The Great Expectations School

by Dan Brown

  “Great. We've noticed, and we think it's a very positive thing for the school,” Ms. Rawson said.

  Who was we? Did we include anyone who was considering “giving up on me” several months ago? I noticed Diane Rawson's gray, cigarette-stained teeth, and they somehow made me angrier.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “We had an idea. This month is Dr. Seuss's hundredth birthday. We're planning a special celebration for the lower grades, and we want to have groups of upper-grade kids going around the school to read Seuss stories to the little ones. We thought you might be interested to do it with your class as the readers. Some parents are going to whip up some green eggs for everybody. No ham, though. Too complicated. What do you say?”

  “It sounds great.”

  “Great! We're going to do it next Tuesday, on the parent-conference half day. You know, a nice thing before we give out report cards. I'll give you more details tomorrow.”

  “I have something to ask, though,” I said. “Or at least, something I'd really like. Art. I want Mrs. Kreps to come to my class for a period to make paper Cat in the Hat hats. The kids would love it.”

  “Um, we'll see. I'll have to talk to Kreps about her schedule.” Rawson's reluctance was evident.

  “Okay. Thank you for the offer. I think everything will be terrific.” I wheeled out of the office on an instant mission to track down Mrs. Kreps before Rawson got to her. I was successful, and we made a morning date for Friday.

  Off the cuff, during our social studies lesson on Wednesday, I mentioned that as a fourth-grader, I did a report on the state of Pennsylvania. Sudden and overwhelming interest in doing state projects of their own caused me to change gears and tabulate the interested students (everyone, even Lakiya) and their selected states. I did not have state projects in my plans, but I didn't want to stanch this unexpected geyser of academic enthusiasm. The next day, Maimouna (Missouri), Seresa (Florida), Jennifer (Ohio, her home state), and Destiny (Texas) brought in lavishly decorated construction-paper folders containing information printed from the Internet. I had underestimated the hunger for projects and looked to the upcoming Seuss-fest as an opportunity to execute a more structured whole-class adventure. I decided to tuck away the state projects as an ace for next year.

  Meanwhile, I sought to salvage writing lessons by focusing on a fresh concept: figurative language. I brought back my Robert Frost poems and focused several lessons on passages from Louis Sachar's Holes. Sony wrote a poem called “Touching the Sky”:

  Up! Up! So high

  People look like ants

  I see this all over town

  Why is this?

  I am touching the sky

  With its baby blue color

  Tippy-toeing on the top of a skyscraper

  Tryin’ not to fall.

  This giant sky which I'm tryin’ to reach is tryin’ to pull me and hug me

  How much more can I reach the sky? Hmm!

  Who knows?

  Up up and away I go?

  Into the sky blooming into a beautiful sky and being together. Oh I have reached

  the sky.

  It feels great!

  I announced the coming Tuesday's event, giving special highlight to 4-217’s exclusive participation, and received the hoped-for enthusiasm. I let them choose their own reading teams (a mild circus), and modeled dynamic Seussian possibilities by performing The Foot Book as a rhythm poem. Lito Ruiz's face showed life that had not been there since before the ELA Test. “Mr. Brown, I can't wait till Tuesday!”

  Mrs. Kreps's art project was a massive success. The kids were giddy with their new paper hats, giggling throughout the one-two-three-step process. The remainder of the day proved a better than usual Friday, with art catalyzing the upbeat mood.

  Over the weekend, I caught a Greyhound back to Jersey to collect my mom's comprehensive roundup of Dr. Seuss books and paraphernalia, including eleven giant red felt bow ties with safety pins, several Thing One and Thing Two dolls, and a full-body Cat in the Hat mascot suit, hat and footies included.

  Our rehearsals on Monday forebode disaster. Inhibited by their peers’ glazed-out stares and occasional mocking comments, the groups turned Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now! into indecipherable mumbles. Realizing the 217 stage was a deterrent for performance, I separated the groups for private practice time. Whatever was going to happen on Tuesday, it would at least be out of the ordinary.

  At the end of the day, I brought out the special rewards bag to bestow packs of Starburst to last week's winning group. My hand felt frantically around the bag. No Starburst. I opened and closed my desk drawers. Gone.

