by Bel Kaufman
LESSONS ARE TO PROCEED AS USUAL, WITH NO REFERENCE TO THE INCIDENT. TEACHERS ARE TO DISCOURAGE MORBID CURIOSITY ON THE PART OF THE STUDENTS.
JJ MCH
* * *
Dear Miss Barrett, Is it OK if I start collecting money from the Home Room kids in my different subject classes to send flowers to Alice in the hospital? If she’s OK. The thing is we always used to sit in front of each other.
Carole Blanca
Nov. 17
Dear Ellen,
So much has happened since the last time I wrote to you, I don’t know where to begin. Little Alice Blake threw herself out of a window, for the love of Lancelot. But instead of floating, pale and lovely, past his window like the Lady of Shalott (this was one of her fantasies I glimpsed when I found her notebook), she is lying in splints and traction in the hospital. She may need an operation on her hip bone, her doctor tells me. She may limp for the rest of her life. So far, she has refused to see anyone from school.
There has been a frantic spurt of directives.
McHabe advised us to keep our public image intact and our students in their seats.
Bester reminded the English Dept. to open windows from the top only. I said I would–except for my broken window, which is broken from the bottom.
There has even been a circular from Clarke, addressed to: Homeroom Teachers, Subject Teachers, Faculty Advisers, Deans, Administrative Officers, Clerical Staff, Coaches and Custodial Staff, urging us all to be aware of our responsibility in a democracy.
Paul asks how I would have handled a love letter from a student. I don’t know–by talking, maybe, by listening. I don’t know.
How sad that we don’t hear each other–any of us.
Major issues are submerged by minor ones; catastrophes by absurdities. There was a bit of a to-do about the school clerk who had been punching Paul’s card in the time clock–a practice more honored in the breach. She, at least, proved her love in a practical manner. After a brief burst of unexpected emotion, she is spewing out mimeographs as impersonally as ever.
This was a week for erupting passions. Henrietta Pastorfield, hep spinster, good sport, pupils’ pal, found her best student, Bob, in the deserted Book Room with Linda Rosen. She flew into a hysterical rage and had to be sent home. I don’t know what she saw; apparently the kids had been “making out.” What the exact boundaries of making out are I’m not sure. I’m not sure the kids are sure either. But it was enough to devastate poor Henrietta. “She can’t even spell,” she kept gasping between sobs. “He won the Essay Contest, and she can’t even spell … .”
She hasn’t been back since, and we have a young per diem substitute who had taught shoes in a vocational high school on her last job. Though her license is English, she had been called to the Shoe Department, where she traced the history of shoes from Cinderella and Puss in Boots through Galsworthy and modern advertising. “Best shoe lesson they ever had,” she told me cheerfully. “Until a cop came in, dangling handcuffs: ‘Lady, that kid I gotta have.’ ” To her, Calvin Coolidge is Paradise.
While Henrietta is recovering from her moment of truth and Alice is lying in the hospital, life goes on. We are now involved in preparations for the Midterm Exams and the Thanksgiving Dance.
But Alice’s attempt to die was not in vain. Teachers are now more careful about punching in, and Paul has appointed a monitor to guard his room when he’s not in it.
You ask about Ferone and Willowdale, in that order. I received a beautiful letter from the Department Chairman at Willowdale. He addressed me as if I were a lady and a scholar (hey, that’s me!) and invited me to come for a personal interview in December.
And Ferone is still testing, testing me, with all the tricks of the trade. He pretends not to hear and keeps asking me to repeat. He drops books loudly, spends a long time picking them up, drops them again. He arrives late and stands gaping in the doorway. He answers me with false humility: “Yes’m, teach, you’re the boss.” He rocks on his heels, hands in pockets, the inevitable toothpick in his mouth.
“I got no homework.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Why?”
“I just didn’t.”
“How do you expect to pass?”
“I’m supposed to accelerate at my own speed. I’m supposed to compete with myself. Well, I’m not so hot!”
Why do I bother? Because I feel something in him that is worth saving, and because once he wrote me: “I wish I could believe you.”
Not that he’s in class much; he keeps cutting to be with Grayson. I don’t know what goes on down there. After the scandal about custodial misuse of funds, I look upon the whole Basement with a wary eye. There was, of course, a directive: STUDENTS ARE NOT TO USE STAIRCASE WHICH TERMINATES IN THE BASEMENT.
All staircases but one terminate in the basement.
