by Dan Brown
Ms. Claxton seemed like the perfect teacher for these kids: intimidating, tough, smart, consistent, and maternal. She gave me hope (and a hand-clapping silence system), although I was not sure how I could ever intimidate the students of 4-217. Scariness appeared to be a crucial ingredient in the recipe for classroom harmony.
The brutal façade took a toll on Ms. Claxton. Two years earlier, she had suffered a stress-related heart attack. She also commuted two hours each way to get to Marion Avenue, something that did not seem to make sense. Any school would be lucky to have a Ms. Claxton. Why did she schlep all the way to hellish P.S. 85?
Ms. Claxton extended a magical offer to me. “Deloris Barlow is incorrigible. I know. If I've had them, they're always my children. Anytime you want her out, just give me a call, and you can send her right up.” I thanked her profusely for everything.
The next morning I received cheers when I arrived in the cafeteria for lineup. “Mr. Brown's here! All right!”
“Yay, Mr. Brown!”
“You're not gonna let them split us up again, right?”
“It was terrible!”
“Please don't let them split up the class. We want to stay with you!”
Thanks, Tayshaun, I thought. I didn't know you cared.
Despite the flare of class spirit in the lunch room, we instantly reverted to the deluge of mini-problems upon entering room 217. Hamisi was munching on Doritos and tried to hide them in his shirt when I noticed, so I trashed the whole bag. Six kids did not have pencils. Gladys Ferraro and Verdad suddenly could not bear sitting next to each other. Sonandia's group earned a star toward the much-rumored Halloween party, but Eddie cost everyone a strike and landed himself in lunch detention by roaming over to Lito's group without permission. Deloris called Destiny a fat lesbian again and Destiny cried. The little nothings were snowballing into a monster. I could feel the room tilting out of control.
Clap-clap. CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
The kids stared blankly. Clap-clap. CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
I was clapping hard with a crazed, welded-on smile. Clap-clap. CLAP-CLAP-CLAP! “Now you do it!” I shouted insanely. The kids could not discern whether I was serious or had just morphed into some psychopathic drill sergeant.
Finally, Sonandia clapped. I clapped back. Then they all followed. Then I clapped. They clapped again in response.
“Everybody get up!” I called.
The kids obeyed and I performed the rhythmic clap, striking a ready-to-pounce pose à la Michael Jackson's “Thriller” video. Everyone followed suit, cautiously smiling.
I kept the lively stop-start dancing going for a while, cavorting into consistently weirder freeze-poses. In moments, Destiny forgot all about Deloris's meanness. Eddie followed directions. Gladys F. and Verdad were laughing together. In mid-gyration, I glanced at the door to see Ms. Guiterrez peering in with a “what the hell is this?” expression on her face. I didn't care. Thank you, Janet Claxton!
P.S. 85 had a computer lab on the third floor with thirty Dell laptops in a metal case on wheels. The kids had Computers fifty minutes per week for one-third of the school year. Grades four and five were assigned to the first cycle, from September to December.
The head computer teacher, Valerie Menzel, was young but proved herself a decidedly unfriendly colleague. Ms. Menzel randomly paired kids together for each computer, stridently demanding total silence as she demonstrated the multistep processes of changing font sizes and colors in Microsoft Word. If the kids talked or touched anything during her harangue, Menzel would stop and slam the kid's laptop shut like some sort of Joycean schoolmaster.
Since sustained total silence is hard for kids anywhere and was supremely impossible for 4-217, Menzel would usually end by either threatening never to have us back and reminding us how incalculably far beyond us the other classes were, or she would grumpily capitu-late and say, “Type whatever you want.” I would have been more inclined to respect Ms. Menzel's austerity if she had cogent lessons to deliver, but all my students did under her was copy sentences from the overhead projector.
I was disgusted that this was the extent of my kids’ in-school exposure to computer technology. (My classroom had no computer, although I was promised one several times throughout the year. It never showed up.) Changing font colors for three weeks? Type whatever you want? I remembered, as a fourth-grader in 1990, getting excited about geography and history by playing the interactive Oregon Trail or Carmen Sandiego social studies games during specially designated class time. I learned keyboarding in school with Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing software, which was a blast.
