The Great Expectations School (18 page)

Barbara winced. Mrs. Boyd leaned back in her chair triumphantly.

“It's not easy being a teacher, Mr. Brown. Sometimes it takes a little toughness.”

I ground my teeth in silence. You wouldn't last ten minutes in 4-217, I thought. You know it, and that's the reason you've never come to my classroom to meet my students. Then I checked myself; showing anger or offense would be a death sentence.

“I know you're having problems. Why don't you tell me what's going on.”

I swallowed. “The good news is that with practice, I am now feeling more confident in planning out my units and lessons. Also…”

“Can I see your planbook?”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Let's be real here. Let's see what we're talking about. You say you're improving, but as we say, ‘Fail to plan, plan to fail.'”

I excused myself and picked up the planbook from 217. When I returned, Mrs. Boyd and Barbara abruptly stopped their conversation.

The principal leafed through the ragged spiral-bound box-planner. She made a face of tepid acceptance, as if she had just ordered some expensive platter that tasted lousy but had to be eaten because it was already paid for. “I see that there is some evidence of an attempt at planning,” she said. “Continue with what you were saying.”

“My problems are rooted in classroom management. I've tried and adopted many different approaches, but all of them have yielded only the most ephemeral success.” I had learned in high school that using the word “ephemeral” can impress people and alter the conversation dynamic.

“Ephemeral,” she said, taking the bait. “That's a good vocabulary word. I hired you personally because you're a smart young man. Because, as I've told you before, you have the teaching gene.” With a smile, she digressed into a tangent about her early years as a teacher, holding unofficial classes during a strike in the early seventies. When the story was over, it was time to cut to the chase.

“Mrs. Boyd, I have a few specific kids that are severely weighing me down in my ability to work with the whole group. Deloris Barlow and Lakiya Ray alone can—”

“When students misbehave, it is because we, as their adult guardians, have enabled them to misbehave. Do not blame the kids for your shortcomings, Mr. Brown. They are just children.”

That was it, I thought. The end.
Fin.
I wanted to whip out the letter so at least I could read her the snappy ending. What a lousy way to bow out: ingested alive while getting berated by spectators.

“I'm going to help you,” she said. “Ms. Chatton pleaded your
case admirably and we've decided to give you one of the ATRs to support you with management. Ms….”

“Richardson,” Barbara finished. I knew Ms. Richardson: the tall Nigerian lady who covered my class the Monday after Halloween!

“I'm going to have Mr. Randazzo try to arrange it so you'll have her starting tomorrow.”

“She should be with you at least till Christmas. Hopefully longer,” Barbara added.

I exhaled, glad the letter never made an appearance. No matter how true my allegation about the conscious creation of a “dumping ground,” Mrs. Boyd would have taken mortal offense at it. I would have burned the bridge for sure. I picked up my planbook from the table. “Thank you,” I said.

Cordelia Richardson and I met in the Teacher Center during my prep period. She was elated with the arrangement; coteaching with me sounded infinitely better than her current setup of random K–5 substituting spots.

“You just worry about teaching, and I'll handle the management at first,” she said. “We'll straighten them out together!”

The next morning, Ms. Richardson was waiting in room 217 when I ushered in the line. “Who that?” asked mystified Marvin Winslow.

“Why we got that mean sub here?” Lito demanded to know.

“Silence and I'll explain everything. Eddie, Joseph, Tayshaun. I'm about to speak. Thank you. Today, 4-217 is the luckiest class in the school. From now on, you have two teachers, Ms. Richardson and me. We're running the show together. Stop moaning and groaning like kindergartners. Take out your homework so I can see it, and groups one and two use the closet.”

As I began roving around the room to check homework, Ms. Richardson's voice resounded like an airhorn.
“Take off that jacket! No jackets in school!”

Tiffany looked confused and terrified. I had always let her wear her hooded sweatshirt in class as long as the hood stayed off. All of the kids knew I wore a gray hoodie over my shirt and tie instead of a regular autumn jacket.

“Get rid of it now!”

Tiffany looked to me. “Do it, Tiffany,” I commanded.