But whenever I feel too frustrated to go on, I find an unexpected compensation: a girl whose face lights up when she enters the room; a boy who begins to make sense out of words on a printed page; or a class that groans in dismay when the end-of-period bell rings.
In order to remember the rewards when the going gets rough, I’ve made out a list of Debits and Credits:
DEBITS
CREDITS
Ferone (still unreached)
Jose Rodriguez no longer signs “Me”!
Eddie Williams ( “ “ )
Vivian Paine losing weight; likes herself better.
Harry Kagan ( “ “ )
Lou Martin, in the midst of clowning, raises a hand to answer a question!
McHabe ( !!!!!! )
Four kids took out public library cards for first time!!!
Mild bladder symptoms (This is an occupational disease: There is simply no time to go to the bathroom!)
I may look forward to retirement after 35 years of service; at 70 it’s mandatory!
Clerical work piling up, up, up!
Nov. Faculty Conference: problems of overworked teachers, overcrowded classrooms, dropouts, integration, teacher’s strikes, salary raises, teacher training, building scandals–were all “postponed for lack of time”–just as they were in Sept. and Oct.
Lunch hour at 10:17 A.M.
Not enough books, chalk, time to teach, endurance …
Etc., Etc., Etc.!
Yes, Mother still sends me gory clippings. At the same time, she inquires delicately whether or not there is a young man in my life. I tell her there are many. Over a hundred.
I’m glad Suzie liked my birthday present. It’s delicious to shop for a little girl of two. And please stop remonstrating–I may be a teacher, but I’m not that poor!
Tell me about your Thanksgiving. I was supposed to have dinner with Paul, but how can you wish on a turkey wishbone with a man who is capable of correcting a love letter?
Love,
Syl
P.S. Did you know that a third of all New York City teachers are substitutes?
S.
I suggest they do away with graff and coruption and make a school where we don’t have to stand up in Assembly and Lunch! We should have a sit down strike but there’s no place to sit, Ha-ha, joke!
Lou Martin
1. I like the way you “put it over” (Julius Ceazer)
2. Open School is a farse!
3. You didn’t have to hush it up we knew all about it.
A. Why she tried to kill her self!
1. Misunderstandings of feelings between pupils and teachers.
2. Misunderstandings of feelings between children and parents.
Teenager
You never call on me and if you do it’s very seldom.
Cutter
Most fellows dislike their teacher not because the teacher is good or bad but just because the teacher is a teacher. You are different because you don’t treat us like a teacher. Now coming down to the human side of things, you for one don’t look like an old hag but beautiful every day. It slays me! Never in my life did I feel this
in school. The way you walk up and down the isle really sends me and I hope you take it in the right spirit.
In these “distressful times” when any day the whole world can just as soon “blow up” I enjoy “poetry”. The way your tone of voices make it sound in changing it to sadness or happiness or whatever it is suited for, depending on the “poem”. I went to the school “librery” to look for more “Frost” but it was closed.
Chas. H. Robbins
If you could only be a man instead of a female I would say the only decent teachers in this school are you and Mr. Grayson and he’s not even a teacher.
Rusty
I don’t like the way you read, too emoting, and over our heads.
Yr Emeny
You gave me the courage to read a book.
Reader
When he said the fault dear Brutis is not in our stars meaning we got only ourselfs to blame he wasn’t a color person.
Edward Williams, Esq.
Don’t ever change! There is a pleasing way in your manner of dressing (red suit) & shape. With you I could spend a whole day with nothing but English.
A Bashful Nobody
For my money you stink.
Poisen
I never in my life used to have use for poems but when you read it aloud it makes the words come true. If every one would read it the way you do no one would be left hating poems. Can you recommend another poem?
Jose Rodriguez
* * *
I have a math teacher for English and a typing teacher for Eco and you for Home Room and for French they keep changing around. I’m willing to do my best if they would only meet me ½ way.
A True Pupil
Too much homework but I don’t mind I don’t do it anyway. And I’m possitively not writting any more for you.
What I like about you is you’re brainy. In a nice way. I wish I could have you always but have to quit and go to work so must say a sincere goodbye.
Dropout
If other teachers would be young and sexy looking like you they wouldn’t have to snoop around and make trouble for couples that go steady. Snoopervisers make education hard to learn.
Linda Rosen
Have Monday Orals on Tues. and Thurs. too. It pushes a lot of us out of our shyness when speaking in front of a crowd.
Mark Anthony
* * *
I suggest more quiet classrooms because I like to sleep a lot.
Dead To The World
On Mondays what the hell do you think we are, Oraters?
