“I thought I remember reading somewhere,” she started off haltingly as if she were unsure. Standing immediately in front of her, only I could see the thrill of certainty in her expression, as she realized she was the first to “get it.”
A male voice from the other side of the room blurted out, “I believe you’re talking about black activist groups like the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and the National Urban League.” I looked across the class to see the speaker, Rashid. I glanced back at Kristen just in time to see the anger flare in her eyes and replaced immediately by the ice of brittle disappointment.
I felt compelled to recognize one of few initiatives of my newest student, so I acknowledged Rashid’s remarks but tried to maintain that elusive order of the classroom. “Good contribution, Rashid,” I said simply. “I’m not sure what the protocol was in the schools in Pakistan, but in this country it is customary we take our turns and do not interrupt others when they are speaking.” I tried to keep my tone even, hoping to make my response supportive and corrective at the same time. Probably achieved neither. “We were ready to hear what Kristen had to say. Kristen?”
When I looked back at Kristen, the earlier light in her cobalt eyes was now extinguished and her slender arms slowly folded in front of her. She glared back at me and said nothing. For her, the teachable moment had passed and I silently berated myself for letting it slip through my fingers. At the time I made a quick mental note to talk to her briefly as she left class, to compliment her and try to re-establish rapport. But as the class evolved, even that small good intention was swamped by a tide I couldn’t control.
Studying the young faces before me, I could tell that Kristen’s resentment was spreading quickly to the other students, ignited by a smoldering heat of bigotry. I wasn’t sure I had made the right choice here, but I wanted to move the class on and scanned the class for possible allies and settled on Jeremy again. “What do you think groups like the NAACP might find offensive in a story like Huckleberry Finn, Jeremy?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know, Miss Sterber,” he began, now no longer sure if he wanted to take the risk. As he pondered my question, I watched an answer dawn on his handsome features. “If I were to guess, I would say it’s because the story uses the ‘N’ word,” he offered.
“By the ‘N’ word,” I started, hoping to relieve him from having to say it. I was cut off before I could finish.
“He’s talkin’ ‘bout ‘NIGGER.’ Ain’t ya, Jeremy?” chortled Ted.
“Ted. I just reminded Rashid that we use a little common courtesy in this room. You’re hardly new here. You shouldn’t need to be reminded.” I was more curt than necessary, but it was getting to be really hard to like Ted. I know, teachers are not supposed to admit to such preferences, but get real. We’re not automatons and Ted was just plain obnoxious, a role I think he enjoyed. I struggled to get the class back on track. “Jeremy?” I simply said and looked at grey-green eyes.
“Well,” he began hesitantly and I studied the room, my even stare commanding quiet and attention, I hoped. The other twenty-three students were quiet, studying Jeremy. “Well, I would expect that the way Twain has his characters use the word ‘Nigger’ regularly--” he looked down at the Formica desk top and almost swallowed the “N” word--“might offend some people, like maybe civil rights groups.” He hesitated and glanced up at me for confirmation. I nodded my head once, my eyes rising slightly. Apparently he was encouraged. “I dunno, maybe they thought kids reading Huckleberry Finn might get too used to seeing the ‘N’ word and might think it’s okay to use it themselves.”
There are times as a teacher that you just get blown away by the insight coming out of the mouth of what a few minutes ago was a raging mass of hormones.
“But isn’t the black guy kinda a good guy for Twain?” suddenly Heather piped up from across the room, her two fingers caressing the fifth earring on her right lobe. “What’s his name?”
Without waiting for my okay, three different students shouted more or less simultaneously, “Jim! His name’s Jim, Heather. Get a clue!”
I was so surprised by the comment from Heather that I didn’t have time to react to the outburst and instead directed my question back at Heather. “Why does it matter if you have a hero--the good guy--who is called a nigger in the book?” I asked, staring directly at her so no one else would jump in.
She looked briefly at Kim and munched on a nonexistent wad of gum--I hoped since gum was outlawed in school--and said, talking faster, “Well, if you have a good guy, a hero in a story and he gets called a dumb thing like, you know. Doesn’t that mean the author is trying to say we shouldn’t pay attention to a name like nigger?”
And this was coming from Heather, a comment that had nothing to do with boys, make-up or hip-hop. I stole a quick glance heavenward and then returned to reality. “Perhaps it would be best to ask how an African American might see this question.” My glance roamed around the classroom. There were only three black students in the seventh period class and of course all three refused to meet my gaze. After a beat, I settled on Dante, a tall, thin handsome young black man with close-set brown eyes, a prominent nose and a winning smile. “Dante, what is your opinion on Twain’s use of the word ‘nigger’ in the dialogue of the book?”
“Well that’s pretty much how they talked back then, wasn’t it?” he asked looking up at me. “That don’t make it right or anything, but Twain couldn’t hardly have them talk like they wuddnt real people, could he? I mean I kinda understand, but I gotta admit it still bothers me when I read the word ‘nigger’ in the book.” He hesitated a few seconds and then continued as if he just had a thought. “But that don’t mean we shouldn’t read it. Sometimes you gotta read things that hurts ya.”
