The Great Expectations School

by Dan Brown

  “Are you saying you don't feel supported?” Mrs. Boyd asked, aghast.

  “No. I definitely appreciate all the help you gave me with the coteacher situation and Ms. Barrow and everything else. And Barbara has been great as a mentor.” Dilla Zane and Mrs. Boyd shared a nod. “But the atmosphere in the school is very isolated, and I think everyone could work better with more teamwork built into the schedule.”

  Dilla Zane shook my hand. “Thank you for your honesty,” she said. Mrs. Boyd showed no expression, and they left.

  Upon the administrators’ exit, hums of chatter instantly ignited. Sayquan and Asonai had already done this lesson in Pat Cartwright's class and started crawling on their desks. Julianne Nemet looked to me to shush the class, and I did several times, but a minute or two later, some kid would naturally start talking. They were actually in much better form than usual, but Julianne Nemet was clearly flummoxed.

  “This lesson is about respect, and if you don't show me respect, I'm going to leave,” she said through gritted teeth. Sayquan laughed mockingly, and Julianne grabbed her satchel. “Fine. Good-bye.”

  And she left. I peered out in the hall, thinking this was some kind of joke, but she was gone. I had eighteen minutes until my prep, an awkward amount of time for any substantive activity. I made the kids write apology letters to Julianne Nemet, even though she owed the class and me an apology for hanging me out to dry for eighteen minutes, and reinforcing a pretty lousy life lesson about abandonment.

  Tayshaun Jackson grinned crazily as he wrote:

  Dear Ms. Nemet,

  I feel terrible about what happened. Please forgive us. That was so terrible about how you was mad.

  Love, Tayshaun

  I collected the letters and, after school, chucked them in the Dumpster.

  March

  Mr. Brown Can Moo

  “SONANDIA WAS IN A FIGHT!”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don't know!”

  “Sonandia's cryin’! She was in a fight!”

  “Where's Mr. Daly?”

  “Mr. Brown, the class gone crazy!”

  “Everybody line up! Get in line. Now! Line up! Bernard, Cwasey, Hamisi, line up! Gladys V., come here! Where's Sonandia?”

  “The bathroom.”

  “Go see if she's all right. Line up, 4-217! Where's Mr. Randazzo?”

  “Mr. Brown, Sonandia was fighting!”

  “Worry about yourself. Let's go, line it up!”

  I don't know where Gladys V. went, but Sonandia, alone, stepped slowly out of the bathroom on the far side of the cafeteria. Her face was buried in her hands. I ran to her, and everything behind me went haywire. Several kids bolted in different directions, with Eddie and Lito sprinting up the stairwell. My momentary absence was instantly interpreted as the green light to rampage.

  Sonandia's face was scratched, but the skin was not broken. She didn't want to talk. Inez, a paraprofessional, showed up and explained what had happened. Two girls from Mr. Tejera's class, sitting at the lunch table adjacent to 4-217, were mocking a special ed boy about his clothes. Sonandia saw this and got out of her seat to step between the tormentors and their prey. The two girls walked away, and when Sonandia asked the crying boy if he was all right, he attacked her, clawing her face with his sharp nails.

  I listened, but didn't know what to do. Olga Tavarez came on the scene, rushing over from her lunch duty post in the other cafeteria. I left Sony to her mother's care and ran back to my class, yanking apart tussling Bernard and Hamisi.

  Four minutes later, I had my students in our classroom and demanded silence with a more hot-blooded tone than usual.

  “Mr. Brown, you sweating.”

  “Silence, Hamisi! I want to talk to you all about lunch today. Two different and very important things happened. First, I want you to look at this ‘Mr. Brown's Words and Phrases’ poster that's been on the board every day since the fall. Words like empathy and random acts of kindness. You did an excellent job in your writing assignments about these words. But empathy and random acts of kindness don't mean anything if you just think about them sometimes or write about them. You have to do them, and you have to do them not when it's easy, but when it's hard. Really hard. That's the difference between really brave people and really lazy people. Today, Sonandia showed what it takes to be brave, to stand up for what she thinks is right. She stood up for someone who probably never had another person stand up for him before, and he got confused and Sonandia got hurt. But even though it turned out that way this time, because of what she did, in that one minute in the lunchroom, Sonandia will always have my respect. She's a brave person, and I will always respect someone who has that kind of courage. You are all capable of doing these kinds of things. Whether you actually do them proves what kind of person you are.”

