I got a pencil. “Respectful. How respectful were you? A one?”
“Two,” he said.
I checked two. “You had supplies, you had homework? You had a positive attitude? I think that’s a two. You used appropriate language? Not so good, right?”
“I spoke French and English, yeah, that was fine,” he said.
“No, I mean anytime people were trying to say anything, you were making all kinds of weird sounds, right?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“No.”
I signed his sheets. “I’m sorry I had to send you down. I want to get to know you and I want things to go better.”
“You know me,” Carson said.
“I want to know the real you,” I said.
“That was the real me!” he said, and left. He really just needed a tutor for an hour a day. Middle school was destroying him. I was part of the machine of his destruction.
Next class, Emily P. and Emily R. both chose to write about peaches, and Frankie chose the onion. It turned out that all but one of the kids in the class lived on Russell Lake.
“Russell Lake is trashy,” said Frankie, looking up pictures of onions on Google.
“There’s too many people, the houses are way too close,” said Emily P.
“There’s crazy people around Russell Lake,” said Emily R.
“I’m the only person in here from Mossfield,” said Rosabelle.
I asked her what Mossfield was like.
“Eh,” said Rosabelle. “My neighborhood’s trashy.”
“How do you spell tasty?” asked Emily P. I wrote it on the board.
Peaches are so sweet and juicy, Emily P. wrote. There yellow red and orange there round tasty and very soft the middle of the peach has a big pit. Frankie lost his temper while trying to move a photograph of an onion into a Keynote slide. “I DON’T like doing this stuff!” he said. Over his laboriously pasted-in onion picture, he wrote: Onions give you protein. They have amazing flavors.
The Keynote app had just had an upgrade, and the resizing of text boxes worked slightly differently than it had, which made for some confusion. I thought of how many clouds of unknowing were enveloping these students during a single hour of a Wednesday afternoon at school: they didn’t know how to spell, didn’t know how to skim through search results in Google, didn’t know how to pan for gold in a Wikipedia article, didn’t know whether peaches had pits, didn’t know what varieties meant in the context of fruits and vegetables, didn’t know the difference between they’re and there, didn’t know how to use the updated version of the Keynote app, didn’t know why Mrs. Wallace wanted them to make a Keynote presentation based on one of the foodstuffs mentioned in the chapter titles of Esperanza Rising, didn’t know any of the Spanish words that were sprinkled throughout Esperanza Rising, didn’t know what I as a substitute would or wouldn’t allow them to do, and didn’t know whether their being sent to a remedial literacy class meant that they were stupid. They had nothing but music to hold on to—music, and video games, and sports, and pictures of their dogs.
“I want to get a boxer,” said Emily P. to Emily R.
“Can we have free time now?” asked Emily R.
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
Rosabelle told me about a Wii activity she liked called Mii, where you make random people. “I’ve made myself,” she said, “I’ve made Emily P., I’ve made my family.” We talked about various iPhone disasters. “My brother had his iPhone, with all his pictures, in his pocket and he went into the lake,” said Emily P. “He put it in rice but it still didn’t work.”
And then suddenly their iPads were zipped away and I watched my Russell Lake and Mossfield friends walk out the door. For the last block of the day I had only one student, Jacob. He was supposed to put on his headphones and use a piece of instructional software called System 44. “Please have him work quietly,” said the sub plans. “He will try to chat.” Jacob was a porcupine hunter, he told me, and a skeet shooter; he shot hundreds of clays every weekend, and he had to pay for his clays, which got expensive. “I’m on the Maine state team,” he said. “Most of the time I get twenty-five out of twenty-five. My parents own a hundred and thirty acres in Wallingford, so I shoot a lot.” He used a Beretta semiautomatic shotgun. “It’s not like a normal shotgun—there’s no kickback on it at all. It’s my first year on the team.”
“Impressive,” I said. “Sounds like it makes you happy.”
“Yep. Can I go to the bathroom?”
Two minutes later he was back. “Somebody in the bathroom wrote tons of swears on the door,” he said. “Would you like me to go down to the office to tell the custodians?”
“You might want to wait till the end of the day,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen now.”
