Up The Down Staircase

47. My Reading Life

Dear Miss Barrett,

I am hereby submitting a Book Report I wrote for extra credit. I hope you will raise my mark since I need to have it raised. In the past I have always usually had excellent marks in English.

Harry A. Kagan

(The Students Choice)

My Reading Life

My reading life has quite a variation and is more wider than the average student. I enjoy indulging in many types of great literature, both fiction and nonfiction books as well as others. Mr. Hemingway's works gave me a very favorable impression of Mr. Hemingway as a writer. I would recommend it to any one. One author I did not care for was Mr. Faulkner. I didn't get any enjoyment out of him. Another book I did not particularly enjoy was "War and Peace" by Mr. Tolstoy. It was much too long to read it and has too many characters with similiar names. I've also read quite a few other fiction novels that I won't mention here. I consider reading one of my most useful hobbies.

Miss Barett, You said we could put in your letter box Extra Credit reports on books we read outside of school and due to Midterms and horsing around I need that E. Credit! I demand you

give it to me! Ha-ha joke! But every little bit counts!

Lou Martin

Three Important Myth

by Lou Martin

1. There was once a boy and girl but their familys were always arguing so naturally these two children or people would meet each other on the sly. One day a bleeding lion came along. Horrorfied she ran away leaving her scarf! The lion played with it for a while and then went away. The boy came back and seeing the bleeding scarf taught that she was killed. Remosely he took his knife and his life! The girl saw her boy-friend was dead and she decided to kill her self! The 2 familys seeing their dear children dead realised how silly they were & became friends after learning a horrorful lesson. The same conflict appears in Shakespeer.

2. Pygmalian was a myth who was a sculpture. He was the type of man who didn't like women particulally but this story changes this. One day he made a statue of his wife-to-be and put in everything he wanted just so and when it was finished he wanted to marry her but since she wasn't alive he couldn't very well do so. What to do? Pray, of course, which he did to the G—ss of love who made her alive! From this we get My Fair Lady and others.

3. Adonis was a handsome youth from Asia Miner and Venus was the G—ss of love. She use to spend all her time going hunting with him and fishing and other sports. All the manly outlets of life! One day while Adonis went hunting a wild bore killed him and all the Gods pitied Venus so much they then allowed him to rise from the dead to dwell as her husband part time. During the months in which he visits we call Springtime.

48. What Did I Miss?

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 508

TO: 304

Dear Syl,

Welcome back! You were much missed yesterday! By Paul, who kept revising verses he was writing you. By your Joe Ferone, who wandered, listless and passless, through the corridors and out of the building before the PM check-out. By McHabe, who was summoned by the unnerved substitute to sit on your classes. By your kids. And, of course, by me.

Are you all right? Wild rumor has it that you had 1. eloped 2. collapsed beneath a pile of records 3. gone to the movies in the daytime! Which is it?

Bea

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 304

TO: 508

Dear Bea—

If I have to check one, I’ll take #3.

Actually, I spent the day at Willowdale Academy, being interviewed for a possible February job. From where I sit, it's very tempting.

Came back to find my door fixed at last; it opens and closes now. But—two chairs are broken. Fair exchange!

Do the CC's go on the right or the left of the blue line on the PRC?

Syl

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 508

TO: 304

Dear Syl,

Fie on Willowdale! Don't you know how much you're needed right here? My underground informs me there was prolonged applause when your kids saw you back in classroom.

As for capsule characterizations, they go on right of blue line; you should have been paying attention at October Faculty Conference. I've discovered a boy on my register for whom I can't make out a CC or a final mark: I never laid eyes on him! He's been spending his English period every day, since the beginning of term, sitting in the office, being disciplined for something or other—no one can recall what!

Bea

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 304

TO: 508

Dear Bea—

My problem is CC's of kids who are present. Wish I could say something honest, like:

"Sycophant, stuffed-shirt, stinker. Has finger in every school pie; will go far."

or "What is she doing studying French verbs? Marry her off—and fast!"

or "Let's not lie to him about equality of opportunity!"

But, like the rest of us, I have to settle for:

"Leadership potential."