  Who had stolen from me? From my desk? I mentally riffled through the primary suspects’ imaginary dossiers. Deloris, my previous offender, had been banished. Lakiya, I didn't peg for a thief. Marvin had been very happy lately, and he only seemed to misbehave when he was upset. If Tayshaun had stolen the candy, he would have bragged and word would have gotten back to me. Eric did not have the guts to pull off such a risky move. I felt guilty for suspecting specific children, all of whom, or at least all but one, were innocent. I got angry at myself for not learning my lesson after Lakiya's Yu-Gi-Oh stack disappeared a couple months ago. I didn't want to lock my things away from my students. I wanted us to share a basic trust, to be a team. Reality socked me in the face; it wasn't working.

  At the back of the Professional Development room, I seethed. The fourth- and fifth-grade teachers leafed through three-inch-thick red binders, our new bibles for the coming transition from Success for All to Balanced Literacy. With the new literacy curriculum, homeroom teachers would deliver daily Writing Workshop and Reading Workshop lessons in a ninety-minute “golden block” of time. As Marge Foley explained the new flow of the day, set to begin April 13, I tried to slow my raging pulse.

  As I mulled over how I could not trust my kids, Ms. Guiterrez took the floor and gave a speech about how immensely critical the first days of Balanced Literacy would be in setting good routines that would last for the rest of the year. When the floor opened for questions, I raised my hand. “I agree that getting the routines going the first day is crucial. I have two kids [Marvin Winslow and Lakiya Ray] who I absolutely know, I am absolutely positive, will not be able to follow the workshop model and independent reading schedule. I'm worried they could throw off the dynamic for the whole group, especially in the new program's infancy when we're setting the tone. Could we set up, just for the first few days, with Ms. Devereaux or someone, a preemptive pullout of sure-fire problem kids, like we did for the Test last month? Kind of like a Balanced Literacy jail.”

  The jail comment drew some bland chuckles, and Ms. Guiterrez proceeded with her speech without acknowledging I had said anything. “We have a tough job changing gears in the middle of the year. It's going to be hard, but I have confidence…”

  Being ignored, especially after making what I felt was a reasonable and actionable suggestion, pissed me off. Ironically, I had been the only fourth-grade homeroom teacher not to send any of my kids to take the Test in Ms. Devereaux's circus room when the option was given. I waited a few minutes, raised my hand again, and made the same suggestion. I will be heard!

  Ms. Guiterrez did not look at me. “Mr. Brown, if you cannot control your own children, then there are larger problems than Balanced Literacy. Look at Ms. Mulvehill. She has Horace to deal with, and she's doing fine.”

  Melissa Mulvehill visibly cringed when Guiterrez dropped her name, forcing a weak smile out of politeness. She had been interviewing at other schools since January, and talked openly during my occasional lunches in her room about her disdain for every administrator in the school. In December, when she received a voice-mail message during lunch that a close aunt had suddenly passed away, Mr. Randazzo would not let her go to her family until the end of the day, because he could not find someone to cover her room.

  I'm finished with you, Guiterrez, I thought. You don't believe in me, and I don't believe in you. No
one knows how this is all going to end, but it's probably going to get ugly. And breathing does not equal being fine.

  I opted against marring the start of our Dr. Seuss/parent-teacher conference half day with accusations about Starburst. Instead, I bought new packs at the corner deli. The uncharacteristic morning candy distribution fueled excitement for our big day.

  Each group got a schedule listing four K–1 classes. The kids put on their hats and I selected eleven lucky bow tie wearers. I persuaded Mr. Randazzo to clear Cat Samuels's morning so she could cochaperone the festivities, and we went to work pinning on the red felt ties. For my final trick, I slipped into the Cat in the Hat outfit—surprise!—and lined up my delighted children. Ms. Rawson greeted us excitedly in the minischool lobby. “Oh my God, you have to get a picture in that costume with Kendra [Boyd]!” she bubbled.

  With a vote of faith, I sent my groups on their routes. Cat and I darted around the school, checking in and occasionally commandeering the readings. I put on some frenzied performances of The Foot Book and the aptly titled Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?, modeling for my 4-217 performers as much as entertaining the little ones.