“Sit up straight in your chair, Tiffany!”
Ms. Richardson boomed.
“You're still slouching. No slouching in school, Tiffany! SIT UP STRAIGHT!”

Tiffany straightened her posture and sniffled, staring at her desk. Nobody moved.

“School is not fooling-around time. That's over!”
Richardson was a powerhouse.

The next two days contained my smoothest lessons of the year. Even Eddie participated; he was really getting multiplication. When Deloris called Lakiya a “crack ho,” Ms. Richardson immediately took them both out of the room, and I kept rolling along with math.

Ms. Richardson's privately shared criticism was constructive and actionable. “Your homework-checking system creates a lag and you need to be on them
every
second. I can introduce a new system tomorrow, and if you like it, you can keep it.” Her system involved leaving a numbered folder on each group before the day began. As students enter, they insert their homework in the folder. I would collect the folders and find a few minutes during independent work time to check the work. Ms. Richardson also recommended making a publicly displayed grid, charting completed and missed homework. This would foster healthy competition to get the most checks and give recognition to conscientious students.

She was right on both counts. Once my “Homework All Stars” chart went up, homework completion went up over twenty percent, and I had more control in the tone-setting mornings.

Thursday, November 13, was Report Card Day. Classes were dismissed at 11:30 and walk-in parent-teacher conferences were slated for 1:00–3:00 and 5:00–7:30. No report cards went home unless
they were directly handed to a parent or guardian. Ms. Richardson stayed by my side through the first afternoon session.

Grades were given in the same one-to-four rubric as the state standardized Tests.

1 = far below grade-level standards
2 = approaches grade-level standards
3 = meets grade-level standards
4 = exceeds grade-level standards

Ones failed; everything else passed. Teachers were discouraged from giving threes and flat-out restricted from fours in the first marking period. Mr. Randazzo told us this was so the report cards would show improvement over the year.

Lakiya, Deloris, Marvin, Daniel, and Eric got nearly straight ones. Everyone else hovered around twos except Sonandia, who got straight threes. Her mother was first to arrive for a conference.

Our meeting was short and sad. I said I understood why she had asked to transfer Sonandia and that Karen Adler was a wonderful teacher. I extolled Sonandia's virtues, recommended more nonfiction reading at home, and said I would miss her daughter. We shook hands and parted. Good-bye, Sony.

A line of parents and families formed outside my door, waiting to see Mr. Brown. It was a reality check as to how many people had a stake in the embattled 4-217 experience.

Lito Ruiz brought an entourage of his Spanish-speaking grandmother, his twenty-year-old sister who acted as translator, her boyfriend, another young man whose relation was not explained, and an infant who reeked of an unchanged diaper. We all lamented the September glasses-breaking incident, but Lito's smile lit up the room when I showed his grandmother his small stack of successfully completed “A+” work. Maimouna's father came in, eyes bloodshot and smelling thickly of marijuana. The whole time I talked to him, I could not shake the memory of Maimouna writing about how she
gets whipped. Lakiya Ray's calm mother assured me Lakiya would complete her work, as long as the boys stopped harassing her. When I explained that Lakiya was hardly a victim of harassment during class time—quite the contrary—Mrs. Ray very clearly tuned out. Cwasey's mother and stepfather looked truly stunned when I told them about Cwasey's propensity and lack of remorse for hitting girls. They told me it would
never
happen again, but I recalled his blue card had said, “Mother is supportive but her interventions seem to roll off his back.” I discussed work samples with every parent. I talked about strengths, opportunities to become stronger, and how crucial it is to read together at home.

Deloris's mother came in reeling from savage reports from Deloris's Success for All teacher, Ms. Cole, Mr. Daly (regarding lunch-room behavior), and the gym teachers, with Deloris's younger sister Ladeisha and older sister Lakeisha's teachers still to visit. She began our meeting with a preemptive speech about how “some girl named Destiny” was always picking on Deloris, and how this intimidation was probably the reason for all of the ones on her report card. The tirade lasted several minutes.

