A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (6 page)

“We’ll never change that,” O’Connel said, “not if we
set any standards at all.” Solange ran a piece of celery around a
small container of ranch dressing with grim determination, her mood
turning dark. He was right. It was as sad and as simple as that.
“No. I guess we won’t, will we?” Sid reached over to grab a
pamphlet off the shelf by the door.

“Okay, kids, let’s not get maudlin. Here we go. This
is the one that’s going to take us over the top— The Oregon
Educational Act for the 21
^st
Century. ‘Toward New and
Higher Learning Standards— ‘“

“Wait ‘till next year,” Karl said.

“I quote— ‘To attain the Certificate of Initial
Mastery, a student will demonstrate the ability to think creatively
and reflectively in making decisions and solving problems, direct
his or her own learning, including planning and carrying out
complex projects, communicate through reading, writing, speaking,
and listening, and through an integrated use of visual forms such
as symbols and graphic images.’” Karl snorted. “You know what that
means, don’t you? It means they cut pictures out of magazines and
paste them on poster board and call it a report. I kid you not.” He
pointed at the rookies down the table. “They’re doing it right
here.” Sid read. “’They shall use current technology, including
computers, to process information and produce high quality
products.’”

“That means they can scan a picture in a magazine and
then print it out to use for a report,” Karl said.

Myrtle laughed. “Don’t knock it, it beats
writing.”

“’They will recognize, process, and communicate
quantitative relationships.’” Aurora’s mouth gaped. “Huh? Does that
mean they’re going to count? My second graders can do that.” She
laughed—a wonderful, goofy laugh. “Boy, I’m doing better than I
thought. Can they get a certificate?”

“Come on Helvey, I’m trying to teach you something,
here!” She raised her hand. “Can I go to the bathroom?” Karl yawned
wide. “I’m bored.”

“Can I sharpen my pencil?” O’Connel said.

Solange laughed, basking in the warmth of acceptance.
She’d forgotten how much she missed it. Such a small thing, being
accepted by the people you worked with. Absent it left such a
yawning void.

Myrtle slammed her needles to the table. “Will you
please shut up. Read it, Sid.”

“They’ll ‘...participate as a member of a team,
including providing leadership for achieving goals and working well
with others from diverse backgrounds.’”

“It’s about time they brought back the ‘plays well
with others’ box on the report card,” O’Connel said.

“Fine,” Helvey said. “As long as they don’t grade us
on it.” Solange nodded. “What that part means is that the bright
kids will get stuck helping the not-so-bright instead of learning
themselves.” The rookies looked her way, ears pricking.

Sid frowned. “You’re not sounding much like a
cheerleader, Miss Assistant Superintendent.” He turned back to the
pamphlet. “The student will ‘deliberate on public issues which
arise in our representative democracy and in the world by applying
perspectives from the social sciences…”

“I can see it now,” Karl spoke into an imaginary
phone. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Jones, but Johnny
failed the unit on deliberating and applying perspectives from the
social sciences.

Yes, uh, huh. He forgot his scissors so he couldn’t
cut out the pictures for his research report.”

“They will ‘understand human diversity and
communicate in a second language, applying appropriate cultural
norms.’ Hey, wait a minute, I thought normal was a dirty word.”

“Ah, now, a second language is good,” Myrtle said.
“Maybe we should make it English.” Sid went on. “They will—
‘interpret human experience through literature and the fine and
performing arts, apply science and math concepts and processes,
showing an understanding of how they affect our world— ‘“ Myrtle
slammed her knitting on the table, shutting her eyes.

“God in heaven, who writes this gobbledygook?”

“You’ll notice they didn’t say they would be able to
multiply or divide without a calculator,” Karl said.

“Or write,” Aurora said. “Or spell. Or do anything
that can be objectively graded. It’s failure proof, and they can
stay in school and try and pass the tests until they’re
twenty-one.”

“Okay, here’s the last one. They will ‘understand
positive health habits and behaviors that establish and maintain
healthy interpersonal relationships.’”

“Beautiful!” Karl said. “I knew they’d have to get
condoms in there somewhere!” Sid tossed the brochure away and it
fluttered to the floor. “Do the people who write this stuff believe
they’ve really done something?” Solange put away her lunch. “They
say it’ll improve self-esteem.”