  I did say all of these things, but not without breaking off between every sentence to pacify at least one out-of-control child. When I first referred to the poster, Cwasey and Lakiya yelled out about my breaking the board and covering it up. Every time I mentioned Sonandia, I received a half dozen callouts offering eyewitness accounts. The Pat Cartwright exiles mumbled audibly to each other the whole time. Toward my driving finale, Athena fell out of her chair and stopped the train. And, of course, my most important listener was not there; Sonandia was off recuperating in some cranny of Public School 85, sipping Sprite from a styrofoam cup.

  “The second thing I can't believe is what happened to our line when I left it for thirty seconds. It's sad that I can't trust you not to act like kindergartners. The kids that come with me to Ms. Bowers's and Ms. Pierson's classes know that the kindergartners and first-graders are really better behaved than some people in here.” This time I was looking for some verbal assent from the gallery, but all I got was Eric making a fart sound with his mouth. “I can't even trust some people now to be respectful when I'm talking about something that's clearly very important to me. Therefore, until I see more of a positive change, like what we had before Christmas, there are no more bathroom or water fountain privileges. Don't even ask. That is the end. Take out the ‘Comparing Fractions’ sheets we started this morning.” I wanted to call Eddie and Lito on leaving the cafeteria without permission, but publicly singling kids out led to unproductive and momentum-losing denials and power struggles. On the other hand, addressing the group with phrases like “some of you” or “some students in this class” enabled them to pass the buck.

  About ten minutes later, with Seresa and Tayshaun as my board helpers drawing greater/lesser fraction pictures, Sonandia walked in, silent and straight-faced, although her pink eyes betrayed recent crying. She opened her math folder, took out two sharp pencils, and quietly followed the lesson.

  Pat Cartwright's absence hurt. Rumors circulated about a nervous breakdown. Mrs. Boyd didn't help the swirling unease with the proclamation at Professional Development, “I spoke to her on the phone today and she didn't sound sick.” Selfishly, I viewed Pat's disappearance as a twisted validation of this job's brutal toll. I wondered if I was a sicko for looking for a bright side to a colleague's collapse.

  Steady, informed gripes from the other fourth-grade teachers about the babysitting assignments of Ms. Cartwright's split-up class forced the administration to try something new. The victim was first-year Fellow Tim Shea.

  Tim's setup as a coteacher with superorganized veteran third-grade teacher Sarina Kuo was a beautiful thing. He worked intensively with small groups within the context of a solidly preestablished, calm classroom culture. Basically, he was teaching.

  On the afternoon of Monday, March 1, the executive decision came down that Tim was to assume the reins of Ms. Cartwright's class, 4-219, starting Wednesday. “You can spend Tuesday preparing,” Mrs. Boyd told him.

  At Professional Development, Tim looked thoroughly nonplussed. “I have to leave my kids,” he said, “because the school won't pay for a sub.”

  I nodded. “It sucks.”

  “I've heard they're horrendous.�
�

  “Some of them,” I said. “If any act like real jerks and you don't want to go through Randazzo, you can send them to me to cool down. Seriously, I have experience with rockheads.” Who had I become?

  “Thanks,” Tim said. “I heard Mr. R. doesn't do jack.”

  On Wednesday morning, no 4-219 rockheads came to my room, but through the wall I could hear Tim screaming. At lunch he looked crazed, his tie loosed. “I want to hit Sayquan,” he raved. “I want to knock him out. I had to control myself. I know you're not supposed to say it, but the kid is an asshole. He's an asshole! He's a flat-out mean kid who tries to wreck everything. I can't stand him. I thought I was going to knock him out. And Fausto is such a bastard. Seriously, that's the most yelling I have ever done in my life. This is fucking ridiculous.”

  I offered a few suggestions about rewards, realizing that I was essentially looking at myself from six months earlier.