  The whole thing felt good. When I appeared in a room, I felt a proud “Yeah, I'm with him” vibe radiating from my students. And after one or two goes, they really got into it. Soon the slated itineraries were exhausted, but everyone wanted to keep the activity going. The Lakiya-Hamisi-Eric Foot Book contingent worked fast and hit every kindergarten and first-grade class. The minischool corridor echoed with shouts of “I need a Green Eggs and Ham in 1M9!” or “KM1 needs The Cat in the Hat Comes Back!” I exhausted a disposable camera, and, with the exception of Cwasey knocking Athena's green eggs to the floor, the event was a love fest.

  Mrs. Boyd and I smiled at a camera, and she gave me a vague nod, putting her hand on my forearm. “Come to my office during the break. Ms. Guiterrez and I need to speak to you.”

  Students were dismissed at 11:30 from the lunchroom. On a high from the Seussian success, I made an in-costume star turn in the packed cafeteria. Children flocked to the five-foot-nine Cat in the Hat. “Yo, Mr. Cat in da Hat man, wassup!” offered Tyree, the most famously recalcitrant of Mr. Krieg's overgrown fifth-graders.

  With a ninety-minute break before conferences kicked off at one o'clock, the Fellows lunched at the Splendid Deli on Fordham Road, but I stayed behind, standing outside Mrs. Boyd's closed office door. When it opened, Mrs. Boyd directed me to sit in an awkward position between herself and Ms. Guiterrez at the meeting table.

  “First of all, good work on the Dr. Seuss event. That was beautiful,” Mrs. Boyd began.

  “Thank you.”

  “Unfortunately, we have a pretty big problem.” I noticed my class stack of report cards under Ms. Guiterrez's palm, to my right. All teachers had submitted their student report cards on the previous Friday for a perfunctory check-over. I had spent probably twice as long calibrating and commenting on this set than I had in the first marking period back in November. Now that I had more of a grip on what I was doing, I felt my assessments were more thorough and accurate.

  Guiterrez cut the silence. “Why are your children not improving, Mr. Brown?”

  “They are improving.”

  “No. They are not.” She took the top report card from the stack and opened it. “Manolo Ruiz. All twos. No improvement.”

  My heart pounded. Out spilled words, not sufficiently composed for a cogent rejoinder. “Lito's one of my most improved students. He's really come a long way.”

  Ms. Guiterrez and Mrs. Boyd looked at me like I was an imbecile. “Apparently not,” Mrs. Boyd said with a laugh-snort. “His grades indicate no change. Mr. Brown, you begged me for a classroom in the summer, and I gave you what you wanted. I took a chance on you. But I have to tell you, the proof is in the pudding.”

  Lito Ruiz came to 4-217 in September as a low “one,” to view him in terms of the scholastic achievement rubric. He was an orphan who smashed his classmate's glasses. But by December, he was working hard. He scored much higher on my division assessment than he had on the previous unit's multiplication test, which indicated that he finally did get a grasp on multiplication concepts, since you can't divide without them; it just took him longer. In February, after I read a book to the class about colonial-era religious-tolerance seeker Roger Williams, Lito asked if he could write a story in which he got to meet Roger Williams. His penmanship and mechanics were terrible, but his ideas had teeth. I wish I could reproduce the story, but when it was nearly complete at two pages (by far his longest ever composition), the work vanished from his desk and was never found.

  For this second round of report cards, teachers received explicit instructions that the students’ grades should be accurate projections of their scores on the Test. Lito Ruiz was a poor taker of standardized tests. My twos for him in the second marking period were hugely optimistic. As for the first marking period, I elected against giving him the “ones” that his academic-rubric-based output reflected because I knew that seeing a full slate of the lowest possible grades would crush him.

  I didn't say any of this because I was frozen, off guard, and Ms. Guiterrez was on Mrs. Boyd's heels with the next victim.

  “Gladys Ferraro. This student has actually decreased in the ‘personal and social growth’ categories. Hamisi Umar, same marks as the first period. No improvement.”

  I cringed, realizing I was in for a full audit of all twenty-five of my kids. Mrs. Boyd took several from the pile. “Lakiya Ray. We can skip her; she's an idiot. Okay, Marvin Winslow. He actually has a little improvement in math. A few twos. Will he get a two on the Math Test?”

  “Probably not,” I said. My principal had just called my student an idiot. Ms. Guiterrez shook her head at me.