“Hey, hey! Make a note of that, Helvey!” Sid tossed
away his apple core, disgusted. “Let’s hear it for self-esteem!
Maybe while we’re massaging their egos, a few of them will
accidentally learn something.”

“Kids are number one!” said Karl.

“So, what?” Myrtle asked. “Is that it? The future of
education? Not requiring anything that can be tested? Being
satisfied with a sixteen-year-old who can’t add, can’t spell, can’t
write, can’t read, as long as he thinks he’s the cat’s meow and
knows diversity when he sees it? Well, I think it stinks!”

“And something else that stinks,” Solange said
without thinking, her voice scaring her.

Sid raised his eyebrows. “Okay, Ms. Assistant
Superintendent, what stinks?” They were all watching her, and
suddenly she wished she had kept quiet. “The district has a strict
policy on alcohol and drugs, too, right?”

“That’s right,” Myrtle said.

“Yeah, they did,” Solange said, “and I...I didn’t
think it was right.”

“Well, you know what?” O’Connel said, voice low.
“Neither did we.” Myrtle reached over to pat her hand, and for a
long moment no one spoke. Solange felt a lump grow in her throat.
For two years, she had spent lunches alone. This welcoming was much
more than she expected. It was like coming in before a fire after
too long in the cold. She noticed O’Connel was almost smiling.

The intercom crackled. “Dai, you there?” It was
Celia.

“I’m here.”

“Mrs. Lovejoy has Mrs. Noble in her office. She’d
like to meet with you now.” He looked down at what was left of his
tuna sandwich and sighed.

Solange studied his face as she groped her mind for a
reason why this particular board member should be requesting a
meeting with him now.

He pushed away from the table. “Okay, Cel, I’ll be
up.”

“And Mr. Parnel says he’ll be ready for elementary
teachers to pick up their classes at the cafeteria in five
minutes.”

“Oh, crumbs, we’re coming!” Myrtle frowned. “God
bless rainy day schedules! Don’t you let the old bag buffalo you,
Dai.” Crushing his foil-wrapped sandwich into a ball, he sank it in
the trash can across the room and lay a hand on her shoulder as he
passed.

“I’ll do my best, Myrtle.” He stopped at the door.
“Coming, Ms. Gonsalvas? You don’t want to miss this.” She hurried
to follow.

He was right—she didn’t.

Not a word.

• • •

It seemed she was always chasing him.

On the way to the office, he went out the front door
into the rain, motioning her after him. What, was he crazy? The
branches of the oaks soughed overhead, the wind holding strong.
Raindrops stung her face.

“What are we doing out here?” Pausing on the steps,
he pointed up at the front of the school where four-foot letters
hung from the second floor windows advertising the Fall Carnival.
Leather jacket dripping, he smiled, eyes filled with mischief Such
eyes... No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t keep her
distance. She had no idea what he meant, and she was getting
cold.

“What? What is it?” He rushed past her and up the
stairs. “Come on.” She followed, struggling to keep up, feet
paining her. Why hadn’t she worn her walking shoes? She stopped at
the foot of the staircase, confused. “The office is that way.”
Taking the stairs three at a time, he called back. “In a minute.”
And she sat on the bottom stair rubbing her feet until he came down
carrying one of the gold letters.

In the office, he left it behind Celia’s desk,
answering her puzzled frown with a finger to his lips and devilish
smile.

Mrs. Lovejoy, Elk River’s curriculum coordinator,
hair piled in a beehive, scowled disproval. Seeing Solange, she
puffed up like a rouged toad.

“Mr. O’Connel,” Lovejoy began in her most reasonable
voice, “Mrs. Noble is concerned that her son, Dusty, received an F
on his first quarter grade report. She says she wasn’t informed
that Dusty was not turning his work in, and she has asked me how he
can bring up his grade.” O’Connel held up his hand. “If I called
every parent whose kid missed an assignment, I wouldn’t be doing a
hell of a lot else.”

“Mr. O’Connel, as a professional…” She looked at
Solange as she pronounced the word, as if to say she used the word
with reservations. “…it’s your responsibility to keep parents
informed how their children are progressing.” She spoke as if he
were a child, making it plain what she thought of him. The woman
was trying to impress her, Solange realized with distaste. How
could she not know how little she thought of her? Lovejoy reminded
her of an old hen she’d seen her mother scald and pluck on the roof
of their apartment house. She decided it was her nose, blue-veined
and sharp like a hen’s protruding breastbone.

