by Nick Fonda
“You said he doesn’t hand in his homework?”
“Not all of it. Not always,” he lied. “He doesn’t always get it all done.”
She was back with her nose in the folder. “Have you sent me any incident reports about that? I see lots of incident reports—far too many—but I don’t see any from this year. Did you fill in an incident report for the homework that was not done?”
He shook his head to say no.
“You do know that a child that doesn’t do his homework is supposed to get an incident report? That is not only a school policy, but a Board policy as well. It’s not new. It’s something you’re supposed to be aware of. Why did you not fill in an incident report?”
“It wasn’t completely done, but…it was partially done,” he lied again. He knew there was no point in saying anything else, that the best thing to do was to say as little as possible, and if possible nothing at all.
“And so?”
“So, I didn’t fill out an incident report.”
She made a show of closing the folder slowly, again playing the patient, kindly mentor with unpardonable irony. It was her way of mocking him.
“I know you’ve done most of your teaching in Bangladesh or somewhere, but you’re here now. You’re in Quebec. You’re at Abenaki Elementary. I expect your teaching methods to reflect that. We have the Quebec Education Plan, the Reform if you want to call it that. Your task—and this is clearly spelled out—is to follow the QEP. All of us here know the great benefits of collaborative learning, and I wonder if you do? I’m surprised to see the desks in your classroom arranged in rows. The children have to sit together in groups if they’re going to learn from each other. I’m surprised to hear that you read to your class. The children should be reading, not you. I’m concerned that you give your students spelling tests. You should know, as we all do, that spelling tests are of no benefit whatsoever. What matters is that the child can spell the word correctly when they use it. I’m also worried about….”
There was a knock at the door and this time he was glad of the interruption. It was the secretary with news that some parents had arrived early and had asked for him.
“Tell them he’ll be right there,” Maureen replied. “We’re almost done.”
When the door closed she stood up to indicate that the meeting was over. “We’ll continue this discussion another time. This evening, don’t forget to tell all your red-coded parents—those that come in—what to expect in June. And, as for Martin Thompson…”
She paused, for a ridiculously dramatic moment, just to rub salt in the wound. She had taken his entire supper hour to lecture him with lies and half truths, and now she was taking a few minutes more so that he would be late.
“I’ve known a great many students, first as a teacher and then as an administrator. I’m very good at reading children, and this boy has failure written all over him. If his parents come in—and they quite possibly won’t because the parents of boys like this never do—I want you to be sure to warn them that their son is at risk and that next year he’ll likely be at the Learning Centre. If it makes you feel better, talk about it as a possibility. That’s all. You better get upstairs to your classroom. You’re creating a very poor impression by not being punctual.”
It was twenty past nine and his last parents had just left when there was a tap at his classroom door and a woman walked in. His first impression was that she was looking for someone else. She didn’t look so much a mother as a youthful grandmother. She seemed to carry a sense of energy and optimism in her step, but she had greying hair and the laugh-lines of her eyes seemed to cut deep into a face that looked strangely weathered.
“I’m sorry to come so late,” she said, extending her hand which was firm and rough with calluses. “I don’t want to take your time, but I did want to meet you and say thank you for everything you’re doing for Martin.”
“Martin?”
“I’m sorry. My name is Nicole Bonavant. My husband is Andrew Thompson. I’m Martin Thompson’s mom.”
“Please, have a seat.” He’d arranged a few chairs in an informal circle in the little bit of space available at the front of the class. It was he who wanted to sit.
“I know Martin’s a handful at school, but I am so glad that he has you as a teacher this year. You probably can’t see it, but you’ve already made such a big difference. We’ve noticed a real change at home.”
The puzzlement must have shown on his face.
“If I tell you a story, I think you’ll understand. Martin is our youngest child, and our only boy. The spring before he turned five, we came here to enroll him for September. He was very excited about going to school. He’s always been a bright child and all his sisters had always done well in school. He was looking forward so much to starting school! We got a letter at some point that spring or summer telling us that the minister of Education had made a change and, as a result, because Martin was born in October, he would not be starting Kindergarten until the following year. We told him this news but I guess we didn’t check to see that he actually understood it. On the first day of school, Martin was outside, at the gate, with his sisters waiting for the school bus. He was dressed in his good clothes. He had an old bookbag and an old lunch pail which had belonged to one of the girls. I ran out just before the bus got there and I held him as we watched his sisters get on the bus and drive away. I explained to him he’d be starting school next year, and we started walking back towards the house. There’s a big maple tree part way up the drive. When we got to it he swung the lunch pail as hard as he could and smashed it on the tree.”
“So Martin has always hated school, and that’s why he’s angry? And that’s why, even though he’s more than capable, he won’t work?”
Nicole Thompson nodded. “We had a little hope for him in Grade 2. He had a wonderful teacher. But it didn’t last. That’s why we were so glad when we heard you were going to be Martin’s teacher. You taught Patrick Skinner two years ago.”
“Yes, I remember Patrick.”