  After the second day, Tim marched to the office to reject his corrupt assignment. The administration capitulated, and Tim returned to cheers in his old room. One week later, Sarina Kuo went on leave to be a stay-at-home mom, and Tim assumed the class full-time. Things were as they should be.

  Mary, Kimberly, Asonai, and Sayquan from 4-219 returned to my watch indefinitely, but I minded much less, knowing that the alternative would be destroying Tim Shea and his class.

  Marge Foley recommended Phoebe the Spy to me as a literacy/social studies tool. The historical fiction story features a thirteen-year-old black girl who, encouraged by her tavern-owner father, poses as George Washington's maid to thwart an assassination threat. With few clues to work with and communication unexpectedly severed from her dad, timid Phoebe eventually discovers the would-be assassin's identity (a suspicious employee on the Washington estate) and planned method of murder (poisoned peas). I loved it.

  I created a unit called “Spies.” To open, I read aloud (with many historically expositional asides and manic hand gestures) the first chapter of our new class thriller. My swing voters in the Cwasey-Dennis-Hamisi clique were taken in by the espionage, and the influential class majority thus agreed with me that the story was worthwhile. Athena, Destiny, and Evley checked Phoebe the Spy out of the library before dismissal.

  We made a giant list of things we knew about spies, including “gadgets,” “secret codes,” and “the show Totally Spies.” Giant lists reliably made their day.

  I told the class we were all going to write our own spy narratives. We would revise our stories together, and ultimately publish a book of 4-217 original works. This was my splashier sequel from last summer's smash hit starring Jimmarie. I improvised to model my own spy-story plot.

  “What if, day after day, you kept coming to school, and Mr. Brown wasn't here? When you ask other teachers or Mr. Randazzo, no one will tell you where he is or if he's sick or what. So the class decides to team up and do some spy work! Lakiya and Eddie pretend to fight in the back of the room so the substitute teacher has to go over to them. But Lakiya and Eddie are only acting, getting the teacher's attention on them by creating a diversion! They do this so Evley and Gladys V. can slip out of the class unnoticed and sneak over to the office. When no one's looking, they go through the teacher files and find Mr. Brown's address. They copy it down fast on a piece of paper that Evley brought because he planned ahead. Then they put the file back so no one knows it was gone and they sneak back to class. After school, the class tells Ms. Samuels, who they know they can trust, about wanting to find Mr. Brown. Ms. Samuels rents a bus and drives them to Manhattan. They realize they're not at Mr. Brown's apartment, but at the big Toys ‘R’ Us in Union Square with the Ferris wheel! When they go inside, Mr. Brown is waiting and they have a huge party. The students are so surprised until Ms. Samuels shows them a note that Mr. Brown wrote to her. It says, ‘When they get clever, call my cell phone and take them to the party.’ And then 4-217 was the happiest and best-behaved class forever.”

  For homework, they were each to compose a first draft of an original spy narrative.

  The next morning, however, only six out of twenty-four had something to show, the lowest homework percentage of the year. With so few kids to participate, I ditched my peer-revision plans and pushed up our introductory American Revolution social studies lesson, promising my six conscientious writers that I would reward them at lunchtime.

  A laminated, full-color mega-timeline, purchased over the February break, aided me in outlining and describing the major themes of imposition, rebellion, and victory. I thought it was going well until Bernard piped up. “Mr. Brown, is George Washington alive?”

  I balked, having already mentioned numerous times that these events occurred over two hundred years ago.

  “Yes, is he alive?” Athena chimed.

  “George Washington is not alive. This was all over two hundred years ago. No one from that time is alive, and none of their children or grandchildren are alive.”

  “Is Thomas Jefferson alive?” Hamisi, who looked like he was listening, inquired in earnest. I refrained from hanging my head. In a movie, the scene would end on such a punch line, but we still had thirty minutes of this lesson to battle through.

  I explained that very few people live to be a hundred. When only Sonandia and Seresa could tell me that 1904 was one hundred years before our current 2004, I realized with similar surprise to the “What planet are we on?” revelation that these kids did not understand elapsed time, be it in minutes or decades. As a litmus test, I asked what time it would be sixty minutes from now. No hands. What time will it be one hour from now? Four volunteers. Thus, my hopes for in-depth, history-based lessons were banished to make way for my new, deceptively simple-seeming campaign for “Time.”