Jacob put on his headphones and let the jokey software man from System 44 teach him how to read better. After twenty minutes, he packed up to go. “Have you been living in Maine your whole life?” he said.
I said, “We moved to Maine about fifteen years ago—thank you for asking—when my kids were small. I was born in New York City and grew up in upstate New York.”
“I don’t know how you can live in New York City, with all the people,” he said. “It feels so claustrophobic.” Jacob was off to another literacy class, he said, where they read aloud to each other. “Have a good day. Are you going to be in here again?”
Maybe, I said. “I’ll see you around.”
“Bye,” he said.
I sat for ten minutes, waiting for the day to end. When the dismissal bongers bonged and first wave was announced, I went to Nurse Ritter’s office. She was out, but Waylon was there to drop off his chart. I asked him if he was feeling better.
“Yep,” he said, with a cheerful note in his voice, but he looked sluggish and heavy-lidded. He walked slowly off down the hall. Nurse Ritter returned.
“I just wanted to briefly mention Waylon’s situation,” I said to her. “Waylon volunteered that he’s taking thirty milligrams of Paxil. He seemed catatonic.”
“Yes,” said Nurse Ritter.
“Mr. Fields said take him down to the nurse when he’s hearing voices. Well, that’s one of the side effects of Paxil, as I’m sure you know. It seems like a hell of a lot of drug to be in his system.”
“That’s not all, either,” said Nurse Ritter.
“He just seems like a guy who’s seriously struggling with overmedication,” I said.
“You and I do not disagree on that topic.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” I said.
A girl with a knee injury came in to get her shoes. “I’m having a private conversation,” said Nurse Ritter.
“My feet smell,” said the girl. She left.
“I’m just thinking that there are long-term effects,” I said. “And he seems like a wonderful kid, a really nice kid. He got sad when he started middle school, so he’s been taking this monstrous thing ever since. I know you know this.”
“I do,” the nurse said. She spoke hesitantly, not wanting to say too much. “It’s not like it’s one provider. Unfortunately it’s a societal and a cultural thing. We want that quick fix, and we think that it comes in a pill. And it’s also very much about individual family culture. Sometimes this is a very strong current running through the family culture. As a school nurse, the best I can do is take every opportunity to offer suggestions to a family, and to try to educate a child. But ultimately I can only offer what I can offer. And I do offer!”
“I just thought, Wow, that’s a lot of Paxil.”
“Right, and if only that was all, but it’s not. It’s a sad story. The overmedication of children, and for that matter of adults, is problematic in our society. The prevalence is ever on the rise.”
“Is it still on the rise?” I as
ked. “I thought maybe it had peaked out.”
“No, it hasn’t,” Nurse Ritter said. She seemed as if she wanted to tell me more but thought better of it. “I appreciate your feedback. Just know that I’m very attentive to this issue. I’m working very closely with the providers to come to some terms. It’s crazy. It’s a lot, lot, lot of pills. We just don’t know what to do with our feelings.”
“Thanks so much,” I said. “I’ll see you again.”
Part of the track team was out in the hall, shouting. I handed in my ID tag and waved goodbye to the secretaries.
Farewell, Day Twenty-three.
DAY TWENTY-FOUR. Wednesday, May 28, 2014
LASSWELL ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, SECOND GRADE
HAMBURGER WRITING
A WEEK WENT BY, and then I was back at Lasswell Elementary to relieve Mrs. White, a second-grade teacher who’d just had her knee replaced. “Good class, but a few strong personalities,” said the sub plans. “Keep Blaze and Dorrie apart. Redirect Boyd and let him use the deadphones that are in his desk to block his ears so he can focus.” Boyd was allowed to use something called the T stool, and so was Evan: “They can share it throughout the day.” Both of them owed wall time at recess from the day before.
Blaze, a pretty, sprightly girl in a pink flowered dress, gave me her lunch money and showed me the T stool, which was shaped like a T and did not stand up by itself—the effort of staying balanced apparently helped “strong personalities” fidget less. The sub plans were four pages long and thorough. From 8:40 to 9:00, while Blaze passed out a worksheet on plural nouns, I drew smiley faces on turned-in homework. Then Tatiana led the class in the good-morning song, which went “Good morning, how are you? So glad to sing together, in any kind of weather. So glad to sing along, in song, together.”
