Schooled

by Anisha Lakhani

“The ones you can convince to…you know, sorta do your homework,” Amy responded uncomfortably. “But we should get back now ’cause lunch is almost over?”

  I trailed after Amy with a million questions running through my mind. How many of my students had popular tutors? Who were these immoral people? Was Randi one of them? Did they know they were undermining everything we teachers were trying to accomplish in the classroom?

  More importantly, could I pay this little girl to be my spy?

  13

  That night I found myself staring resentfully at my sourcebook, Shakespeare, the Classroom, and You! Before I had met my students I had honestly believed that this single book was going to be my lifeboat. Now, it seemed hokey and boring and very 1950s. My students had been grudgingly turning in their assignments and occasionally participated when called on, but most of their glazed attention was on the clock above the door. One thing was certain: None of them cared about Romeo. Or Juliet. Jacob Stein had put it most eloquently:

  “Maybe if they didn’t speak like they’d been slipped a roofie we’d understand what they were saying.”

  Madeline had followed more gently:

  “Jacob, you’re so retarded. That’s how Italians speak English.”

  I had to find a way to get to them. To make the play come alive. Obviously my students thought their scene summary assignments were the dullest things imaginable. At least they didn’t have to read them. (If Amy was right about this tutoring racket, most of them didn’t.) Each summary took me fifteen minutes to go through, at least. I had bought stickers—smiley faces, stars, emoticons—for the papers that were particularly well done. But it was hard to come up with helpful comments when I realized that I could be grading the seventh-grade work of an Ivy Leaguer. If only there were a way to know for sure!

  Spending fifteen minutes on a homework assignment might not sound like a big chore, but multiply fifteen minutes by fifty students and that’s well, twelve and a half hours! I had to divide the workload over the course of two nights. That meant that even with the many free periods at Langdon I had to work the minute I got home, usually until bedtime. Bridgette had long since given up on me and I had quickly found that my dreams of getting after-work margaritas with my friendly faculty friends were just that: dreams. Nobody had approached me at the end of the day or stopped by my classroom for a friendly chat. By 3:00 the school cleared and I usually found myself walking home alone. Now, as I flipped through the pages of the sourcebook, I tried to view the lessons from Amy Greenberg’s point of view.

  “Okay, Anna, you’re a seventh-grader. What do you care about?”

  I closed my eyes and willed myself back to my thirteen-year-old self. Like Amy, I had been obsessed with where I sat at lunch. It ranked right up there with my desire to get a boyfriend, have a cool birthday party, and convince my parents to let me get my own phone line. But school itself? To my horror, I realized that I couldn’t even remember a single name of any of my seventh-grade teachers! Sure, there were a couple standouts in high school and elementary school, but the middle school teachers were one big blob. And that was what I was destined to become one day as my students tried to reflect back on their seventh-grade teachers.

  Unless I did something drastic.

  Come Monday morning I was ready and waiting when the seventh-graders filed in. The mood was almost solemn. The weekend’s six bar and bat mitzvahs had taken their toll, especially for girls like Blair and Madeline, who had made appearances at each one. Hiding behind enormous Nicole Richie sunglasses, the girls slinked in with their shoulders slumped. They looked suspiciously hungover.

  “Everyone come in, have a seat, and clear your desk except for a pen or pencil,” I stated brightly.

  “Are ge—”

  “Gel pens are fine. Any writing implement will be fine,” I cut off Jessica, the gel pen queen.

  “Are we having a test? You never said!” howled Jacob.

  “Poor Jacob, is your tutor not here to take it for you?” Benjamin snickered.

  “Immediately!” I ordered, straightening myself up and standing at the head of the long conference table. “I want nothing on this table in front of you except a writing implement. There is nothing to discuss.” A large grin threatened to escape from my lips, but I pursed my lips stubbornly. This had to be executed perfectly.

  They actually looked a little afraid.