  “So we have two problems,” Mrs. Boyd announced. “Number one, we need to see some improvement, and number two, we need that improvement to be real. Mr. Brown, everybody teaches. The school day is a long day for everyone. But whether we get tired from being here is not the measure of being a good teacher. Your classroom is often a mess, and your bulletin boards just don't illustrate real caring. I don't want this to be a lost year for those children. I have to consider giving you a U rating unless you can really show us something. Do you have anything to say?”

  After being called an incompetent, loafing liar, there were many things I wanted to say. I swallowed them all. “The students are learning and I apologize for not reflecting it better in the report card data. I will do everything I can to improve my methods and my management. I would really like to ask, though, to officially start the Visual Arts Club. It will energize me and the kids, and, at the worst, it will be an interesting no-loss experiment.” I could feel myself veering out of coherence with the last sentence and abruptly stopped speaking.

  Mrs. Boyd's demeanor changed so completely that it seemed the past five minutes had not happened. “I've told you we have money in the budget to pay you overtime for after-school work, right?”

  I nodded cautiously.

  “Okay then, it's a go,” she said.

  I gave another solemn nod, my blood still up.

  Ms. Guiterrez snapped back to business. “Sonandia Azcona, we know about her. Joseph Castanon, no improvement. Tiffany Sanchez, no improvement except in ‘shows evidence of understanding text,’ but she went down in ‘builds on the ideas of others in conversation.’ Eric Ruiz, oh boy…”

  No parents showed up to conference with me, so I brooded over the U threat. At the year's end, teachers are rated with either an S (satisfactory) or U (unsatisfactory), the latter spelling the end of your teaching career if you get zapped with it before gaining tenure. Considering New York City's severe teacher shortage, U's were reserved for dire, intolerable circumstances. Am I unsatisfactory?

  Two parents came just before the three o'clock break: Sonandia's and Jennifer's mothers. Some teachers still had none. I had better traffic at the 5:00–7:00 session, although Lakiya's and Cwasey's mothers did not
make the return trip, probably smelling trouble.

  I told Christian Salerno's mother that he was in deep danger of repeating fourth grade, because he did not take his work seriously. She responded that Christian told her the work at P.S. 85 was too easy for him after transferring in from a tougher parochial school. I stifled my shock at the enormity of Christian's sustained lie and bluntly told her—and Christian, who was sitting there—that Christian was struggling with fundamental math concepts and writing basics. “He needs to cut the laziness and lying and get serious about school,” I asserted.

  Mrs. Salerno sighed. “All he does is close the door to his room and dance. He listens to disco jungle all day. Disco jungle. Can you believe it? He's always moonwalking.” Christian tried unsuccessfully to suppress a sheepish smile. I had a sudden, bizarre desire to see Christian Salerno do the moonwalk. He vigorously agreed to an impromptu performance between groups one and six. What kind of teacher was I?

  Tiffany Sanchez's chiseled father wrote “Tiffeny” on my sign-in sheet. Smelling strongly of cologne, he was exceedingly affable and nodded understandingly when I brought up last month's in-class breakdown. When I recommended talking to Tiffany about alternate ways to express her anger, he closed off. “That's how she is,” he said flatly. “She'll be fine.” He scared the hell out of me.

  Both of Bernard's parents came, lugging him in tow. This was the meeting I was waiting for. I thought Bernard had the greatest swing potential, that this conference might actually impact his behavior and his life. I opened by praising his creativity and enthusiasm to participate. Everyone was smiling.

  “But there is something holding Bernard back from being the best student he can be, which would be one of the top students in the class,” I said. A sharp, anticipatory silence hung in the air. I fumbled for my first lower-the-boom words, prolonging the expectant pause. “Bernard explodes when he gets angry. I know we've talked about this before, and I'm grateful that you came to me back in September to talk about it, but it's getting worse, and as Bernard gets bigger and stronger, it's getting more dangerous for him and his peers. I can't tolerate fighting in the classroom, so when it does happen and when Bernard's involved, I have to call him on it and punish him. I think this has led to Bernard resenting me. I need him to understand that I want to help him. I am not the enemy. Bernard has shut down during lessons and is constantly talking and moving around, which causes disruptions, and isn't fair to the other kids. He needs to check himself when he feels himself starting to get upset. He can ask to leave the classroom, and I will always let him if it's to cool down. And he needs to be respectful in the classroom. He should be one of my leaders, but lately he's been causing problems.”