“Hey!” he waved his finger in the air, as if
experiencing a great explosion of insight. “I’ll bet that’s why we
have report cards, isn’t it.

Now, of course, we have mid-term reports, and we’ve
got a whole lot of kids carrying around weekly reports.” He
shrugged. “It hasn’t made a whole hell of a lot of difference, has
it? Maybe what we need is reports on the hour, huh?” He leaned back
in his chair. “These children are three or four years from
adulthood, and we can’t expect them to turn in a homework paper
without Mama nagging them to do it? We’ve got a mother here that
comes by every single day to check to see if her angel, a fifteen
year old, has turned in his homework and gotten his work for that
night. She may even do it for him, for all I know. Now she’s a
concerned parent all right, but she’s barking up the wrong
tree.”

“We’re here to talk about Dusty, not some other
student,” Lovejoy said.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Please forgive
me. If I might ask, Mrs. Noble, what grade would you like for
Dusty?” Mrs. Lovejoy spoke up again. “I don’t think the grade is as
important as the fact that Dusty makes up his work.” He raised his
eyebrows. “Oh, then after he makes up the work, you’ll be satisfied
with an F, is that right?”

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Noble. “Dusty’s perfectly
capable of earning an A.”

“I thought so. Well, in that case, I’ll tell you what
I’m going to do. I don’t allow my students to make up work they
just didn’t bother to do, but because Dusty’s such a fine young
man, and because his mother’s a school board member—” Mrs. Noble
clutched her purse in red-nailed hands. “This has nothing to do
with me being a board member! I’m here as a parent.” Mrs. Lovejoy’s
face had turned a bellicose red. “Mr. O’Connel, I don’t think being
flippant and disrespectful is to your advantage, considering your
present situation, do you?”

“Of course not!” He leaned forward and gave Mrs.
Noble a sly wink. “Especially not in my present situation. So what
I’m going to do is to give you exactly what you want, but not
because you’re a board member. Do I have that right, now?” He
stood. “Also not because Dusty’s earned it, because he hasn’t.” He
went out and came back with the four foot tall, gold foil-covered
letter A.

“Ta daaa! It is with great pleasure, that I present
you with an A for your son.” Mrs. Noble sat open-mouthed as he
leaned the letter against the vice principal’s desk.

Lovejoy held her mouth as if she smelled something
long dead.

He dusted off his hands. “Now that that’s taken care
of…” He sat on Mrs. Lovejoy’s desk, leaning close to Mrs. Noble. “I
was wondering if you’re going to spend the rest of your life
cleaning up your little boy’s messes.”

Mrs. Lovejoy, trembling with rage, rose to her full
bantam height. “You will apologize to Mrs. Noble this instant!”

Solange cringed, wondering if she had used this
method to intimidate her students.

He ignored her. “You know, little Dusty’s in for a
shock when he gets out in the big world where Mama can’t make
everything all better.”

Mrs. Noble gathered her things. “I’ll be seeing you
at this Thursday’s hearing, Mr. O’Connel!”

The bell rang. Solange gave silent thanks.

“Love to chat some more, ladies, but those rascals
upstairs are thirsting for knowledge, and I dare not tarry.” He
waved, flashing a bright smile. “Bye, now.”

Solange followed on his heels, face burning. Those
women, the situation—all of it—made her ashamed. She was here to
defend this? To get rid of the only man with enough guts to rock
the boat? Was this why she did what she did? to protect board
members who blackmailed teachers for their lazy kids? Celia looked
at him as they passed, shrugging, hands wide in puzzlement,
although before Solange she dared say nothing.

“God,” O’Connel said, “I’ve always wanted to do
that!” Out in the hall, they merged into the lunch hour crush.
Struggling to keep up, Solange stopped to adjust a heel and was
straight-armed in the solar plexus by a football player chasing a
squealing girl in a short skirt. She lost her briefcase and went
down hard on her back.

O’Connel caught the kid by the neck of his jersey as
he passed and jerked him to a halt, tearing the shirt halfway down
his back.

The big kid, head shaved, turned ready to swing, saw
who had him and shot off his mouth instead. “What the hell you
think you’re doing?”