"Works to capacity."

"Should try harder."

One thing about Willowdale—there's no J.J. McH. there. Did you get his latest, alerting teachers to "epidemic of glue-sniffling"? And no Sadie Finch, clamping down, harder than ever, on inter-punching.

I would teach English there!

Syl

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 508

TO: 304

Dear Syl—

The McHabes and the Finches exist in college too. There is no greener grass. Even in private high schools and so-called "better" public high schools, there are many pressures: parental pressures for Ivy League colleges, School Board pressures, social pressures. The range of dull to bright kids is about the same, and if they drive their own cars to school, they—and their parents —tend to look down on the teacher's lack of money or status.

Besides, if you leave, with whom would I exchange these intraschool communiqués to brighten my Lobby Duty period?

Besides, you're our catalyst, mascot, spokesman and in-fighter.

Besides, you laugh good, like a teacher should.

I'm not saying this to get a higher mark.

Stay!

Bea

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 304

TO: 508

Thank you for the kind words; I need all I can get.

It may not even be my decision to make. After so many demerits, I expect a "U" rating from Clarke.

What did I miss yesterday?

Syl

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 508

TO: 304

Dear Syl—

Don't worry about your end-of-term rating. "Principal's Estimate of Teacher's General Fitness"—for all its verbiage—is concerned with one thing only: "Is she loony?" And—whatever else you are—you're not loony.

You missed the Dec. Faculty Conference, as you well know, at which all vital questions were postponed for lack of time. And at which:

2 new committees were formed.

It was decided to substitute folk songs for hymns in assembly.

McHabe took a stand vs. vandalism, obscenity, lateness, smoking, and the Faculty Show.

I know, because I had to write up the Minutes.

Paul spent the hour writing you verses.

I know, because he sat next to me.

Have you forgiven him?

Bea

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 304

TO: 508

Dear Bea—

There’s nothing to forgive. He himself feels blameless.

He is—as the PRC puts it—"laying hard"; and he keeps dropping bait into my letter-box:

"A question to pursue and ponder:

Does abstinence make the heart grow fonder?"

Health Ed teacher just sent me cutting slip for Alice Blake. Apparently only today has someone bothered to take attendance in Gym. Apparently no one has as yet removed her name from Delaney Book.

I've kept in touch with her mother. Alice has been transferred to another hospital, she is in pain, she still refuses to have anyone from school visit her.

What's all the excitement about "Teacher for a day"?

Syl

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 508

TO: 304

Dear Syl—

That's the day kids turn the tables on us. It always takes place just before Xmas; it's the occasion for certain responsible seniors to run the school for one day. President of G.O. becomes principal, chosen seniors prepare a lesson to teach lower classes, and it's all very sound.

But by a series of mutations and deteriorations, it is becoming more fraught and frantic each year. The humor of teachers dressed as kids cavorting on the stage escapes me, but there is a strong faction in its favor. They call it "the lighter side of education."

Surely, Willowdale has nothing like it to show you!

What's wrong? You sound a bit fed up.

Bea

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 304

TO: 508

Dear Bea—

I am—more than a bit fed up.

I once taught a lesson on "A man's reach should exceed his grasp/Or what's a heaven for?" I'm no longer sure that this is so; the higher I reach, the flatter I fall on my face.

How do you manage to stand up?

Syl

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 508

TO: 304

Dear Syl,

Look at the cherub who is delivering this note. Look closely. Did you ever see a lovelier smile? A prouder bearing? She has just made the Honor Society. Last year she was ready to quit school.

Walk through the halls. Listen at the classroom doors. In one—a lesson on the nature of Greek tragedy. In another—a drill on who and whom. In another—a hum of voices intoning French declensions. In another—committee reports on slum clearance. In another—silence: a math quiz.

Whatever the waste, stupidity, ineptitude, whatever the problems and frustrations of teachers and pupils, something very exciting is going on. In each of the classrooms, on each of the floors, all at the same time, education is going on. In some form or other, for all its abuses, young people are exposed to education.

That's how I manage to stand up.

And that's why you're standing, too.

Let's meet at 3. If you're swamped with work, let's at least walk to the subway together.