  “I want your cell phones off, too. Not on SILENT or VIBRATE, but OFF. There will be no under the table texting during this class, and if you have to go to the bathroom, you are going to hold it till the end.” Their eyes widened and I waited as many of them took their cell phones and pressed the OFF buttons, creating the little dwindling cries cell phones make when they’ve been shut off.

  My first experience with UTT, or Under Table Texting, had occurred while I was attempting to explain the significance of Romeo and Juliet being star-crossed lovers. Nanny molester Chase van der Reedson had appeared to be looking intently at his crotch and both his hands had been moving furiously in the same direction…under the table.

  “Chase! What are you doing?” I had shouted, horrified to feel my cheeks flaming. Of course, I could depend on Benjamin to catch on to my mortification. He was absolutely delighted to scream, “Ms. Taggert thinks Chase is jacking off!”

  The class erupted. Jacob fell off his seat. Blair and Jessica ran out of the room claiming they were going to “pee in their pants.”

  “I was just…sending a text,” Chase had mumbled, as embarrassed as I was. That day I, too, avoided the cafeteria for fear that the jack-off incident would have spread throughout the seventh grade by lunch. Naturally, my worst fears had been confirmed by one of Damian’s charming e-mails:

  Date: Monday, October 24, 2005 12:10 AM

  From: “Damian Oren”

  High school is in uproar about some middle school teacher finding a student masturbating in class. Did you let the poor guy finish at least? These things can be quite painful if interrupted…

  “In fact, I never want to catch anyone texting in my classroom again,” I confirmed, staring pointedly at Chase. This time, he blushed alone.

  “I am going to pass out a quiz,” I announced, starting to walk around the room. “It will remain facedown until I say you can turn it around. Then, and only then, may you all begin.” I relished the horrified silence as I put the quizzes I had prepared at 2:00 in the morning in front of the seventh graders. I was mad with excitement.

  “Begin!” I cried with a flourish, and then waited with delight to see the expressions on their faces. Benjamin burst out laughing first. A few girls giggled.

  “What the…?” Jacob blurted, then looked at me, grinning.

  “No talking. It’s a quiz. If you cannot finish, you can come take it after school,” I declared, willing myself to look stern. Delightedly, my seventh graders filled out the “quiz” questions:

  What is the most annoying reality show on TV?

  What candy would you die without?

  What song do you sing the most often in the shower?

  Which synagogue in Manhattan has the shortest service?

  Nobody looked at the clock or gave me a glazed expression of boredom. My students weren’t quite sure why they were taking such a quiz, but the questions intrigued them and they were enjoying themselves thoroughly.

  “We’re going to share our answers when you’re done, so absolutely no talking to each other till then!” I reminded them, circling the room and enjoying the looks of happiness. They were having fun.

  I may have been sacrificing one day’s worth of teaching, but I would learn a lifetime’s worth of information about them in this one lesson. And these would be the very bits of pop culture and personal interests that I would weave into my lessons for the rest of the year. For all three of my classes, my students seriously shared their views on topics ranging from reality TV and current music to candy and favorite movies. That night, my grading consisted of taking notes on their
“quizzes.” I was never more interested or focused. Because out of these quizzes came the lessons I had always dreamed of teaching. Sourcebook be damned! From now on my grammar quizzes would feature sentences about Miley Cyrus and I would always know what kind of candy to reward as prizes for Jeopardy! games. They would finally see how much I cared and then, maybe then, they would love me.

  “Ms. Taggert! Quick! Where’s the dictionary! Omigod!”

  “Jessica! Don’t scream!” I cried, but smiled warmly as I rushed over to her group to hand over a dictionary. The class had been divided into three groups of five, and each group was responsible for rewriting Romeo’s first lines describing Juliet in the style of a rap song. I had learned from their quizzes that Kanye West and 50 Cent were among their favorite artists, and when given the challenge of translating Shakespeare to rap, never were they more engaged or focused.

