30 Pieces of a Novel

School

AT THE INTERVIEW the assistant principal looks him over and says, “Yeah, you’re the right height, age, and musculature for the job, so whataya say you’re hired?” and he says, “Great, you don’t know how much this means to me — I finally get to teach my own classes. I’m telling you, I’m going to do a terrific job, going to whip those kids into shape and they’re really going to learn. I’ll go to their homes if I have to, because they’re being especially unruly and screwing up the atmosphere for learning in class, and speak to their parents. Keep the kids after school, even — anything. But I swear they’re going to leave my classes at the end of the school year a heck of a lot smarter and more knowledgeable in English and grammar and writing and things than when they came in.” “That’s what their three previous teachers this term said, but who knows, maybe you got something different going for you. But I do like your spirit. I didn’t see that in them — they threw in the towel too fast — so it’s what I like to hear. As for keeping the students after school, no can do. Some of these kids have jobs to help out their families, and we don’t have the Board of Ed’s clearance for keeping students after school, or the facilities or staff for it. Besides that, the people looking after these kids might not like it. As for going to their homes and such, nice idea but I wouldn’t do it if I were you. You say ‘parents.’ Don’t we wish all our kids had them and that they were interested in how their children do. But some have no parents, or none to speak of, and are living with a grandmother or uncle or married sister or sister who’s not married but has three tots of her own to look after, or this unruly student’s helping her to take care of them with babysitting or a paying after-school job. And most of the time they live on a block you don’t want to walk down and in a building you don’t want to go into. Though do what you think best. Sometimes in teaching like this you have to be adventurous and innovative, I’m aware of that. But I’d think you’d be at a much better advantage sending home letters to the parents or guardians and calling them on the phone after school or whenever you can get them and seeing the ones of the most obstreperous if not dangerous students in the much safer and more academic environment here when we open the school to parent-teacher conferences.” “But if I go to the kids’ homes they and the people looking after them will know I mean business. And I want to give my students as much time and attention and help as I can, get their families involved in the learning process — everything like that — or try to, at least.” “All to the good,” the assistant principal says, “all to the good. Now, since you never taught before except as a substitute, I doubt you ever made up a lesson plan, correct?” and he says, “Other than in that Education One-oh-one or One-oh-two course at City — I took both, a few years ago, but only did, you know, practical classroom teaching, where you observe for a month and then take over the class for a period — only did the lesson plans under the regular teacher’s supervision.” “It went well, though, I hope,” and he says, “Very well. She liked my class. And if the kids were grading me, she said, they would have given me—” and the A.P. says, “That’s good to hear. So, go home and write up five of them for next week, and come to this office ten minutes before the first bell and we’ll go over them and see if you’re prepared,” and he checks with friends who have taught junior high school, and one gives him a whole term of lesson plans for eighth grade Language Arts that he’d received from someone years before. He brings in five of the plans that Monday. The A.P. looks at them quickly and says, “Who’d you get these from?” and he says, “No one. I read through the grammar book and reader you gave me, figured out around where the classes had left off from what you told me the last teacher did, added those dictionary definitions for the fast class, and wrote them up.” The A.P. makes a couple of corrections and shows him the rooms he’ll be teaching in and the stairway he’ll be expected to be at every morning between the first and late bells. “You never leave this post even if you have to take a leak, so make sure you go beforehand,” and he says, “And if some kid falls down the stairs and breaks or twists his leg?” and the A.P. says, “None should, so none will. You’re at this spot to maintain order and keep the decibel level down and have them walk upstairs slowly, and at this hour nobody should be coming down. You see one doing it, you about-face him upstairs,” and he says, “Suppose this kid says his homeroom’s on the floor below?” and the A.P. says, “You tell him he’s full of shit, but never in those words. You say, ‘Then whataya doing one floor above it, mister? Get moving upstairs!’ Don’t worry, he’ll find another stairway to come down, but not yours because as you say they gotta know you’re tough, you mean business and carry through, and don’t flip-flop because of inept simpleminded excuses.” “Excuse me, sir, but I’m kind of an overcautious meticulous guy and like to be apprised as to what to do in these kinds of situations before they happen, so what if a kid actually does get hurt? Falls, slips — let’s say there’s water on the stairs because it’s pouring outside and the kids are still dripping,” and the A.P. says, “Listen, this is time-wasting, going over the most unlikely eventualities. But you say it’s important for you to know and I’m here to answer all your questions, so if a kid slips and breaks his head on the stairs, this is what you do. If no other adult’s around, choose whoever you feel’s the most trustworthy-looking student within a ten-foot radius of you, take down his name and homeroom or at least pretend to jot them down so he thinks you’ll go after him later if he doesn’t do what you ask of him, and write out a quick note as to what’s happened — always have a pen on you, always, and, of course, paper — since just the opposite will usually come out of this kid if he tries putting it in his own words. Then send him to the main office to give the note to whatever adult’s working there, though don’t forget to include on it what stairway you’re on — they’re all numbered — and what floor. But the point is, and I can’t make this any more emphatic to you, that if you abandon your post — especially if the stairwell’s wet — all hell there will break loose. Anything else?” and he says, “Teaching tips?” and the A.P. says, “Discipline’s the key, which I assumed you learned something about when you were a sub. For this school and your grade I’d say to just go in there and start teaching as if it were second nature to you. That means to keep talking, never smile, don’t even smirk at any of their jokes and stunts, don’t try to kid around with them, never show you’re warming up to them the first month or they’ll walk all over you from then on. Keep them working constantly, maybe let up the last three minutes so they can empty the trash out of their desks and clean up the area around them and get their belongings together and be ready to leave the moment the bell rings, and keep writing their names down for detention for even the slightest infraction, though resist as much as possible sending any of them to their respective deans. Those offices are already too full as it is.”

His first period’s free and he goes to the teachers’ lounge, introduces himself to a couple of teachers, one says, “Welcome aboard when we’re all about to jump ship,” and he says, “Jesus, it can’t be that bad, is it? Well, I’ll live,” and sits on the sofa, puts his legs across a chair in front of him, and thinks, Now this is the way to start off Mondays, and reads the newspaper and has an instant coffee from the hot-water urn and then goes over his notes and in his head how he’ll conduct his first class. During the change of periods he stands, as he was told to by the A.P., outside his classroom, smiling and saying good morning to the students coming in, peeks into the room every fifteen seconds or so to make sure nothing wrong’s going on there, gets a few funny looks from his students walking in and some good-lucks from teachers passing in the hallway or standing outside their rooms. When the second bell rings he goes inside, writes his name on the blackboard while facing the class, something he was warned to do by the former-teacher friend who gave him the lesson plans—“Rule number one: never turn your back on them”—and says, “Hello. My name … please, everyone sit down and let’s have some order. Hello. My … please, everyone please pay attention. My name, as you can see, is Gould Bookbinder—Mr. Bookbinder — and I’m your new permanent Language Arts teacher,” and a boy raises his hand, and he says, “Yes? And your name, please, so I can begin crosschecking it with all your names on my roll book here and begin knowing who each of you is?” and the boy stands and looks around at the other kids and then straight at him as if trying to stare him down and says, “I’m not taking no orders from no white man,” and the class laughs, and he says, “Are you saying — and you can stop with that staring look; I’m not affected by it — that you don’t want to give me your name?” and the boy says, “I told you; you don’t have to be dumb, so I don’t have to repeat,” and he says, “Wait, I don’t understand that, honestly. And I bet that most of you, even though you went with the whew-whew as if he just sliced me apart, don’t understand what he said either. And about that white-man business — really, that’s unfair. I don’t know what your Language Arts teachers were like before I got here, but stuff like that’s the exact opposite of what I feel. But let me just say how odd it is that what you said’s the first words spoken to me by a student since I got to this school — not even a hello or good morning or ‘Where’d you get the snazzy tie, teacher?’ … nothing. And I’m kidding about the tie, of course; it’s a piece of junk,” and no one in the class laughs and the boy continues to stare at him, and he says, “Oh, just be seated,” and another boy raises his hand, and he says, “I’d call on you, young man, but I’m waiting for your classmate to be seated. Though I’d also like an apology from him for his rudeness, or I swear the whole class will suffer,” and the second boy stands, and he says, “I didn’t tell you to stand,” and the boy says, “I only got to say I’m not taking any orders from no white man either.” “What’s your name, sir?” and the boy says, “‘Sir’?” and cracks up and the class starts laughing and howling, but the first boy’s still just staring at him, and he yells, “Now that’s enough … both of you … all of you! But you two, be seated now, I’ve taken all I’m going to take from you, so I said to be seated, be seated!” and the A.P. comes into the room and the boys quickly sit and the class gets quiet, and the A.P. says, “Everything all right, Mr. Gould? I heard a bit of commotion from outside,” and he says, “Bookbinder; I’m sorry but Gould’s my first name. And no, everything isn’t all right, I’m sorry to say. I’ve already had two unfortunate incidents of insolence, but I’ll be able to handle it,” and the A.P. says, “Insolence from whom?” and he says, “Really, it’s all right, I’m sure it won’t happen again. They were testing me out and they know now I’m the wrong guy to be doing that to, and also because they know you’re around will help things too,” and the A.P. says, “I want to know who was being disrespectful and insolent to a teacher on his first day, or any day, so I can have a brief chat with him or her,” and the first boy’s shaking his head at Gould not to say anything but he says, “This one, who started the disruptions and refused to identify himself, though I asked him several times—and to be seated — and that one, another troublemaker with no name,” and the A.P. says, “Up front, Daryl; you too, Gregory,” and they come up front, and the first boy says to the A.P., “I didn’t do anything,” and the A.P. says, “We’ll see about that, and if the charges prove false you’ll be exonerated and returned to your class,” and grabs them by the back of their necks so hard, or maybe the boys are exaggerating, that their faces stiffen and walks them out of the room that way. Ten seconds after they’re gone the class starts howling and laughing, a couple of them saying to him, “You shouldn’t have told, Teach; now they’re in trouble and their mothers can be called,” and he says, “Class, please be quiet. No one should be out of his seat or speaking till I give him permission. Now I want everyone to be quiet, please. That’s an order or else I’m calling in the assistant principal again and telling him who’s continuing to cause trouble even though what he did to those other two boys should have been a lesson to all of you,” but they continue talking, sitting at one another’s desks, horsing around, ignoring him till about forty minutes later when he says, “Okay, everyone collect their things, bell’s about to ring. And remember, boys and girls, this is the first and last time you’re ever going to be allowed to behave like this in my class.”

It’s six years later; he’s been calling in sick a lot and the school he’s teaching at now has started to complain about it till finally the principal summons him to his office and says, “Anything bothering you, Mr. Bookbinder? Or wrong with your health that I should know of — something serious? You’ve missed, on average, a day a week the last seven weeks, and sometimes two days in a row, and you know how difficult it is getting subs for you this far out in Brooklyn. Also, your colleagues are saying they’ve filled in for you enough, and if they go to your union about it and the assistant principal is unable to take over your class, I’m at a loss what to do. Do you need to take a leave and for us to hire a permanent sub?” and he says, “It’s the kids, to be honest. They’re driving me crazy. I shouldn’t be admitting this, or maybe that’s a sign of just how unsteady or something I’ve become, but either my teaching’s down or never was too good or the kids are getting more brazen and uncontrollable, though I know some teachers don’t have that trouble. But then when they yell, their students shut up. While when I do it—” and the principal says, “I can well sympathize, since it can happen to all of us.” “I don’t instill fear in them, that’s my problem,” and the principal says, “That can be good too, if the opposite approach works, and probably better — less strain on the vocal cords, and so forth. But you can’t let it get to you too much. Worst thing for you is when it does, and you leave us in the lurch too,” and he says, “I’ll try, and I appreciate your warning me about it — the consequences. I don’t want to