Bea

49. Willowdale

Fri., Dec. 11

Dear Ellen,

I chuckled at your description of your in-laws and the shrunken turkey. I needed to chuckle.

The invitation to spend the Xmas holidays with you is very tempting, but I won't be able to make it. Neither am I going to visit Mother. Her letters have switched into lower gear: She now sends me clippings on marriages. No, it isn't the "extravagance of the flight," as you so delicately put it. Since I'm unable to whip up an appetite at 10:17, I've saved a fortune on lunches. It's the term papers, reports, CC's and final marks, which are due right after the holidays, "to facilitate records," although there will still be a month of school left.

Other teachers, more efficient or more experienced, seem to manage to take this time off; some (on maximum salaries?) even go on cruises!

But I'm at a loss on how to give each of my 201 students a numerical mark in a subject like English. Based on what?—Average of tests? "Class attitude"? Effort? Attendance? Native intelligence? Memory-span? Emotional problems? The kind of reading their parents had exposed them to?

About Henrietta and the Book Room Incident: She's back, galumphing more energetically than ever through the classics, devising means of bringing them to the students' level, as the phrase goes. Her latest is: Great Poems Turned into Tabloid Headlines.

I wouldn't have believed it, had I not seen two kids in my homeroom at it:

MIDNIGHT RIDER WARNS OF FOE

SEAMAN GUILTY OF SHOOTING BIRD

WIFE TELLS ALL IN PORTUGUESE LOVE LETTERS

MAN REPORTS TALKING RAVEN

As for your question about Ferone and the Lavatory Escort episode, it passed with no repercussions. Ferone had neither failed nor cheated. As a matter of fact, his mark was 89. The day of the exam his paper was gone over, with a fine tooth comb, by Bester and me; after Thanksgiving, it was re-combed by McHabe. There was no evidence of foul play. And there was no apology offered him—or me.

But the boy did finally agree to see me after school. He is coming next week. I don't know why I feel it's so important. I haven't done too well with the others.

I couldn't change Eddie Williams' conviction that the white world is against him, no matter how many proofs and protestations I offered him. He knows better. He has always known.

And I couldn't, in any way, change Harry Kagan, nor cut through the fawning politician to find the boy beneath. Perhaps there isn't any.

And I couldn't do much for Lou Martin; the need for attention that prompts his clowning is too desperate.

My victories are few; Jose Rodriguez, who learned that he counts; Vivian Paine, who learned that she is nice; and a few who learned where to put commas and periods.

I think, like me, they're all seeking a way to make contact, to communicate, to be loved.

"Hey, teach—you back?" one of my boys greeted me.

"Tm not a teach. I'm a teacher. And I have a name. How would you like it if I called you "Hey, pupe!"?

"I'd like it fine."

"Why?"

"It shows you're with it."

I want to be "with it," but they need some concrete proof. Like Grayson's.

Quite inadvertently (the kids had been sworn to secrecy) I discovered the mystery of Grayson.

It seems he runs a sort of one-man free kitchen, lending-bank, drug-cure center, flophouse and employment agency in the basement.

While the rest of us were busy making out graphs and Character Capsules, he gave the kids sandwiches, lent them money, found jobs for them after school, or gave them jobs to do himself. He kept them off the streets and off "the junk," and on occasion let the temporarily homeless ones sleep illegally overnight in the basement.

What Ferone and some of the other kids were getting from him was not the pedagogic gobbledygook, not concepts and precepts, not conferences and interviews, not pleas and threats, not words—not any words at all—but simple action, immediate and real: food, money, jobs.

I admit to a momentary pang of dismay: What tangibles could I offer them?

It may be easier at Willowdale.

Extraordinary—that Willowdale Academy and Calvin Coolidge High School should both be institutions of learning! The contrast is stunning. I had a leisurely tea with the Chairman of the English Department. I saw several faculty members sitting around in offices and lounges, sipping tea, reading, smoking. Through the large casement windows bare trees rubbed cozy branches. (One of my students had written wistfully of a dream-school that would have "windows with trees in them"!) Old leather chairs, book-lined walls, air of cultivated casualness, sound of well-bred laughter.