  I had a shaky history with bringing kids up to the classroom for lunch. The idea was first presented to me in September by Evan Krieg as an isolation punishment, but I quickly learned that spending lunch hour with my hypersocial offenders was more of a punishment for me than for them.

  One day in October, Destiny Rivera tugged on my sleeve and in the meekest voice said, “Mr. Brown, I'm having trouble with place value. Could you give me any extra help at lunchtime?” Soon, I had a motley rotation of six extra-helpees, anchored by Destiny. I knew that Destiny got extra math help in the after-school program for ninety minutes, three times a week, covering exactly the same material I reviewed at lunch periods. What she really enjoyed, what they all did, was the intimacy and attention. I couldn't blame them. But my desperate need for a midday respite slowly made “coming up for lunch” a nostalgic thing of the past. On this March day, when I appeared in the cafeteria to bring up my six budding Ian Flemings, I was besieged with pleas to tag along. I smiled at my new leverage, and Seresa, Dennis, Sonandia, Athena, Jennifer, and Evley raced up the stairs. We spent our too-short half hour analyzing Seresa's “Teacher Gone Missing”:

  One day a teacher named Mr. Planter had not come to school. But the thing is that he is alwayl at school and he is never absent so the chridren thougth that mabey he is sick. So the kids let that they pass. The next day he did not come so the students say let's investagent it. So the class had a plane to get Mr. Planter address but the office was full. So they made so much noise that all the people that were in the office came to ther class. So the shortes person sneak out of the and went to the office and went though the file and got Mr Planter adrees. So the Class got together and went to his house and when the rang the bell the door opend and then a stremer pup out It was a party for the hole class and They were very surprised and that was the story of the Teacher Gone Missing.

  The next day, nineteen kids came to school with spy stories. Most were more awkward renditions of my initial we-have-to-findMr.-Brown caper. Tayshaun wrote a five-page epic, complete with drawings of the scene where he and Dennis fistfight my captors. The work reflected enthusiasm for the material, now flowing once the seal had popped.

  I marked up each composition with longer-than-usual comments, questions, and recommendations
. Since the kids were psyched about their subject matter, this was my opportunity to zero in on clarity. I didn't need a class full of O. Henrys; coherent written thought was a major victory. They wrote second drafts in class, which I again marked up. On Friday, I tabled the spy stories to finish Phoebe the Spy and write book reviews.

  I felt reinvigorated over the weekend. I set Monday aside for exchanging spy stories with peers and making comments, using the model from my lunchtime workshop. As soon as we began, though, I sensed problems.

  I had been following—and feeling good about—the progressive draft model recommended for portfolio work, but the kids were out of steam. Three days had passed since our last tinkering with these papers, and they had already written three drafts. I should have anticipated that peer-revising wouldn't work. Many of them had a hard enough time stitching two logical sentences together, let alone giving or receiving substantive feedback. Frustration boiled over immediately. “Dennis the Spy” was dirtied on the floor, thoughtlessly pinned beneath an impaling desk leg. Gladys F. got upset with her partner Bernard and ripped his paper, so he ripped her paper. Cwasey scribbled all over Tayshaun's opus, so Tayshaun tore it up and cried.

  The folder containing all of Seresa's subsequent drafts of “Teacher Gone Missing” disappeared forever.

  I didn't know what to say. My train derailed, all in one minute, while I was talking to Evley about making sure that his readers understand the setting. I collected the surviving stories and put them in the portfolios as they were. No 4-217 spy book.

  When Ms. Croom showed up for my prep period, I shepherded my six tutors to Ms. Pierson's class in the minischool. On our way to Trisha's room, we passed K–1 assistant principal Diane Rawson's office. She called out, “Yo, Brown! I want to talk to you.” I delivered my tutors and answered the request.

  “Mr. Brown, I've noticed you've been taking some of your fourth-graders to the lower-grade rooms, like right now. How is that going?”

  “Extremely excellent,” I said in a somber tone, still raw over the spy fiasco.