Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes

by Kathleen West

  “We talked about the frivolity of life,” Isobel admitted, her neck suddenly itchy. “I encouraged them to think about what really matters.” She met Mary’s eyes. “I let them draw whatever conclusions they wanted to draw about what’s really important. Isn’t that the heart of Gatsby, anyway? Authenticity?”

  Mary smiled sadly. “Your aims are admirable, but the parents are concerned about ideas that they consider to be radical.”

  “Radical?” Isobel bristled. “Connecting literature we read in class to their own lives is radical?” A puff of air escaped her lips as she registered the absurdity of the charge. She looked at the ceiling for a beat and then back at Mary. Even though she resented the accusation, she knew she needed to get a little radical to shake the kids out of their self-centeredness. That was the whole point of teaching in Liston Heights, the whole reason she’d allowed herself to leave her inner-city job. Her intention was to influence the kids who had the power to make big changes in society. Otherwise, what was she doing here?

  “How many parents are we talking about?” she asked.

  “It’s not really about how many,” Mary said gently, reaching a hand to Isobel’s desk and placing it over hers. “It’s about which ones.” Mary patted her knuckles, her fingers limp like cooked spaghetti. “Stick to the curriculum.” She stood up and walked to the door.

  Mary left, and Isobel felt a coldness in her chest. Stick to the curriculum for whose benefit? Isobel thought. So they could all maintain the status quo? So the children of Liston Heights could move back to their suburb as adults and continue their lives in a bubble, never reaching beyond themselves?

  And who, Isobel wondered, was behind these complaints? Her teaching hadn’t changed significantly in several years, and yet suddenly she had a nasty voice mail on her home phone and a flood of parents bypassing her and complaining to her boss. She knew what Lyle would say when she recounted Mary’s warning. He’d tell her to back off. But Isobel knew she couldn’t do that. What if the one kid who needed jarring didn’t hear her message because she’d bowed to anonymous threats?

  Noise started filtering in from the hallway. Isobel stood and walked to her desk. Her first-period juniors—who apparently felt bad about where they were from—would be here in seven minutes.

  JAMIE PRESTON

  That afternoon, when the bell had rung in American Lit and most kids were seated, Jamie watched Isobel reposition her Liston Heights lanyard over her turquoise belt. Jamie sometimes observed Isobel teaching during fifth period, the first of her back-to-back preps, always sitting in the empty desk in the back-right corner, the one with “FUCK” carved in all caps just left of center. She ran her fingers over the letters.

  The fifth-period observations had turned out to be a solid strategy—she could watch Isobel and then re-create the lessons the next day herself. It relieved a lot of pressure and saved her from having to invent hundreds of new plans. “Let’s talk about our perspectives of whiteness in Gatsby,” Isobel was saying now. She smiled at her students, her wavy hair falling out of the barrette at the crown of her head.

  Isobel never shied away from discussions about race. “We have to go there,” she’d told Jamie when she’d asked about it the previous September. “I mean,” she qualified, “I feel I have to as a white teacher in a majority-white school.”

  Nevertheless, Jamie avoided the conversations. Although she had some credibility with Liston Heights kids, having been a Lion herself just six years before, she was still only twenty-three, not exactly seasoned enough to tangle with hot-button topics.

  “Whiteness? Seriously, Ms. Johnson?” Allen Song asked now from the second row. “You don’t want to start with Myrtle Wilson splayed on the table?” Those who were paying attention tittered a bit.

  “We’ll get there,” said Isobel, “but let’s start here. We’ve talked before about identifying missing voices.” She gestured over her shoulder to the bulletin board, where she’d hung a hand-lettered sign that read, INTERROGATE MULTIPLE PERSPECTIVES. “So, what are the missing voices in Fitzgerald’s work?”

  Jamie watched Isobel utilize “wait time,” that horrible stretch of silence when teachers prayed someone, anyone, would raise a hand. Finally after what seemed like a minute, but was probably only ten seconds, Maeve Hollister’s white, freckled forearm rose from her desktop as it often did.