Whatever tensions, back-biting or jockeying for position exist in a place like this—and I know they do—I, as a lady and a Chaucerian scholar, was made unaware of anything but their delight at my visit. If it should prove mutually satisfactory, I would teach three classes a day, three times a week; the other two days would be for individual conferences with students. Classes are small. Although I would be stuck with Freshman Composition—the Chairman shrugged apologetically—there would be an assistant to mark the papers. I would be required to do nothing but teach. I might even have a Chaucer seminar. And certainly, they would arrange to give me as much time as possible to complete the work for my doctorate, after which, "one might rise quickly on the academic ladder."

There I sat, Sylvia Barrett of Room 304, talking in my own language, made conscious of the dignity of my profession, made to feel, like Jose Rodriguez, that I'm "real."

I know, I know. I have a tendency to romanticize; Paul keeps telling me this. But surely, anyone interested in teaching belongs in Willowdale rather than in Calvin Coolidge?

Bea doesn't think so. Sometimes I think she is right.

When I returned to my own classes, after a day's absence, the lads seemed genuinely pleased to see me; but I suspect they were just as pleased with the bad time they had given my substitute. It seems she had arrived shrill and jittery, because the day before she had been threatened with a knife by a boy in another school.

"We gave her a nervous breakdown," Lou told me smugly.

And Paul presented me with new verses—a parody of Gray's "Elegy"—which begins:

He hasn't given up courting me with iambs.

And he hasn't given up trying to publish his exotic manuscript. A new publisher is interested, and Paul is poised for flight, awaiting word. To pass the time, he's writing the annual Faculty Frolic, which is given a week before Xmas, and at which teachers and students interchange places. I'm looking forward to seeing Mary Lewis in bobby sox.

I'm looking forward to hearing from Willowdale.

I'm looking forward to resigning from the school system.

Or am I?

I'm weary. Comfort me with letters of Xmas trees and hearth fires.

Love,

Syl

P.S. Did you know that attacks by pupils on teachers in the city schools average one a day?

S.

50. The Lighter Side of Education

TO: ALL TEACHERS

WITH CHRISTMAS ONLY A WEEK AWAY, THE SEASON'S GAY AND FESTIVE MOOD DESCENDS UPON OUR FACULTY AND STAFF TOMORROW WITH OUR ANNUAL FACULTY FROLIC, "THE COOLIDGE GILBERT & SULLIVAN," WHICH WILL BE THE CULMINATION OF OUR TRADITIONAL "TEACHER FOR A DAY" DAY. I HOPE AND TRUST THAT BOTH THOSE WHO PARTICIPATE AND THOSE WHO DO NOT, JOIN IN THE SPIRIT OF PROPER ENJOYMENT OF THE LIGHTER SIDE OF EDUCATION.

I WELCOME THIS OPPORTUNITY TO OFFER EACH AND ALL OF YOU MY SINCERE AND HEARTFELT WISHES FOR A MERRY YULETIDE AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

MAXWELL E. CLARKE

PRINCIPAL

TO: THE FACULTY OF CALVIN COOLIDGE HIGH SCHOOL

DEAR TEACHER:

IF YOU'D LIKE TO MAKE SOME EXTRA MONEY DURING THE XMAS HOLIDAYS, WE STILL HAVE A FEW OPENINGS LEFT IN OUR AGENCY IN THE FIELD OF TUTORING, SELLING, AND ADDRESSING XMAS ENVELOPES. PLEASE READ THE ENCLOSED APPLICATION FORM CAREFULLY; JOBS ARE GOING FAST!

For Linda Rosen

c/o Miss Barrett's Letterbox—Please forward!!!

Linda!!! Are you financially embarrassed or your fingers turned numb or have you run out of stationery???? Why didn't you answer my RSVP???? You know I can't call you because your Mother listens in on the Ext.!!! Je me porte tres bien et j'espere que vous etes le meme. Vous comprenez ma language???? Voulez vous venir a ma noel party avec Bob? Mes parents ne serons pas dans la maison!!!! Nous voulons avoir un grand temps comme le dernier foi, parce que I got le "stuff", vous me comprenez, pour devenir haut!! N'est pas???? Let me know!!!!