I know what you’re thinking. English teachers have a duty to correct our students’ grammar. There are times when that’d be appropriate, but this day I wouldn’t have done anything to intrude on Dante’s honest self-expression. In fact, I could have kissed him. His ungrammatical words were far more eloquent than mine could ever be. So instead I pressed my luck. “How do feel about Heather’s point?” I asked, wanting to give her the credit. “Does the fact that, even though Jim is called a nigger in the book, he is clearly at least one of the heroes in the book, does that mitigate your feelings at all?”
I’m always trying to squeeze in another new vocabulary word when I can. I’m not sure it worked in this case, as Dante just frowned at me. I tried to recover. “Did having Jim a hero in the book make you feel a little less bad about the use of the ‘N’ word describing him?”
“Maybe a little,” Dante said and stopped. When I thought he wasn’t going to say any more, he did. “Like maybe, how can he have this man who saves Huck’s life and all and protects him and then Huck calls him such a lousy name like nigger? It does kinda show that Twain dudn’t think he was just some ‘nigger.’”
No one made any response to this, not even smart-mouthed Ted, and I let it be. Then I pushed my luck one more time. “Perhaps, it would be good to get the perspective of someone from a different culture than ours,” I said and could just detect the barely audible groans from the other students, which I pretended to ignore. “Rashid, since you’re from Pakistan, I’d like to hear your point of view.”
His eyes looked up from the notebook in which he was always jotting notes. He spoke in a quiet, confident voice. “In my country, it is common that adults would determine what young people should read. It is their job to know better and to keep us from,.uh, sin, and if they thought reading a book might bring us to any such ....harm, they might tell us to read another, better book.”
“That’s quite interesting, Rashid,” I answered, before one of the students could say “sissy wimp ass” under his breath and I’d have to pretend I didn’t hear it. “Could you share with us your opinion on the issue we are discussing, about the use of the word ‘nigger’ in the novel?”
The olive-skinned youth stared back
at me, his eyes two hard beads of black. His response carried a tone of razor-edged arrogance “I think this discussion illustrates that bigotry is still very much alive in your country. That race hatred is one of the central beliefs in this ‘classless’ society of America. That the face you try to show to the world of tolerance and understanding of others is pretty much a lie.”
Rashid either had incredible timing or great luck because just as the other students were about to offer their angry retorts, the final bell of the day blared, blocking out all competing sounds, and the other 23 students jumped out of their seats and barreled out the door, looking ready to stone the foreigner. Rashid remained in his seat, his face a neutral mask and I waited till the commotion of the end-of-day stampede receded. Slowly I walked across the room and lowered myself into the curve of the desk next to him. He was staring, almost defiantly, back at me.
I said, “Your comments today about the book certainly raised some interesting points. It definitely gave everyone something to think about, even if you could have chosen your words a little more carefully.”
“I apologize if I do not use your language correctly,” he said, his voice sounding not at all apologetic.
“Oh, I’ve listened to your use of English in my class for the past several days and I think your command of the language is quite good. Probably better than some of my students who are native speakers.” I gave him my best knowing smile. “At any rate it’s a cinch no one left here today saying my class was ‘bor-r-ring,’ “ I said, mimicking Ted.
He still did not smile back. “Thank you,” he said.
“You know,” I continued, searching for some way to connect to this strange young man, “my goal today was to find a way to get the students to delve into Huckleberry Finn. You certainly helped with that.”
“Thank you.” This time his voice carried a curious combination of deference and defiance.
“But I don’t think you made yourself any friends today.”
“I did not come to America to make friends,” he said, his voice hard-edged.
“Why did you come to America?” I asked in all innocence. I saw something flash briefly in his eyes--surprise, alarm, fear--and then it disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared.
“I have come to learn about America and to make my fortune.”
It sounded like he was reading from a script but at the time I wrote off my uneasiness to the fact that he was still adjusting to our culture and had probably learned much of his usage from TV and movies. At least that’s what I told myself. I tried to switch subjects.
“I’d love to hear about your schooling in Pakistan.”
That same strange look washed over his features again before he forced the earlier calm back into his eyes. Extricating himself from the desk, he murmured, “In my country, according to the Koran, women are not supposed to ask such personal questions of men.”
I was caught a bit off guard at first and then said, “I thought you said that America is now your country.”
Moving hastily through the aisle, he muttered, “Good day, Ms. Sterber.”
It wasn’t until he was out the door and the sounds of his hollow footfalls on the new tile floor died away that I pulled my contorted body out of the student desk, not without some effort.
“Not bad, kiddo,” called my friend Christie from the back of the room.
Chapter 11
“Before you open that grinning mouth of yours, I need a drink,” I said to my friend before she had even reached the front of the room. “How about you?”
“I will, if you’re buying,” Christie said, her wide smile showing off her set of pearly whites. She was taller than I by a good three inches and had the lean, sleek form of a supermodel. It took her only four strides to reach the front of the room. Watching her move, it wasn’t hard to see where my male students got their fantasies. Her long blond hair hung perfectly across her shoulders and bounced slightly as she arrived at the front of the room. If she hadn’t been my best friend, it would’ve been easy to hate that hair.