  “Yo yo yo she do be teachin’ the lights to burn bright, yeah yeah yeah…,” Max Briggman was bouncing up and down in the corner with one hand raised in the air, while his group jutted their necks out and made little rhythmic noises with their mouths. I had to admit, they sounded pretty good.

  “It seems she hangs like a mad rich piece ’o BLING in an Ethiop’s ear, bow wow wow…,” Max continued.

  “What does doth mean?!” I heard Sue ask urgently.

  “Look it up in the Shakespeare dictionary Ms. Taggert gave us!” Jessica cried, rushing to find her binder.

  The classroom was a flurry of excitement and energy. They had been told that they were presenting in twenty minutes, and the group to catch the meaning of the monologue with the greatest accuracy and creativity would receive bonus points on the next quiz. I was walking around the room making sure everyone was on task, but found that to my utter delight the lesson was running on its own. When the students finally presented, I found I had tears running down my cheeks. I had never laughed harder, and wasn’t quite sure if Shakespeare would be rolling in his grave or delighted that his work was the cause of such delight to a group of jaded Manhattan seventh-graders. As the class filed out, Max Briggman gave me the one compliment that made it all worthwhile.

  “Pretty dope class, Ms. Taggert.”

  14

  Thus began my teaching honeymoon. In the evenings I crafted lessons that would fuse elements of my students’ interests with the text of Romeo and Juliet. Kids actually started coming to class early to find out what I had planned. My favorite lesson involved the creation of a “missing scene” between Romeo and his first love, Rosaline, and then having the students write Dear Abby letters giving Romeo love advice. My favorite letter came from Charlotte and Michael:

  Dear Romeo,

  Maybe if you weren’t so conceited and so obsessed with being such a pimp, girls would like you better. Like, when you say Rosaline should open her lap to your “saint seducing gold,” that is actually very obnoxious of you. Like, who are you to say that your penis is like gold that can seduce a saint? Girls don’t like that kind of talk. Also, it’s really inconsiderate how you’re being all depressed and bipolar just because Rosaline won’t sleep with you. Your Mom and Dad AND your cousin Benvolio are so worried about you! There are other fish in the sea. You really need to bounce and stop being such a freak. Get out of those sycamore trees and join the human race!

  Sincerely, Charlotte and Michael

  Wow. They got it. They really got it.

  Even more impressive, they had touched on how melodramatic and inconsiderate Romeo was being toward his parents simply because Rosaline would not sleep with him. Sure it was a little unorthodox to allow them to use words like pimp, but in context it actually was used appropriately. And isn’t that exactly what Shakespeare did—use the common jargon of his day to attract all kinds of audiences? My students were so eager to share their letters and hear what others wrote that once again, the play was alive and all around us. As they filed out, I was in a state of pure bliss.

  That’s why I was surprised to see Harold Warner standing outside my classroom with an ugly grimace on his face.

  “Hi, Harold!” I said brightly, refusing to let my newfound confidence be challenged.

  “Anna, we have to have a talk…about…er, your latest lessons,” Harold began, looking around my classroom suspiciously. Over the course of the past weeks I had put up various student assignments and interesting posters and bulletins I had found. The room was cheery, bright, and everything I had dreamed my classroom would look like.

  “It seems as if all your lessons have been quite self-involved.”

  What?

  “Excuse me?” I asked, honestly confused. “Self-involved?”

  “Yes. Self-involved. Anna, it is my duty as the head of the department to tell you what other teachers have been saying about you.”

  That last comment was like a wound in my heart. As much as I had started to really love my job at Langdon, I had noticed that not a single teacher had reached out to befriend me. I was greeted with polite smiles in the faculty lounge, but nothing more than that. Usually the other teachers would find a way to sit just a little away from me so that while I was never alone, I was never a part of any of their conversations.

  “What have they been saying?” I asked, my voice quivering. Harold was unmoved. In fact, he almost seemed pleased that I was upset.

  “They say you are a show-off. That you are scoffing at our progressive ideals and teaching lessons that are centered around you. Students come running into other classes speaking of games they are playing in your class. And…talk shows in which you are Oprah Winfrey.”