Actions speak louder than words, so I'll sign off.

Roz

CIRCULAR # 99B

TOPIC: "TEACHER FOR A DAY" DAY

PLEASE KEEP ALL CIRCULARS ON FILE, IN THEIR ORDER

DECEMBER 18, WHICH IS TOMORROW, HAS BEEN DESIGNATED "TEACHER FOR A DAY" DAY. ONLY THE HIGHEST SERIOUSNESS OF PURPOSE AND EXECUTION WILL BE TOLERATED. ALL DISCIPLINE PROBLEMS ARISING FROM THE LACK OF SERIOUSNESS OF THIS PROGRAM ARE TO BE REFERRED TO MR. McHABE.

Dear Miss Barrett,

Since I am running for re-election next term, I'm putting this in your letter box. Please enter all my Service Credits on my PRC which is important for votes. They are, to refresh your memory:

President G. O.

Captain Cafeteria Patrol.

Elevator Squad

G. O. Store Superviser

Vice President Social Club

Secretary Glee Club

and Clarion Booster

Miss Egan said she may give me credit for laying out gauze pads and swabs in the Infirmery each morning but I don't know if she will since pressure of other work prevents me doing so.

The Students Future Choice

Harry A. Kagan

TO: ALL TEACHERS

THE TEACHERS' INTEREST COMMITTEE IS PLANNING A GALA LUNCHEON FOR THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL BEFORE THE XMAS HOLIDAYS, WHEN STUDENTS WILL BE DISMISSED AT NOON. THE COST WILL BE $2.25 PER PERSON, INCLUDING GRATUITIES, WHICH IS THE MOST REASONABLE PRICE WE COULD GET.

PLEASE INDICATE YOUR WILLINGNESS TO ATTEND BY CHECKING YES OR NO. IF YOU EXPECT TO COME, PLEASE INDICATE YOUR CHOICE BY PLACING A CHECK ON THE LEFT-HAND SIDE OF MEAT OR FISH.

I WILL/WILL NOT ATTEND THE GALA LUNCHEON

SUPREME OF FRESH FRUIT ATTRACTIVELY DECORATED WITH STRAWBERRIES

CREAM OF MUSHROOM SOUP WITH GOLDEN CROUTONS

CHICKEN PATTY WITH WHITE SAUCE; TENDER GARDEN PEAS

FISH ALTERNATE:

FILLET OF SOLE CRISPLY BROWNED WITH PARSLEY POTATOES, SHOESTRING STRING BEANS

CHOICE OF VANILLA OR CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM

PETITS FOURS

COFFEE-TEA-MILK

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 508

TO: 304

Dear Syl—

Your letter-box is crammed to the gills, as usual; I hope I can squeeze this note in!

I'm supposed to lure you out of 304 during the homeroom period today: I promised your cherubs I'd think of something! They want to collect money for your Xmas corsage; it's traditional, and every year every teacher pretends great surprise at receiving it. (The one with the biggest corsage wins!) So be sure to drop in to my room—on some pretext or other.

Tomorrow will be wild! It would be good to fortify ourselves with a double malted after school today, but I know you're meeting with Ferone this afternoon. Let's plan to see each other during the holidays. I'll be pretty much alone, except for a couple of nights, when I am taking some of my kids who have never seen a live play to an off-Broadway production.

I understand tomorrow's Faculty Frolic is live, too!

Bea

MISS BARRETT,

Alice Blake OF YOUR OFFICIAL CLASS IS OWING THE LIBRARY THE SUM OF 49¢ FOR OVERDUE BOOK OR BOOKS ENTITLED The Idylls of the King BY Alfred Lord Tennyson UNLESS THIS SUM IS PAID AND THE BOOK OR BOOKS RETURNED WITHIN SEVEN DAYS, (HE/SHE) WILL BE PLACED ON THE LIBRARY BLACKLIST.