Tatiana went to the easel to read the morning message from Mrs. White, written in red marker. It was intentionally filled with mistakes: “Good morning. it is a wonder ful wednesday please be a grate class for the sub and work hard Keep your morning werk paper at you’re desk so you can correct it in an minute. Love, Mrs. White.”
This class was full of good spellers and punctuators, and we corrected the mistakes without too much trouble, while Boyd and Evan roamed and chattered. The main problem wasn’t Boyd, though—the main problem was the loud first-grade class on the other side of the room divider. Insulated floor-to-ceiling walls between classrooms are a good thing.
From 9:10 to 9:20 we turned singular nouns into plurals, and then I read the class some of chapter 11 of Because of Winn-Dixie, about a girl named Opal and a dog named Winn-Dixie. The kids loved this book. Opal, Opal’s dad, and Winn-Dixie sit out a terrible thunderstorm on a couch, and Opal scratches Winn-Dixie behind the ears the way he likes. Suddenly Opal gets choked up because she realizes how much she loves her dad. I loved him because he loved Winn-Dixie. I loved him because he was going to forgive Winn-Dixie for being afraid. But most of all, I loved him for putting his arm around Winn-Dixie like that, like he was already trying to keep him safe. While I read it I almost got choked up.
“That was a good chapter,” I said. “How many people here—quietly—have dogs?”
We went around the class hearing who had what kind of dog. Hunter had a black Lab. Blaze’s dog’s name was Hercules. Dorrie had a German shepherd named Cara who was three. Hugh had two dogs: “Stormy’s brown and Cash is black,” he said, “and they’re both crazy. They run around drooling and they go to the bathroom in my room all the time when I accidentally forget, so it smells bad in there.” Niall had a husky named Fang and a boxer named Jumper. Megan showed a picture of her dog on her phone. Denny had a German shepherd named Daisy. Rollo had ten dogs, one of which was a Chihuahua named Boss, and he had ten cats. “One of them is Cleo, and the rest I can’t remember their names,” he said. Braden had two dogs, one named Rita and one named Topper. Archer also had two dogs. “One is a golden retriever–Great Pyrenees mix. Her name’s Tippy. And I have two cats that are sisters. One’s name is Red, which is my cat, and my mom’s cat’s name is Pawsie.” Agnes had a dog that was part a mix between a black Lab and an English springer spaniel. “She’s really crazy and we have to train her. We can’t have any cats because my dad’s allergic.” Boyd’s dad had a pit bull named Wing.
Then Blaze handed out copies of Scholastic News, which carried an article about how to survive some common “summer bummers” like jellyfish stings, poison ivy rashes, tick bites, and sunburn. Boyd threw his copy of Scholastic News on the floor, and I banished him to a spot in some blue cushions off to one side of the group. Rollo read about the importance of tucking your pants in your socks. The shiny, flimsy pages of the newsletter rattled. We read about a chemical in broccoli that may work as a sunscreen.
“You know what’s strange?” I said. “Everybody says, ‘Oh god, I hate broccoli.’ It’s delicious.”
“It’s so good!” said Megan.
“Especially in mac and cheese,” said Braden.
“I threwed it up,” said Boyd.
“TMI,” said Blaze.
It was windy and rainy out, so we had to have recess in the room. Blocks came out, and counting games, and checkerboards—all sorts of tabletop fun, most of which ended up on the floor. The room was destroyed. Hugh came up. “Me and Boyd owed five minutes on the wall from yesterday,” he said. “I’ve already been there for two minutes, and he’s been playing.”
“I want to shake your hand, sir,” I said. “Very responsible. Boyd, towards the end you owe me five, right?”
“Okay,” said Boyd.
Denny said he had nobody to play with, so we looked at a book about wolves together.
When it was time for Boyd to serve his wall punishment, I sat next to him and asked him what he liked doing on the weekend.
“I go to my dad’s,” said Boyd, “and I like to go dirt biking. I used to have a miniature bike, but it’s too big, so I have bikes about this tall now.” He held his hand at his waist.