Now in the new millennium, baffled students were told to type whatever they wanted on a blank screen with a blinking cursor. They had enough trouble writing anything with a pencil and paper when given very specific instructions. To me, this computer class exemplified the gap between schools in more affluent neighborhoods and P.S. 85.
This chilly mid-October morning was an indiscriminate-typing period. Gladys Ferraro and Bernard, unwilling partners, had been at each other's throats since entering the lab. When Ms. Menzel called open season on Microsoft Word, Bernard snatched the laptop. Gladys F. made a clumsy lunge to swipe it away and fell out of her seat. Lakiya saw this and laughed, causing Verdad, Eddie, and Asante to start laughing too. “Shut up!” Gladys F. cried. Ms. Menzel sped over and slammed Gladys F. and Bernard's laptop shut, confiscating it. Bernard clenched his fists in a slow burn. Minutes after returning to 217, Bernard upended Hamisi's desk, prompting Hamisi to swing his right fist into Bernard's temple. I tore them apart and sent them to Mr. Randazzo's office. Lakiya shouted that Hamisi “punched like a bitch,” and five kids cackled in concurrence. I scrambled to regain control, but the sudden, vicious fight threw the class energy way offkilter. The rest of the day was a mess that no amount of rhythmic clapping could salvage.
I had a recurring daymare of being shadowed by a small fleet of robotic Ms. Guiterrez clones. I imagined coming home to find one in my kitchen, dressed in floral pajamas, dancing to her iPod and cooking something that involved three frying pans. On the futon, a Guiterrez antagonized two others by insisting on watching reruns of Growing Pains, and the latter Guiterrezes lunged for the remote control. Another Googled herself on my computer, while a towel-turbaned Guiterrez sat on the edge of my bed, reading a printout of my journal. She snapped Bubble Yum and shook her head indignantly, mystified and offended by every word.
I have not met a teacher who has not occasionally wished for a specific kid or two to be absent. Every day I strode into lineup hoping not to see Lakiya Ray. She was always there. Eric Ruiz played with my hopes by coming in late four times a week.
But on Friday, I wanted them all there. It was Picture Day.
Lito Ruiz wore his Lamar Odom jersey. Cwasey sported a yellow collared shirt, something never again repeated by the resident Kid in Sweatpants. Sonandia's hair was up in Princess Leia side-buns. Even Asante was on time. We had everybody.
I could feel a landmark moment materializing as we arranged ourselves on the auditorium stage. The photographer, apparently free of any obligation to adhere to Department of Ed guidelines for how not to interact with children, snapped at my uncooperative characters. “Hey fool! Stop being stupid and stand up straight, or I'll make you fall down!” I stood beside Deloris Barlow, and we all smiled like a big family on vacation.
After the picture, Asante handed me a note from her mother. At dismissal the day before, I had scribbled a letter to Mrs. Bell asking if she had a contactable phone number or if we could arrange a conference in person. I opened Mrs. Bell's sealed envelope and found two splotched pages covered front and back in Asante's curvy handwriting with “I will be good in school.” I sent home another note, this time fully explaining what I wanted.
Gladys F., always on time and usually cheerful, was not in the class line Monday morning. At 8:30, Ms. Guiterrez delivered her to 217. Gladys looked at the floor, and I noticed a nasty, swollen purple shiner on her left eye. “It's okay.
She's fine. She fell,” Ms. Guiterrez said. “Come to my office on your prep to talk about the observation.”
She left before I could mention that I already had a meeting scheduled with Tayshaun Jackson's social worker during my prep, so I sent Sonandia up to her office with a note. She responded that we would meet after school. Every time I dealt with Ms. Guiterrez, I felt a watery sickness in my gut.
My prep was slated for 11:30, but 11:30 came and went and the scheduled teacher, Randy Croom, did not show up. At 11:37, a man on crutches entered 217, claiming he would cover my prep. My mouth opened in astonishment at who I was about to hand over 4-217 to: Wendell Jaspers!