Dear Miss Barrett,

Just to make sure I pass here is another Extra Credit Myth I remembered! Hero and Liandor poped into my head because I forced myself to remember that Hero is a girl! But the rest of it I don't remember so well so will talk about another Psyche. She was the sister that got left on the shelf when the others got married off but an Orcle told her parents to put her on a Mount top to wait for a husband. One day Cupid came along and became her husband but said she must never look at him! Her sisters told her to take a look and if it's a monster kill it, and if not don't! When she did he was awakened and fled away. After trying to kill herself she came to Venus to be a maiden under her. After doing some tasks she became imortal and had two children. All the other teachers are forced to pass me on, Ha-ha! because I'm outgrowing all my classes so I hope you will too with all these Extras I'm giving you!

Very truely

Lou Martin

Dear Miss Barrett,

I'm collecting money from the kids in Home Room for a Xmas present to send Alice in the hospital and would like your permission to do this. Would you care to join in? I keep thinking how she used to sit right in front of me. We want to get her one of those great big stuff animals on which we'll all autograph our names to show we didn't forget her. A pander or a kangarroo.

Sincerly

Carole Blanca

51. Love Me Back!

Thurs., Dec. 17

Dear Ellen,

It is 3:30 in the morning. I can't sleep; I need to talk to you. I want to tell you what happened this afternoon, exactly what happened.

It was late when he came in; I had waited, it seems, for a long time. I remember arranging and rearranging the papers on my desk, refreshing my lipstick, switching on the lights against the winter darkness. I remember the sounds of traffic and the drilling on the street below, and the way he suddenly stood in the doorway.

He closed the door softly behind him and leaned against it, waiting. I remember thinking how nice, he had spruced himself up for our interview: the toothpick was gone; he had taken the trouble to brush his hair.

I arose. I smiled. I was glad to see him, I said. I had been wanting to see him all term. He said he knew that; well, I had my wish, here he was.

Ignoring his insolence, aware of his resentment of authority, I stepped out from behind my desk and —to bridge the distance between us—I sat down, with my Delaney Book, in a student's chair, motioning for him to sit next to me. I knew precisely what I would discuss with him: reasons for staying in school, possibility of college, making up failing marks, attendance, attitudes. I was ready to point out the discrepancy between his capacity and achievement. I was prepared to understand his problems.

He swaggered towards me, but he did not sit down.

He stood above me, leather jacket unzipped, rocking slightly on his heels, looking down at me, but not looking at my face.

I sat holding my Delaney Book like a shield against my breast, with all those cardboard names on it, last first, printed in ink. He knew what I was after, he said. He recalled my every act of kindness to him, from the first day, when I had covered for him with McHabe. And about the wallet, he said, and when they found the knife on him, and the midterms, and all that talk, talk, and asking him all the time to see me alone. Well, we were alone now.

The drilling on the street must have stopped for a moment; I remember it had begun again, more loud and insistent. I felt my heart beating against the hard, wine-red cover of the Delaney Book. He must try to understand, I said. He must believe that I wanted only—I wanted—

He wasn't listening. He was looming above me, the years between us swiftly reversed, while I sat, an unsure school girl, reciting a tentative lesson. My words never reached him; I could almost hear them drop, one by one, like so many pebbles against a closed window.

You know how you move under water, heavy and graceful? By this time I was standing. I had somehow got up. I remember how carefully I had placed the Delaney Book on the arm-desk of the chair, balancing it so that it should not spill out all those name cards. Disarmed now, empty-handed, I was standing before him. I became aware of the deserted building enclosing us, the empty room, the empty chairs, silent and abandoned as grave-stones; of scraps of paper, valueless now, scattered on the floor; of books leaning, top-heavy with words, on the splintered shelf; of papers on my desk, bulging with words. Slowly I began to step back; slowly he moved towards me, relentless as a shadow.

After a while I felt the wall at my back; there was no further place to go. I heard my words running down like a defective phonograph record, until there was silence. The drilling on the street had stopped again. He was very close. I looked at him, and with a mild shock of recognition, I saw him, as if I had known him only through photographs before, and now saw him in person. Yes, of course.

Someplace a car honked. I think he made a move towards me. Maybe not. I looked at him, and there were no words left with which to ward off feeling.