“It must be a bit frightening to get on a bike,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s real frightening,” Boyd said. “Now I have a trail bike with a clutch and a shifter. I have a race bike, too. There’s trails down at my grampy’s shop. That’s where I ride.”
We talked about his little brother, about four-wheelers, and about how much he hated adjusting the loose seat on his pedal bike. Boyd, who had been a mad hatter up to that time, was perfectly able to have a calm conversation if he wanted to. He was not the problem—school was the problem.
“It’s time to clean up,” whispered Dorrie.
“TIME TO CLEAN UP!” I said.
“My waist hurts,” said Agnes.
At eleven o’clock they had to take a unit 8 math test. Dorrie passed out privacy folders and everyone more or less settled down. But the test was too hard. Tatiana was stumped by this question: There are three pennies in 1/5 of the pile. How many are there in the whole pile? I drew her five rows of three pennies each. She sort of got it temporarily, but others didn’t. Another baffler: How much is 1/3 of twelve pennies? I wanted to apologize to the class for these premature fraction problems. Three whiz kids could do them fine; for others it was just more fly-buzz of confusion in their heads. Second grade was too soon for this.
Agnes, who was done early, worked on an idiom assignment: draw a cartoon to illustrate “letting the cat out of the bag.” Braden read. Dorrie and Blaze squabbled. Boyd and Hugh threw pencils. I collected the math tests and then drew Dorrie and Blaze aside. “I want you each to tell each other something nice right now. I need to see kindness.”
“Dorrie, you’re my best friend,” said Blaze.
Dorrie said nothing and turned away. “Let’s hear it,” I said. “Something nice. Look at this beautiful dress Blaze is wearing. I’m going to count to three. One—”
“You look pretty today,” said Dorrie.
While I was negotiatin
g with the two of them, the rest of the class disintegrated into a state of lawless riot. “VOICES AT ZERO!” I said. It was time to do something called “Hamburger Writing.” I waved one of the worksheets they’d filled out yesterday, taken from a website called SuperTeacherWorksheets.com. In the outlined top bun of a schematic drawing of a hamburger they were supposed to have recorded their title and main idea, which was “Memorial Day Fun,” or some such. Then came three layers—the tomato layer, the cheese layer, and the hamburger layer—each of which was meant to hold a recorded detail of their Memorial Day experience. Underneath it all was the bottom bun, in which they were to write a closing thought. Niall’s hamburger, for instance, had going to Friendship park on the tomato layer, playing with my cousins for two hours on the cheese layer, playing video games on the hamburger patty layer, and, on the bottom bun, I liked Memorial Day.
“So the top bun is going to be your main idea,” I said.
“Ugh,” said Hugh.
Now, while referring back to their “Hamburger Writing” worksheets, they had to write a rough draft of a paragraph about how much fun they’d had on Memorial Day, two days earlier. Pencils began twirling. Niall wrote, On Momoriel day me, juliun, and Aunty sarah, Went to Freindship park for one hour than we went home. Agnes wrote, My great grandfather walked in a parade because he was in the army. Then later, me and my family had a BBQ with our firends Andrew and Lisa. Rollo wrote that he’d found a baby bird in the garage. “It broked its wing,” he told me, “so I saved it.” Boyd, sitting under his desk, had figured out how to stick the cap of a pen to the tip of his tongue.
Next door, Mrs. Thurston’s class began loudly chanting, “WHEN MY HANDS ARE AT MY SIDES, AND I’M LINED UP STRAIGHT AND TALL . . .” It gave me a shiver when I heard it.
“It’s time for lunch,” said Tatiana.
After lunch they went to music class, where they colored in likenesses of Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart. Evan’s Beethoven had red wolf eyes. At 2:05 I took them back to our classroom to write several sentences about Tatiana, the Star of the Week, in the Friends Book. Tatiana liked a TV show called Lab Rats, her favorite animal was a dog, and her favorite colors were blue and hot pink. Summer wanted to know how to spell beautiful, as in “Tatiana is beautiful.” Dorrie became crazed with boredom and jealousy and walked around the room singing to herself and rummaging in boxes and washing her hands for minutes at a time.
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