late. If Vincent
decides to bring up his grade next quarter, all he has to do is
work.”