  “Maeve?” Jamie could hear the hope in the teacher’s voice.

  “All of the characters are white,” Maeve said.

  “Is that explicit in the text?” Isobel thumbed through her own worn copy of the novel. Several students—the usual suspects in the first two rows—followed suit. Was it explicit? Jamie wondered. She thought back over the chapters, Jordan and Daisy’s white powdery fingers and Tom’s startling brutality.

  Hands popped up in the front of the room, and Isobel surveyed them. “I’d love to hear from someone who hasn’t spoken much this week,” she said, scanning. Jamie watched several kids, including her former student Andrew Abbott, duck their heads. Cold-calling—choosing a student who hadn’t raised his or her hand—was a practice Mary Delgado encouraged her to try, but Jamie resisted. It was the worst feeling in the world to be on the spot. Isobel used the strategy regularly.

  “Erin?” Isobel said. “What do you think?” Erin Warner, who barely spoke except to whisper to her friend Sarah Smith, looked up, panicked. Isobel smiled at her.

  “Um?” Erin stalled, flipping pages with desperate concentration. Jamie cringed as Erin’s shoulders tensed. She pulled the handout Isobel had given her from the back cover of her notebook to avoid watching. She’d slid it in without looking at it at the beginning of the hour. Now she saw that the light green paper had the words Queer Theory and Sexual Binaries emblazoned across the top in bold font. The subtitle of this new handout read, Reading Against Heteronormativity.

  Queer theory? They’d introduced feminist theory, of course, and also Marxist, which Jamie regretted. She could see students drooping in their seats as she explained power and privilege and asked them to do a close reading of the scene with the lemons. Isobel seemed obsessed with those lemons.

  “It actually seemed to me that chapter seven is more about money?” Erin was saying. “I mean, more about money than race.” Nice dodge, Jamie thought. She’d noticed that Liston Heights kids were masters at avoidance during Isobel’s discussions.

  In this case, Isobel went with it. “Okay!” she said cheerfully. “Excellent. Let’s talk about who has money and who doesn’t.”

  Jamie read further down on the queer theory handout, perusing questions about Nick’s admiration for Gatsby. The worksheet prompted students to reread several scenes, including one in chapter two where Nick wakes up with Mr. McKee after a party in the city. Jamie’s stomach dropped as she realized Isobel’s aim. Given your answers above, she’d typed at the bottom, what is Nick’s motivation for helping Gatsby?

  Clearly, Jamie realized, Isobel planned for students to posit that Nick is gay. A gay infatuation at the heart of the Great American Novel?

  Too much, Jamie thought. Parents would flip. The conversation pinged around up front, kids citing passages and building on one another’s thoughts much more effectively than they did in Jamie’s own classroom. “It’s experience,” Isobel explained whenever Jamie mentioned her insecurity.

  Experience would also be the reason Jamie’s teaching position would be cut to part-time. Unless the right people—the mothers Jamie had spent so much time courting—understood how a left-wing literature teacher tried to brainwash their children.

  Jamie stared down at the queer theory handout and allowed herself to consider a new idea. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to break the news to her own parents that her contract was cut. Maybe getting the right eyes on this handout could outweigh the influence of seniority when Wayne Wallace made his staffing decisions.

  ISOBEL JOHNSON

  At that afternoon’
s faculty meeting, Isobel scanned the snack table, searching for Chex Mix among the spread of processed comfort foods. Jamie pointed at it over the bowl of Hershey’s Kisses. “Bingo,” Isobel said. She reached for a plastic cup and scooped some. “Let’s get back to the table before Wally starts chanting,” she whispered.

  Just then Wayne Wallace called, “Hey, gang!” from the front of the library, where he always conducted meetings.

  “Too late,” Jamie whispered. Wayne clapped twice.

  “Oh, crap,” muttered Isobel.

  “I say ‘Liston’; you say ‘Lions’!” The women scuttled to a table framed by the fiction collection as the principal began his ritual.