  “Harold! If these kids think these are games, then I have delivered them successfully!” I exclaimed hotly. “The Jeopardy! boards and talk show games take hours to prepare, and yes, they are extremely fun, but in the joy of it the students have to read and memorize lines straight out of the unabridged version of Romeo and Juliet. We are having a blast in here, and if they don’t look at my class as work, it’s because what I’m doing is working!”

  “This is not a game-oriented school, Anna,” Harold went on, completely ignoring my arguments. “There are to be no more games in your classroom. Not every teacher can play games in their class, and we can’t help but feel as if you are doing this to become a popular teacher. None of us likes this rivalry. Now I suggest you find a way to make your classes more academic. More progressive.”

  The conversation was over. Harold marched out of my room. I slumped at my desk, sick with disappointment and anger. A recent Jeopardy! game had been quite loud. I had divided the class into boys vs. girls and there had been shouting and competitive finger pointing, but I was confident that every student walked away with full lines from Act Two completely memorized. I nearly fainted with joy when Amy had boldly stated that she wanted the Balcony Scene for $500.

  “‘A rose by any other name’,” I had begun, and the room had fallen silent, all eyes on Amy.

  “‘Would smell…’,” she began cautiously.

  “You can do it, Amy,” her teammates urged.

  “‘…as sweet so Romeo would, were he not Romeo called. Retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name, which is not part of thee, take all myself.’”

  The room had been pin drop silent, then we were all screaming and hugging Amy while the boys good-naturedly booed and stamped their feet. Yes, it had been a game, but for a seventh-grader to recite lines like that? I could have burst with pride! So what if they had had fun in the process? And that damn board had taken me the entire evening to create, not to mention the forty dollars of my own money I had spent on poster board, glitter, and markers at Duane Reade. Wasn’t progressive education about trying to find new ways to educate students?

  But Harold had a point. My classes were loud, and perhaps I had been spoiling the students with candy prizes and promises of new games every day. I would tone it down a bit and give them a project they could work on independently—Harold would like that. Hopefully I might e
ven start making some friends in the faculty.

  “What game are we playing today, Ms. T?” Max yelled, flying into the room like an airplane and zooming around the table with his arms spread open.

  Maybe I had let them run a little wild.

  “You’ll find out, but take a seat first.” I smiled, grinning as he “flew” into his seat and landed with a thud. My other students came rushing in equally boisterously, but quickly grew quiet and found their seats when they eyed the boom box I had resting at the head of the table.

  “I think Ms. T is going to let us listen to Z100,” I heard Benjamin whisper to Blair.

  “That would be so cool,” she squealed.

  I waited. And waited. When the seventh-graders realized they weren’t getting a peep out of me until they were silent, they gave up. Walking to the front of the room, I turned off the lights. I had already lowered the shades so the room was pitch black. I turned on the flashlight I had been holding in my left hand and shone it on the board.

  “Oooohhhh,” Madeline sighed. The rest of the class was too shocked to react.

  “The spotlight is on,” I announced dramatically. “Enter Romeo and Juliet.” I pressed PLAY on the boom box and the Bee Gees “How Deep Is Your Love?” began. The room was immediately filled with the 1970s ballad that most of my students, I was certain, had never heard before.

  “There’s a disco ball twirling,” I announced, circling the table. I could make out the shape of fifteen little heads looking upward at the imaginary disco ball. “Romeo enters in a white leisure suit. Juliet is across the stage, wearing…”

  I turned on the lights and shut off the music.

  “Hey!”

  “Wearing what?”

  “Where are they?”

  I ignored all the cries of frustration, which I had happily anticipated.

  “Max, what year was that scene?” I asked instead.

  He looked confused. “Um, I mean if it was Romeo and Juliet, then it was like the 1500s or whatever like you said…but that music sounded kinda seventies. And that disco ball and leisure suit description also sounded kinda seventies,” he responded.