Wendell, a sixty-year-old, snowy-haired first-year Fellow, had been my think-pair-share partner for a week of Region One training in August. In our introductory activity, he had turned to me and explained, in a geriatric Jimmy Stewart voice, “I always believed that this Teaching Fellows program was intended for people who have gone out and made their mark on the world to come into a classroom and share their experience and expertise with young people. That's why I'm surprised to see so many young people. Like you, for example. Someone like you has made no mark on the world whatsoever. It's not your fault; it's just your youth. So, I really don't know what you could bring into a classroom.” Then, under his breath, “No mark whatsoever.” Most of our week passed in frosty silence after that.
“I'm an ATR now,” Wendell said as I handed him the 4-217 chalk. ATRs were subs. “Bounced around a bit trying to find a firm placement, but now it looks like I'm staying at Eighty-five, mostly with Cathy [Catherine Fiore]. She's a piece of work.”
I told the class that Mr. J.’s word was law, and that he had consummate reign over the Rewards and Detention lists. Jaspers made a sour face and proclaimed, “Thank you, Mr. Brown, but I have no need for your lists. These children are about to learn that I'm playing a much more severe game than that.”
I had no idea what that meant. Out of curiosity concerning the severe game, I decided to risk two extra minutes of lateness with Tayshaun's social worker. Jaspers withdrew a coin from his pocket and dramatically held it out, like Moses with his staff. I held my breath as he temporarily released one of his crutches.
“This… is a penny! Every student will receive one penny and one piece of paper. You will observe the penny. Whoever writes the most observations, wins.”
“What do we win?” several kids shouted.
“For the winner, I will replace that penny with these”—Jaspers took cash out of his pocket—“two one-dollar bills.”
“OH MA GOD!”
The class erupted with wild energy. Lito, Cwasey, and Joseph jumped up and down. Lakiya started hooting. Eddie paced frantically, and a desk in group five was suddenly on the floor. “Who will volunteer to give out the papers?” Jaspers yelled over the din.
Me! Me! ME! ME! ME!
I slipped out of the room and closed the door, the fracas clearly audible in the hall. The social worker, Ms. Rincón, politely deflected my apologies for being late and asked me what I thought of Tayshaun, so I launched into a state-of-the-union speech. I offered the idea of making comic books as an avenue for getting him engaged in narratives. I mentioned his exceptional computational math skills and his (occasionally excessive) sociability with his peers. I talked about how he shuts down so entirely when upset that it takes him a half hour just to speak again. Lastly, I mentioned his tendency to deal out homophobic epithets.
The social worker nodded. She told me Tayshaun's family is very tragic, touching lightly on his institutionalized twin brother and drug-afflicted single mom, her words corroborating Ms. Slocumb's account. After we finished our lengthy speeches, Ms. Rincón gave a nod of closure. “So what happens now?” I asked.
“I'll put it all in my report. Talk to Mom, see about the comic books. That's a really good idea, but it's tough to get progress. I have a lot of other cases.”
“How many?”
“Seventy-seven.”
I headed back to 217 to find a lawless rumpus. Baskets of classroom materials were dumped across the floor in the back of the room, with Lakiya and Verdad lifting fistfuls of linker-cubes and slamming them down against the tile. Joseph and Dennis were taking turns pummeling each other in the bicep. Destiny, Tiffany, and Athena (a newly formed vocal trio, inspired and named after the teenie-pop “Cheetah Girls”) were singing in hyper-soprano. Marvin and Daniel, my two illiterate kids, had covered their desks in dark scribbling. Wendell Jaspers yelled for order, slamming a meter stick against terrified Sonandia's desk. The noise was ear-crushing.
“Mr. Brown is here! Mr. Brown is here!” Jaspers boomed in futility.
I shut off the lights. Clap-clap CLAP-CLAP-CLAP! Several kids looked up. Clap-clap CLAP-CLAP-CLAP! Half of the class returned the claps. I did it again. And again. By the seventh set of claps, we had silence.
Jaspers spoke loudly. “Mr. Brown, because of extremely unfortunate unruliness, we haven't gotten to review our observations and find out who our two-dollar winner is. Do you think we could spend a few minutes now to finish it off?”
I glared. Maybe if you had been on time, Wendell, we could have found our two-dollar winner easily within the allotted period. Maybe some of the extremely unfortunate unruliness is your fault. And not maybe, but definitely, the clock says it's lunchtime, and the last thing I want to do is allow your bungled lesson to impinge on my eating minutes.