lose the job and I can’t afford to take an unpaid leave and I’m not sick in a way where I can take a health one. Or maybe the leave system, the … the … what are they? Not the constitution, but like it … the guidelines — but I don’t think it has,” and the principal says, “What hasn’t?” and he says, “The guidelines of the health-leave policy,” and the principal says, “Normally it has to be accident related. You get bopped on the head or fall accidentally and split your skull open or some kid on school grounds — and he doesn’t have to be a student — pulls a razor on you and just the trauma of that experience, even if the kid doesn’t use the razor, is enough to do it — so I wouldn’t count on getting a paid leave that way. But if you like, and I don’t see how I can be any fairer about this, speak to your union rep here about it. Maybe she’ll come up with a loophole for you, much as I’d hate to go hunting for a permanent sub more than halfway through the school year,” and three weeks later, shortly before the Easter vacation and right after a day when he didn’t want to come in but felt he had to and then didn’t think he’d make it through the day, his classes were so unmanageable, he’s walking his second-period class through the halls to an assembly in the auditorium, a break from regular teaching since it means a class and maybe a class and a half, if the assembly goes on that long, is suspended and all he has to do in the part of the auditorium he’s assigned to patrol is keep the kids quiet, when one of his students breaks from the double line and runs to a phone booth near the school’s entrance, and he yells, “Patricia, get back here, I didn’t give you permission,” and she pushes in the booth door and shouts at the boy inside, “You’re speaking to her, you liar. You’re love-talking and you said you wouldn’t never,” and kicks and beats the booth glass, and the boy says, “Hey, hey! Stop. I’m talking to my mother, and what you’re doing’s not looking good to her,” and she says, “Your fucker, you mean, you liar,” and keeps kicking the bottom glass panel till it shatters, and the class screams, “Kill him, Trisha, kill him!” and the boy jumps out of the booth and puts his fists up and says, “Come on, you wanna duke it out, I’m not afraid to hit pussy,” and she lunges at him and he swings and grazes the top of her head or just her high hair and she pushes him down and leaps on him and starts punching his face and pulling his ear and he punches her face from the ground, and Gould’s yelling, “Stop, stop, get off him, get up!” and other kids in the class and from other classes surround the boy and Patricia, and a girl in this crowd screams and turns around and says to Gould, who’s trying to pull some kids away to get through, “Morris grabbed my tit, Mr. Book; I’m just standing here and he did it; say something,” and Morris says, “No, I didn’t; I can’t; she has none,” and he says, “Both of you, out of my way, let me get to them,” and other teachers are pulling kids off one another and Gould grabs Patricia off of the boy and says, “You stinking bastard — you had to do that? Look what you caused,” and she says, “Don’t be calling me names,” and he says, “I meant because of what you did. Like a savage, you acted, like a savage. Look at that glass; you’re lucky you didn’t cut yourself,” and she says, “I told you, don’t be calling me names; I’m reporting you,” and he says, “Ah, Jesus, what the hell’s going on? All of you, just get away from me, enough of this goddamn shit,” and goes to the main office while some kids are yelling, “Teacher cursed, teacher cursed!” and the school secretary, standing at her desk behind the counter, says, “What’s happening out there? I never heard anything like it. Should we call the police?” and he says, “Is Mr. Vandenburg in?” and she says, “If he was, don’t you think he’d be attending to that racket? No, he’s at a meeting in another school,” and he says, “Well, tell him I punched out, I was sick, I couldn’t take another minute of it,” and grabs his time card out of its holder and punches out, and she says, “You can’t just go like that. You need authorization. I’ll get your A.P. Which one is it?” and he says, “Then forget I punched out, but I’m leaving. It’s that or lose my mind … I spoke to Mr. Vandenburg about it,” and she says, “If you desert your classes before the school day’s over and fail to get someone to cover them, you can be docked an entire day’s pay, and I won’t even tell you what the principal’s reaction will be,” and he says, “Didn’t you hear me? Take my day’s pay, take two; take the whole week’s and the month’s and I-don’t-care how long,” and goes to his homeroom, gets his coat from his closet and some things out of his desk. There are all sorts of supplies in the cabinets and closets that he bought with his own money to use in his classes because the school couldn’t pay for them, but forget it — he’ll never need them again — and leaves the school.