I looked directly at her. “First of all, Deloris has not fully completed one assignment all year. Often, she doesn't even write her name on her paper. She has had a few arguments with Destiny, but now they are sitting in opposite corners of the room, and that has absolutely nothing to do with Deloris's grades being what they are. Deloris has an intelligent mind—she could probably be a great lawyer with her ability to argue—but she is not doing fourth-grade work and is blaming everyone else for it. The time to make excuses is over. The
only
way for Deloris to pass fourth grade is for her to take responsibility for her own schoolwork. That is it.” I had never spoken so forcefully to someone I had just met.

My speech seemed to connect. By the end of the conference, Deloris said, “I promise I'm going to really do my work and try hard all the time.”

Athena Page's mother (also named Athena Page), whom I knew
relatively well already, nodded vigorously when I talked about Athena's chattering at inappropriate times. Athena sat silently, nervous and fidgety.

Ms. Page told me, “Thank you for the good news about math, but you
will
see an improvement with the talking. Athena, tell Mr. Brown what punishment you're on.”

“No TV.”

“And?”

Athena's face fell. “No Christmas.”

Eddie's and Tayshaun's parents were the only no-shows, giving 4-217 an excellent percentage of attendance. Karen and I dragged ourselves out at 8 p.m., cotton-mouthed from setting personal talking records. Progress was happening, though. I could feel it. And dammit, Athena Page was going to have Christmas.

The next morning I expected two things to happen, and neither did. First, I thought Mr. Randazzo would approach me at lineup to transfer Sonandia to Karen's class. He didn't, and Sony led the 4-217 line as usual. The second thing I counted on was to see Ms. Richardson in my classroom when I arrived with the group, but she wasn't there. Mr. Randazzo swung by at 8:30 and said, “Heyyy, Dan! Cordelia Richardson's out, back problems or something. Okay?”

Not okay, Mr. R. There was no way I could keep the strict-discipline momentum going by myself.

Surprisingly, the day went fine. Kids adapt quickly to some things, and they behaved as if Ms. Richardson were still in the room, save for a few minor scuffles and disruptive insults. My spirits were also buoyed by having a bonus day with Sonandia, and simply that it was Friday, day of anticipatory, limitless tolerance.

Walking down the hall for dismissal, Sonandia wrapped her hand in mine and said, “Mr. Brown, will you please be my daddy?”

“I'm your teacher, Sonandia.” And not for much longer.

“Please be my daddy!”

*    *    *

I felt lonely all weekend, even though I was surrounded by friends. I couldn't explain what I was feeling and didn't bother to try. My parents encouraged me to resign to salvage my health. Twice I dialed several digits of Jess's phone number before hanging up. I talked to Karen for a long time on Sunday night.

Monday morning, Sonandia was in my line, and, thankfully, Ms. Richardson was in my room. She said she had back problems and might soon need an operation. With her around, the week sped by swiftly. We neared our big multiplication test. Half of the class understood the concepts and knew the times tables inside out. The other half might as well have been playing their Game Boys during all of our lessons.

Sonandia stayed in my class every day, and no one said anything. On Friday, November 21, the other shoe dropped.

Ms. Richardson was absent, and I got word that she was undergoing back surgery. She would never coteach with me again. I had hoped for a collaborator for the rest of the year, or until Christmas at the bare minimum, but I wound up with one for just six school days. When I announced that Ms. Richardson was gone, the class reacted with genuine groans of disappointment. Their sadness took me by surprise; I thought they hated her for her ultratight discipline. In six days, they had gotten attached.

I was eating lunch in 217 when Jennifer jogged in. “Mr. Brown, they need you in the lunchroom right now. You have to come down!”

The scene in the cafeteria was not what I expected. Sonandia had separated herself from the class and was sitting by the window, her face buried in her arms on the table. She was crying hard. Sonandia
never
cried in front of the class. Her pals, Gladys Viña and Julissa, patted her on the back.

“Sonandia, what's wrong?” I asked frantically.

She shook her head, not looking up.

“She's upset,” Gladys V. explained.

“Tell me what happened,” I said to the support crew.

Sonandia lifted her head. “I don't want to make the change. Please. I don't want to make the change.”