I reached out blindly. I touched his face. There were no words for the terrible tenderness. I wanted to comfort him, as if he were a child, for everything that had been done to him. I wanted to say, like Persephone in hell: My dear, my dear—It is not so dreadful here. I wanted to tell him, I wanted him to know. There were no words for this, only my hands on his face.

I don't know how long we stood, motionless, enfolded in silence. One moment his face was hard against my hands, the next, it seemed to shatter at my touch. He looked as if he were about to wrench himself away, but he didn't. Fists clenched, he watched me like a boxer poised to spring.

His eyes read me like Braille. This was the moment he had been testing me for. What was he asking me to do? Undo?

He had come for a purpose. He thought (he made himself think) it was my purpose too. It was the only way he knew to human closeness. It was also the way to diminish me, to punish.

His life outside this room was alien to me. I could not imagine or even guess it. Yet I knew him. His face told me all. The silent struggle, the clash of feeling on feeling: contempt and longing, helplessness and rage. All that he knew of good. The need to cling and to repel, to kneel and to defile.

He waited for a sign.

What could I say to show him that to survive, love was as strong as hate, and could be trusted? His world had taught him well, long before me.

Only my touch could speak. I care, it said, I do care.

His eyes grew hard. His lips moved.

"Damn you to hell"—he turned and bolted out of the room. The door opened and closed behind him, and there was the drilling on the street, loud now, and the desk and the papers and time. For some reason, I looked at my watch.

Was he crying?

If he was, he will never forgive me.

But it was I who cried. I sat down at my desk; I put my head on my arms on the desk, and I cried.

Why?

The question and answer period will come later; multiple choice, True or False, my own "probing question"; and the explanations, the interpretations, the distortions I will inevitably make.

For already, hours later, I think that what I felt for Ferone, and what I am feeling now, and what I am putting down on this paper, and what you will see when you read it—are all quite different.

"What is truth?" said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer. But jesting Sylvia will stay and jest the truth away. I had used my sense of humor; I had called it proportion, perspective. But perspective is distance. And distance, for all my apparent involvement, is what I had kept between myself and my students. Like Paul's lampoons, like Lou's ha-ha's, it insulated me; it kept me safe from feeling.

I will probably, in my very next letter, or very next paragraph—see once again "the funny sides"; I may allow memory to turn flippant. But for a moment, or hour, or whatever measure of time it takes to grow, we reached each other, Ferone and I, person to person.

For love is growth. It is the ultimate commitment. It imposes obligations; it risks pain. Love is what I wanted from all, from A (Allen) to W (Wolzow) in my Delaney Book; but I had never really loved back. Oh, love me, love me back! they all cried—Alice and Vivian, all of them. And maybe now I can.

Ferone taught me. Our roles became reversed. He had reached me; I was the one who needed him, to make me feel.

What to do with it? I had once seen a girl's memo book on the Lost & Found shelf in the office, and on the cover—a warning in crayon: Do Not Touch!!! Or Look!!! Personal! Private! Penalty! The penalty for touching is too great. The burden of love for all the Ferones waiting for me in the classroom is not to be borne. Better by far to stand at a lectern and read my neat notes at Willowdale.

I am tired.

I had set out to tell you exactly what happened. But since I am the one writing this, how do I know what in my telling I am selecting, omitting, emphasizing; what unconscious editing I am doing? Why was I more interested in the one black sheep (I use Ferone's own cliché) than in all the white lambs in my care? Why did I (in my red suit) call him a child? Am I, by asking questions, distorting something pure? The heart has its reasons; it's the mind that's suspect.

You've read my letters from the very beginning, from the first day of school. How callow I must have been, how impatient and intolerant and naive and remote and gullible and sure of myself. And how mistaken.

It is almost morning; the alarm is set for 6:30. I have been writing and writing. "Words are all we have," I once said. Wrong again. Whatever the name for love, and there are many, it can be as silent as an unspoken word, as simple as a touch.

I must try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is our topsy-turvy day, when teachers turn into kids, kids into teachers. A fitting climax.