“Sure,” I said, receiving big cheers. “Silence! Or you'll get a strike.”
Mr. Jaspers called on Maimouna, the quietest kid in the class, to read her list. She speed-mumbled for a minute, her face three inches from the paper. The resultant lag stoked the room's wildness. Jaspers didn't know what to do. When Maimouna finished, he called on several other kids, but kept no master list of observations. Confused and hounded, Mr. J. gave one dollar to Maimouna and one to Asante. Kids cried in protest as Jaspers left, and we got to lunch sixteen minutes late. The rest of the day was a loose mess.
Immediately after dismissal, Wendell approached me on the blacktop. “Mr. Brown, I really respect how you handle that class. They are a tough group. I don't know how you do it.” I appreciated Wendell's compliment, but he immediately undermined himself. “I have my doubts about some of the young women here,” he said, in confidential tones. “This really is a man's job.”
I had a mental image of Janet Claxton breaking his crutches and bludgeoning him with them. “I have to go, Wendell.”
I jogged upstairs, entered Ms. Guiterrez's office, and sat down.
“Mr. Brown, what can I say? Your lessons are very good. Your management and classroom environment are terrible.”
My teeth clenched. It had been a hell of a day already. I was first to acknowledge that I didn't have complete order like Paul Bonn or beautiful student work bedecking the walls like Catherine Fiore. But I was not terrible.
“Your kids behaved fine for the observation, but observations are not shows. What is important is how they behave every day for you, and I know it's not like that. How do you feel in your classroom? How does the room around you make you feel?”
“All right.”
Ms. Guiterrez shook her head. “If you would just walk in now and sit down at your desk, how would you feel? Would you feel good?”
I suspected a trick question. “Yes,” I said tentatively.
“I don't think so. Your room is… not lively. It has no energy. On the walls, I mean.” The August memory shot to mind of Guiterrez forcing me to turn my mom's colorful borders backside-up. “And worst of all, it is a mess.”
She had a point that I had barely any student work on display. My teacher's desk was a chaos of papers. I had not made those things priorities.
“Ms. Barrow is going to help you get these things on track. When your classroom looks good, everything works better. Nobody likes to be in a terrible classroom. I also highly recommend that you walk around and look carefully at the rooms of some of the experienced teachers. It can be very help
ful to you.”
Ms. Guiterrez shared her office with Abigail Barrow, a well-dressed older lady who helped with lower-grade teacher resource support. With the mention of her name, Ms. Barrow roused herself from reading some memo and joined the conversation. I was not thrilled about this new mentorship proceeding under Guiterrez's scornful eye, but I needed help and here it was. Ms. Barrow asked what I was teaching right now.
“In math, we're doing place value. In writing, we're doing memoirs. In social studies, we're finishing map skills. We're going to start Native Americans next week.”
Ms. Barrow's and Ms. Guiterrez's eyes lit up at the mention of Native Americans. Guiterrez inquired, “What are the focus points of that new social studies unit?”
“I think mainly the Iroquois and Algonquians from the New York textbook.”
The women exchanged a knowing glance. Ms. Guiterrez asked, “You need to have all of this planned out before you begin. What are the enduring understandings?”
I hesitated. There was definitely a preconceived correct response to this. “I guess they will have an enduring understanding of the Native Americans’ lifestyle and culture,” I offered.
Wrong answer. Guiterrez asked in a deeply patronizing voice, “Mr. Brown, does it really matter if the students understand the lifestyle and culture of the Iroquois people?”
I thought it did. Wasn't that what elementary school social studies was about? I remembered making a diorama of ancient Egypt, and bringing in a kimono for my fourth-grade report on kabuki theater. We took mental field trips to the battle of Gettysburg, and stared at photographs from different vantages of the Taj Mahal. I recalled social studies at Johnson Elementary as a mishmash survey across time and continents, and I loved it.
Ms. Guiterrez threw off my concentration with her pronunciation of “Iroquois.” She said it exactly like “Iraqi.” I also was not sure if her pointed question was rhetorical, but she answered it aloud. “It doesn't matter. What matters is literacy. How is your social studies unit going to be a vehicle for improving literacy skills? Do you think it will make a difference on the Test if your students know a lot about Iroquois lives?”