“He’s Martin’s cousin and they’re quite close. Patrick thought the world of you. You came highly recommended, and you haven’t disappointed Martin in any way. You know, this is the first year that Martin has ever talked, even a little, about what he was learning in school. One day, you read something to them about an explorer, David Thompson? It was the first time that I ever saw his eyes sparkle while telling us something about school. And you know, last week, he left his spelling test on the kitchen table for us to see. He’s never done anything like that before. I think he’s on the verge of giving school another chance. Thank you so much. I’m sorry I came so late. We had a problem with one of the fences, which means we were late doing chores. I better let you get home. I’m sure you’ve had a long day. Thanks again. We really appreciate what you’re doing. Please, don’t change a thing. Good night. It was very nice meeting you.”
As suddenly and unexpectedly as she had arrived, she was gone. He sat for a while because he didn’t know what else to do, and besides, he had no energy to do more than sit. It took a very long time to actually get up and grab his empty briefcase and make it out of his room.
And now, he stood in the open doorway unable to decide on which horn he should impale himself. Before him, the icy rain, if anything, was falling even harder. Behind him the air felt unnaturally hot and stifling.
The lines of a Robert Frost poem came to him: the power of ice / is also great / and would suffice.
He hunched his thin shoulders and plunged into the storm.
My Lunch with Andrea
I don’t mind at all, but I don’t know if you really want to hear what I think… What I know.
It’s what we lived through and it was horrible, really horrible and it left such scars, on the whole family. And sometimes I feel like such a fool that I didn’t see things, or that I didn’t understand them or make sense of them sooner.
I don’t know where to start. It was Grade 2 that it all blew
up, that I finally did something. But it started long before that. Really, where it started was at the garderie….
…Yes, that’s right, the seven-dollar-a-day daycare…
…I know. We have a friend in the Yukon and—you probably know this—it’s costing her forty-three dollars a day to put her son in daycare. In some ways we’re lucky here. Now, this was six years ago and it was five-dollar-a-day daycare. And, you know, the reason we sent her to daycare wasn’t that we wanted her in daycare. The last place to send your kid is to a garderie. God, I wish I’d acted on that! But we wanted her to have some exposure to French before starting kindergarten. We thought, it’s just two days a week, she’ll meet some kids; their brains are like sponges, she’ll pick it up in no time. We’re a unilingual family in that, at home, we live in English; although we speak French, both of us. At work it’s practically all French…
…Yes, still at the same place…no, no, I do ten hours a week. It’s just enough for me. I want to be home when they get off the bus. It’s still important. Tommy’s only in Grade 4. And God knows there’s enough to do in the house …
…No, I’m lucky. Really, I’m lucky because he does. He does a lot of the cooking and he’s quite a good cook. His mother is fabulous in the kitchen—I think you met her once….
…Yes, that’s right. He picked it up from her, and he enjoys it, so he does a lot of the cooking. And the kids are responsible for their own rooms, right down to the vacuuming, but there’s still a lot of housework. And I also keep Jerry’s books…
…I know! It’s ironic but yes, I’m the bookkeeper. The first few years I did the taxes and everything. We have an accountant now. It’s a business expense and it’s so much easier, but I do the bookkeeping…
…Oh! I should have looked at the menu. What are you having? That sounds fine. Oui, pour moi aussi, je prends la même chose. Oui, la salade plutôt que la soupe. Merci. And thanks for lunch…
…Well, you’re not getting much in return. Are you really sure you want to hear all this?
I was telling you about Janet… the garderie. It’s a farce, really. You get these bulletins or these comptes rendus or whatever they call them now and what do you get? It’s supposed to be an account of what your child did during the day, and it’s a silly sheet of paper that says “Janet didn’t eat her cheese,” or some such thing and that’s supposed to tell you how your child is doing!
We knew she didn’t like to go. We knew that. But she went. We sent her. We knew she didn’t like it but we kept thinking that these things can take a bit of time, that she’s shy—and she is, she’s always been a quiet child. She’s an introvert—she’s just like Jerry’s father. And she’s non-verbal, again like her grandfather. Of course, all along we kept telling ourselves that we were doing the right thing. No pain; no gain! We kept telling ourselves that even if she wasn’t enthusiastic about the garderie, at least she was learning a bit of French. And even when we saw that she wasn’t really saying much of anything in French we told ourselves that she was at least accustoming her ear… And when we dropped her off and picked her up…
You know, it wasn’t until a full year later that I learned why Janet didn’t want to go to daycare, and why she didn’t learn a word of French. She was spending the day by herself. And I can see it. She’s very happy in her own company; she can play for hours all by herself. And that’s what she was doing at the garderie. Except that she wasn’t at home where it’s calm and quiet and she has practically the whole house and acres of space, she was stuck in this tight, little cranny—ok, I’m exaggerating because it’s nicely painted and has lots of natural light, but it’s still basically a couple of large rooms, and there is an outdoor area but it’s maybe ten metres by ten metres—but it’s confined compared to what she has at home. And it was full of kids and, for Janet, that just made her space smaller because she never really mixed. And this too: Tommy, who’s two years younger, just among our friends, from day one, has had three great playmates who are his age. Janet, when she was two, got her brother—and they played wonderfully together, and still do—but her brother was essentially the first other child she saw. You can see, from her point of view, that the garderie must have been absolute purgatory for her. And it was probably worse because there was a group of three or four who were really difficult kids, aggressive kids. But we heard all this later. And here was Janet, this quiet, introverted, non-verbal little girl of four, who, besides everything else, speaks a different language. I’m sure she spent the whole year learning only how to find a safe corner to stay out of the way.