  “Make it stop,” Isobel said, looking down at her Chex Mix and the single Oreo cookie she’d placed on top at the last minute.

  “Lions!” yelled Jamie obediently after the first round of the cheer. Isobel frowned at her. Jamie leaned over and whispered, “I don’t have tenure.”

  Isobel acknowledged this argument with a smile and clapped along. The sooner everyone engaged, the more swiftly Wayne would stop embarrassing himself. Sure enough, after a good 75 percent of the teachers pumped their fists in rhythm, their principal gestured toward the agenda, written in bullet points on an easel next to the snacks. The first bullet read, What’s going well?

  So very little, Isobel thought, looking up at her boss through a smudge on her right lens. His face was split into an exaggerated grin. She pulled off her tortoiseshells and rubbed them on the edge of the T-shirt she’d layered under her sweater.

  Wayne introduced his activity in an overloud voice for the size of the room. “Gang,” he boomed over the hundred or so teachers seated before him, “today we’re talking about positive communication. What we’re going to do is, we’re going to start in teams. And we’re going to give ourselves a little credit for what we’re doing well in the communication department. I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, suddenly philosophical, “and we’re world-class professionals here in this room. I know we have a lot to celebrate.” Isobel didn’t dare look at Jamie, lest she laugh aloud in anticipation of the spot-on impression of this speech Jamie would later give. “So, I want you to get into a triad. Three people”—Wayne thrust three raised fingers toward them for emphasis—“and just really pat yourself on the back for an interaction with a parent or guardian that went just great. What did you do? How can you replicate it?” He scanned the crowd. “Are you with me?”

  Isobel turned from Wayne toward the table, immediately uncomfortable. How could she participate in this activity when Mary Delgado had just that morning issued a cryptic warning about several prominent families’ complaints? And, in addition, she had the voice mail. It was Isobel’s bad luck, then, that Eleanor Woodsley had chosen the seat nearest Jamie and her. Isobel smiled forlornly at her friend Lyle at the other end of the table, who was forced into a partnership with two members of the social studies department. Faculty meetings were always more pleasant when Isobel could whisper her sarcastic comments to Lyle. Eleanor, on the other hand, would have umpteen pristine parent interactions to share. Better to get this over with. “Anyone have anything to start with?” Isobel prompted.

  “I’ll start,” Eleanor said. Of course she would, Isobel thought. “I had a lovely conversation with a parent just the other week,” Eleanor continued.

  “Oh yeah?” Isobel said. “What was the concern?” She dragged her eyes up.

  Eleanor looked unsurprisingly smug. “The mother expressed her perception that our junior curriculum doesn’t adequately cover college-essay writing, especially as the early-decision applications have to be completed right away in the fall of the senior year.”

  “And how did you handle it, Eleanor?” Jamie asked kindly. Of course, Isobel already knew that Eleanor Woodsley with her white cardigan and jeweled reading glasses would have handled it impeccably.

  “I validated the mother’s concern, obviously. We all know that the parents in our community are preoccupied, and justifiably so, with college acceptance. And I assured her that the skills we do cover—organization, word choice, proofreading—all support college-essay writing.” She made eye contact—condescendingly, Isobel thought—with Jamie, the youngest among them by more than ten years. “Finally, I assured her that the teachers of seniors assign, read, and edit college essays right away in the fall. And that was it! The mother ended the call by telling me she’s planning to request me as the student’s senior teacher.” Eleanor shrugged and smiled.

  Oh, barf, Isobel thought. “Well done, Eleanor,” she said aloud, and then she giggled at the incongruity of her impulse and reaction.

  Eleanor stared at her, smile fading.

  “I’m sorry,” Isobel covered. “It’s just that I was imagining my own blunders with parents. In fact, I’m always a bit afraid to make parent phone calls.”

  “Phone is always best,” said Eleanor, fervent. “When I get an e-mail, I immediately ask for a time to talk on the phone. We need to reclaim human interaction if we want to actually get anything done.”

  “Yeah.” Isobel stuffed a handful of Chex Mix in her mouth and chewed.