All my love,

Syl

P. S. Did you know that 50% of the time I've been barking up all the wrong trees?

S.

52. “Teacher for a Day” Day

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: H. Pastorfield

TO: S. Barrett

Dear Sylvia—

Isn't this fun?

Have you got a Teacher for a Day kid this period? I get a bang out of turning the classes over to the kids and pretending I can't spell cat!

Would you like to join the party in my room? Bring your kids! Wer'e having a "Tables Are Turned" ball!

Henrietta

INTRASCHOOL COMMUNICATION

FROM: 508

TO: 304

Dear Syl—

How are you doing? You looked awful this morning! Don't let the tumult in the halls rattle you. The wild giggles, the dunce caps, the screams for late passes are mostly high spirits.

But some of it is malice. This is the day for vengeance. I understand Loomis got a zero in Math. One of his kids had spent weeks laying the foundation: a tough question he got from someone in Graduate Math Dept. at Berkeley.

How did your interview with Ferone go yesterday?

See you at Faculty Frolic this afternoon!

Bea

Dear Miss Barrett,

Joseph Ferone of your official class is absent today, but you neglected to fill out Postal card #1 (Reason for Absence).

Sadie Finch

Chief Clerk

Dear Sylvia,

Do you happen to have an aspirin?

Please send it to nurse's office—they got me to cover it while she's lying down.

Mary

FROM: JAMES J. MCHABE ADM. ASST.

TO: ALL TEACHERS

DURING TODAY'S ABNORMAL SCHEDULE TEACHERS SHOULD KEEP DISRUPTION AT A MINIMUM. THERE WILL BE A SERIES OF THREE BELLS REPEATED FOUR TIMES TO INDICATE EARLY DISMISSAL.

FACULTY FROLIC WILL BEGIN PROMPTLY AFTER THAT.

TEACHERS MUST NOT PUNCH OUT BEFORE THEIR REGULAR TIME.

JJ McH

Sylvia!

May I borrow your phonograph? School phonograph doesn't work.

Also—stage curtain is stuck. Can you spare a couple of tall kids to be curtain-pullers?

I hope you like the show. All is madness down here. Music, lights, props, costumes—nothing works. Manheim forgot all his lines, Yum-Yum is absent, and there are hoodlums (not ours) lurking in the auditorium.

It augurs well—

Paul

FROM: JAMES J. MCHABE, ADM. ASST.

TO: ALL TEACHERS

DUE TO UNUSUAL CIRCUMSTANCES THERE IS NO ONE PATROLLING THE HALLS AND ENTRANCES TO CHALLENGE UNAUTHORIZED VISITORS. TEACHERS WITH FREE TIME ARE TO REPORT TO THE OFFICE FOR PATROL ASSIGNMENTS.

JJ McH

Sylvia!

Urgent! Can you get from one of your kids a Japanese fan and some hair lacquer? If no fan is available, a ping-pong racket will do.

Hurriedly,

Paul

(Will you come backstage to help with makeup?)

TO: ALL TEACHERS

Please ignore previous instructions about today's bell schedule. There will be a series of four bells repeated twice to indicate early dismissal. Three bells repeated four times indicates fire drill and we wish to avoid confusion.

Sadie Finch

Chief Clerk

Sylvia!

Can you spate two more boys (husky) to hold up backdrop? It got unglued. Also need an obi —ask around. We’ll be ready in a few minutes. Be sure to yell: "Author, author!"

Paul

(Or any wide sash)

TO: ALL TEACHERS

Please disregard bells. There has been a delay in the Faculty Show. Keep students in rooms until further notice.

Sadie Finch

Chief Clerk

TO: ALL TEACHERS

Please disregard previous notice about disregarding bells, since most students are now in auditorium.

Sadie Finch

Chief Clerk

FROM: JAMES J. MCHABE, ADM. ASST.

TO: ALL TEACHERS

BECAUSE OF UNRULINESS IN CLASSROOMS, TODAY'S EARLY DISMISSAL TOOK PLACE EARLIER THAN ANTICIPATED. TEACHERS ARE TO PROCEED TO AUDITORIUM AT ONCE.

JJ McH