And then she went to kindergarten and it wasn’t really any different. Not that we knew it. Although there was one thing she liked in kindergarten and that was the extra French she was getting. They have a program at the school to get the kids speaking French. They do two hundred hours of intensive French…
…Yes, the child has the right to this extra period of language instruction. It’s designed, really, for immigrants in bigger places like Montreal, or Sherbrooke, but if your kids come from an English home, they qualify. It’s a great program, really…
…No, she got her regular classroom time, but at lunch Janet would go to see Mme Micheline and spend her lunch hour learning one-on-one…
… Well, we were very pleased because she was learning the language. And she liked it! It was the best part of her day. And we didn’t question it. It wasn’t until later that we figured it out. The reason she so much liked going to Mme Micheline was because it was just her with the teacher. There weren’t any other kids. She was alone in this nice safe space…
…Merci. Ça a l’air très bon.
…No, really, not for me. If it was supper out, I’d take a glass or two, but I can’t drink in the middle of the day. Not any more. But, go ahead and have one yourself…
…No. No, I can’t say that. But things went along and because the signs weren’t new signs we didn’t see them, or we saw them without stopping to think what they meant. Janet hadn’t enjoyed pre-school and, except for the two hundred hours of extra French, I don’t think she liked kindergarten any better. …
…No! Just the opposite! You know, when we finally switched her and she started at the English school, she absolutely refused to speak a single word of French. She just wouldn’t do it. And she still won’t. She’s in Grade 6 this year and she has a wonderful teacher, who happens to be her French teacher as well, Mme Lise, and last week Janet said one sentence in French. The teacher called, just to tell me, so she’s getting over it, but that’s three entire years she wouldn’t say a word. And it caused a few embarrassing moments for us as well. Janet’s godmother is our next-door neighbour…
…Yes, Renée, you know her. Well, Renée, as you know, is a unilingual francophone. And they’re our next-door neighbours and we don’t necessarily see them every day, but we do see them, and they do come over for supper, as we go over there for supper. It was awkward, but I understood and we tried to encourage her, but at the same time we didn’t want to force her, you know, “Speak French to Renée or you go to your room,” you know what I mean? And I know Renée understood as well, but just the same. I understand it, because Janet felt hurt and she had to get rid of that hurt, but getting rid of it ended up hurting her godmother, and us too…
…No, it wasn’t. No, Tommy’s experience was completely different. But he’s such a different child. And, as well, his circumstances weren’t at all the same. The biggest thing, I think, was that when he started kindergarten, there were three other English boys in the group, two of them boys he’s been friends with practically since he was born. Janet was all alone, both emotionally and linguistically speaking. She didn’t know anyone. She didn’t speak, let alone speak French. And she’s not a child who makes friends quickly. Tommy’s so easy-going and he’s got this little disarming smile and that wins everybody over in half a second. He makes friends, regardless of language, and as I said, he had a natural support group. I hadn’t really thought of this before, but
when he started at the English school, it was the same thing, he had friends there from day one.
But even with Tommy, when he started school, at the French school, there was a big change in him. We didn’t see it so much at home, in fact, we didn’t see it at all, but at school, almost from the very beginning, he was always getting into scraps. By nature, Tommy’s not like that. He has his father’s temperament. He really is an easy-going child, always has been. When he was just little, a two-year old in the sandbox, I remember this so clearly, when it happened I was almost worried that there was something wrong with him. He was in the sandbox with Michael, I think you might remember Sandra Corris? The two boys are virtually the same age. Tommy had some toy in his hand, and Michael reached over to grab it. The natural thing to expect is that Tommy would hold onto the toy even harder and cling to it. It was his toy. He was playing with it. But, no. He gave the little shovel, or whatever it was to Michael and smiled at him. It was so unreal. But he’s like that. He’s generous and caring.
Anyway, Michael was one of the boys with him, and Paul Théroux is the other one. They were all three together plus another little English boy, the son of the Anglican minister. And I know them. They’re not aggressive little boys in any way. They’re not! We know them all. We see them often. If a kid is aggressive, if he has issues, if there’s a problem, you see it. And there had never been a problem. Never. Yet, a month after they started school, all four of them were constantly getting into little scraps of some kind or another in the playground. And you know, it didn’t ever completely stop…
Oui, merci. C’était excellent. Très bon….
…No, we transferred him over to the English school last year. He started Grade 3 in English…
…No. He was doing well. And he never complained really. No, we transferred him because it was just easier to have the two kids in the same school system. You don’t have to worry about juggling two different school calendars. They’re both off school on the same days. They catch the same bus at the same time. There are half as many parents’ nights. But you know, we’re glad we did move him. He’s happier.