  “Jamie,” said Eleanor, “let’s hear your perspective as a newer teacher. What strategies are working for you with Liston Heights families?”

  Jamie shook her head. “Honestly, I just try to say yes to whatever the parents want.” Isobel stifled another giggle, coughing as a hunk of rye crisp caught in her throat.

  Eleanor stared. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Usually parents want a pretty innocuous accommodation—a test retake, a deadline extension. It’s easier to just say yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Eleanor, her pointy chin pitched down, “but don’t you think that attitude undermines your authority? What about your professionalism?”

  “Eleanor,” said Jamie, her voice matter-of-fact, “how much authority do you think I have at age twenty-three in this school?” Isobel felt a rush of pride in her young colleague. She’d come so far, speaking assertively to Eleanor like that! Jamie continued. “I certainly don’t want to end up like Peter.”

  Isobel nodded. Peter Harrington had been a twenty-four-year-old graduate of the University of Michigan’s prestigious teaching program, but that hadn’t mattered to the gaggle of mothers who complained about his slow grading and questionable social media posts. The poor guy was replaced by Judith Youngstead, a battle-ax of a long-term sub, after a mere six weeks during the previous school year.

  “But,” Eleanor said, flipping to a clean page in her legal pad and beginning to write a note, probably a reminder to inform on Jamie’s grading practices to Mary Delgado.

  Isobel felt compelled to interrupt. “Fair enough,” she interjected, saving Jamie from further interrogation. The others stared at her, waiting for her to continue. “Speaking of phone calls,” Isobel ventured, “have either of you gotten any weird voice mails from parents on your home phone?”

  “Home phone?” said Eleanor. “When I call at home, I almost always do that star-six-seven blocking thing so they can’t see my number.”

  “Me, too,” Isobel said. “But I got an odd message the other day anyway.”

  “What did it say?” asked Jamie.

  “It was about curriculum.” Isobel clung to nonchalance, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. She knew Eleanor would be alarmed by the call. Alarmed and also judgmental.

  “What about it?” Eleanor pressed.

  Isobel inwardly chastised herself for not thinking of a better way to protect Jamie than to open herself to criticism. “Something about sticking to what Liston Heights families expect,” Isobel said, twisting the top of her Oreo.

  “As opposed to . . . ?” Jamie probed. Let it go, Isobel thought.

  She popped the top half of the cookie into her mouth, stalling. “Um,” she said when she’d swallowed. “Marxism?” Eleanor scowled, and
Isobel felt even more desperate to change the subject. “I’m sure the message was an anomaly,” she said, chewing. “It seems like most parents are satisfied with their kids’ experiences in my class.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Eleanor peered at Isobel. “That message just might reflect something bigger.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jamie. Let it go, Isobel willed again, resisting the urge to kick her under the table.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything in this setting.” Eleanor glanced at Wayne, who appeared poised to signal the end of the activity with another call-and-response cheer. “But I have to admit that some of my senior families said that your American Lit course was”—she paused—“unconventional.”

  “Unconventional?” Isobel echoed. The Oreo pieces stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  “I’ll just be frank,” Eleanor whispered. “A few people have mentioned, and I’m quoting here, a ‘blatant liberal agenda.’”

  Isobel felt a bit light-headed. She met Eleanor’s gaze and forced the cookie down her throat. Wayne began a rhythmic clapping routine up front. “I guess I’m just unwilling to sacrifice my commitment to social justice to appease Liston Heights parents.”

  Eleanor looked at her paper and pulled a face. Jamie clapped the same pattern Wayne had demonstrated.

  Isobel lingered on Eleanor, who had begun writing the next agenda item on her legal pad, her blond pixie light against the backdrop of paranormal romances on the bookshelf behind her. “It’s one thing to have ideals,” Eleanor said calmly. “It’s another to disregard our established curriculum. That disregard is what families are complaining about, Isobel.” Eleanor kept her eyes on her notes, her pen skimming the paper. “And everyone knows you need to pay attention.”

  JULIA ABBOTT