“Let’s see, it’s only been four days since we got paid. I suppose I can scrounge up another fifty cents, even on my paltry salary,” I said and she smiled back at me. That slightly demented smile is what I remember most about the first time we met.
At the end of my first official day at James Thurber--after an interminable day of officious orientations, mandatory meetings and tedious training sessions--she popped her head in my classroom as I sat at my desk, overwhelmed.
“Hi, my name is Christie Ferguson,” she beamed and literally bounced into the room. Christie always seemed to be just a little bit this side of crazy and she carried a ready supply of smirks that screamed guilty pleasures. “Since you’re the new girl on the block, I just wanted to say welcome to good old James Thurber.”
I learned that we were about the same age but she had started teaching at Hammerville right out of college and was already in her sixth year here. She reminded me that gave her seniority and first dibs on all new hunks in the building.
“You settling in okay?” she asked after the preliminaries were out of the way.
“I’m exhausted, my brain is frizzled from information overload and my derriere is numb,” I said, slumped in my chair.
“Yeah, first day here will do that to you,” she responded. “But don’t worry, it’ll get a lot worse.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what you need?” she said without changing expressions.
“Yeah, a cool fan, a long bubble bath and a good night’s sleep.”
“Nope,” she said, that smirk reappearing, “a cold drink, a guy and a rousing night out.”
“Christie, you’ve got to be kidding. Tomorrow is the first day of classes and I’m not ready yet.”
“Girl, nobody can help you get better prepared for this place than yours truly. Tonight is your last night of freedom; we need to make the most of it.”
Then she grabbed my arm and bodily dragged me to her car despite my weak protests. We spent the next several hours in “intense preparations” at a local watering hole called Nick’s as she delivered on the cold drinks and, a few times, almost on the hot guys. Several Buds later, she had me laughing and matching her smirk for smirk.
Between the drinks and the passes, we talked about everything--the school, the administration, the students, our lives outside of school. In an alcohol-induced daze, we even swapped stories about our love lives, or rather hers and my lack thereof. She said she was dating one guy and I told her I “was looking.” I shared with her that I had lost my dad recently and why I chose to return to Hammerville.
“At least, you had a dad worth missing,” she said between sips. “My father deserted mom and me when I was ten. Never saw him again. Had to fight for everything myself.”
“In this go-round,” I still remember her saying--okay I don’t remember a lot of details from that night, but I remember this--“you can’t go through life always hedging your bets. If you don’t take some risks, you’re not really living.”
The next day I had the worst hangover of my life, but somehow was relaxed, confident and able to teach through the day. After that night, we became inseparable.
Most days I found her good humor irresistibly contagious, and today was no exception. Together we headed out the door and down the hall to the lounge--oh, excuse me, teachers’ workroom. Of course, Christie was just getting started.
“If I had the time and we could sneak out of here, I’d suggest we head to Nick’s and I’d have you buy me something that’d cost more than fifty cents,” she said, her eyebrows doing the Groucho Marx thing.
“Don’t give me any ideas. I’ve got about a hundred papers to grade and I suspect a trip with you to Nicks would impair my professional judgment,” I said.
“Yeah, but your students’ grades might all improve in the process. I’m only suggesting it so I can help students bring up their grades in your class.”
I smacked her o
n the shoulder and laughed. “Looks like my students will have to make their grades the old-fashioned way--they’ll have to EARN them!” I continued, mimicking the old TV commercial that had been a favorite of my dad.
“Well, I’m glad to see you two are in a good mood today,” said Hal Thompson, our principal, who suddenly materialized across the hallway from us. I always thought it was spooky how good administrators could sometimes just appear like that.
“Hey, Mr. Thompson,” Christie jumped in, turning her smile on him. She was always faster than I on the draw. “I just finished an observation of Dee Dee’s class and we’re just getting ready to do a little R and R.”
“R and R?” asked Thompson, his bass voice holding the question up, like a suspicious parent. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses over his slightly crooked nose, letting his fingers brush his smallish black mustache. His deep gray eyes studied Christie with what he probably thought was a penetrating stare. But he was no match for her.
“Oh not that kind of R and R!” she slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Don’t we wish? I just observed Dee Dee teaching one of the best lessons I’ve seen and we were about to embark on the ‘Review and Reflect’ process. We thought we needed a drink before we start, but decided to settle for a couple of Diets.”
“Oh, I get it! R & R. Great! I like that,” he said, chuckling. “I’m really glad you two volunteered for the Peer Coaching Program. You have a lot to offer each other as coaches as well as friends. If you get the chance, talk it up. I’d like to see other teachers take advantage of the program and you can probably do more to convince them than I can. Anyway, I hope you have a good R & R session.”
Right then, a student burst out of the next classroom door and started running down the corridor. In two seconds, Principal Thompson was in action. “Craig, hold it right there!” he called out and the guy stopped in his tracks. “Where are you heading in such a hurry?” was the last we heard as the two disappeared around the corner.
Leave No Child Behind Page 8