Disgusted
Not enough men’s rooms, a disgrace to mankind! A lavaratory centrally located would be a great comfort to all concerned.
Sophomore
Don’t be so kind hearted because people take advantage. For instants, when I didn’t do my homework and you gave me a break by letting me hand it in tomorrow, I felt I was a big shot and didn’t have to do things til the last moment. Don’t worry, I broke out of it very fast but with some one else it might have been bad for you. Well, don’t take it so hard.
I am loosing weight rappidly just looking how slim you are in your red suit and others. You are much prettier than my sister. My goal is you.
Vivian Paine
(Did you notice how I wear my hair behind since you told me how you liked it?)
It is my considerable opinion that you are very well qualified. No matter how boring the lesson you always make it interesting, I suggest you continue your enjoyable and educational teachings.
Harry A. Kagan
(The Students Choice)
I’m not even in your class but hello anyway!
Dr. Ben Casey
When you call on me to answer don’t call on me when I don’t know what the answer is, it makes me look dumb in front of the class. You always call on the others when they know what the answer is.
Edward Williams, Esq.
I give the appearance of being mature but it’s just the opposite.
Doodlebug
I can honestly and truly say I disliked the book J. Ceaser by W. Shak. It has its good points but some how or another they didn’t appeal to me. I suggest for J. Ceaser to have more humor to it, it’s too sad.
Disatisfied-with-Shak. Student
Miss P---ld and, Miss B--tt are in love with B-b and J-e and Miss F---ch with Mr. B----er and Alice B. also, she had his b-by, that’s why.
Guess Who
You really made me get to the bottom of Julius Caesar.
Stander
We’re behind you 95%. Don’t worry.
How come Dr. Bester is so nice and different in class than in his office, he’s a good teacher but you’d never know it looking at him?
Lazy Mary
They shouldn’t allow bad morals in the Book Room.
Unsigned
You are the most understanding person I ever knew and the best English teacher I ever had, and that includes other subjects. This comes from the heart and not the mouth.
Carole Blanca
Teachers are ruining America.
Zero
Sat., Nov. 21
Dear Ellen,
Yesterday was a day to remember. A day that ran a gamut. A day that provided what’s known in Pedagese as “a spectrum of experiences.” In the morning I found myself in the midst of a cafeteria riot which I had, somehow, instigated; in the evening I was dancing in the gym with the same boys who had been rioting a few hours earlier.
It began in my English class. Some of the kids had come to English straight from lunch, and I overheard them complaining about conditions in the school cafeteria. Since we were working on a letter-writing unit, I suggested that they compose a letter to the Board of Education, describing existing conditions and requesting better facilities. We had a preliminary discussion, and I realized that I had lifted the lid off long smoldering resentments: “We have to swallow lunch in 20 minute shifts …” “We have to eat standing up …” “Can’t move … can’t smoke … can’t talk–only whisper …” “Lousy food.” … “They treat us like cattle …”
The next period–my unassigned–I passed through the Students’ Cafeteria on my way to the Teachers’ Lunchroom next door for some coffee. The Aide assigned to the cafeteria was not on duty. It was jammed with kids, half of them standing; it was stuffy, noisy, messy with soiled trays on wooden tables, paper bags, milk containers, coke bottles, candy wrappers. Under a “No Talking” sign, leaning insolently against the wall, was Joe Ferone.
“You slumming?” he said.
“You could use some extra chairs,” I said inanely.
“Plenty of chairs in the Teachers’ Lunchroom,” he said. It was true. At that time of day, there were never more than a few teachers there. “We’re supposed to be as good as you? Can we bring some of your chairs here?”
“Of course,” I said. “Just be sure to return them at the end of the period. Why don’t you and a few of the boys– –”
Before I could finish, there was a stampede to the Teachers’ Lunchroom: boys shoving, pushing, shouting, dragging chairs, waving chairs over their heads, fighting for seats, yelling …
Suddenly–a shrill whistle: the Admiral himself.
“Silence! I want absolute silence!” He is furious. “There is to be no talking here of any kind. Anyone opens his mouth, you’re in real trouble. I don’t want to hear a word out of you!”
They obey. All talking stops. Not a word is spoken. Then, slowly, methodically, in ominous and terrible wordlessness, they all rise, as if at a signal, and begin smashing dishes, breaking bottles, throwing books, trays, papers on the floor, flinging food against the walls; still silent, they march around the room, weaving in and out and around the tables, a mob, mute and inexorable; the only sound is the stamping of feet, crunching of glass, breaking, cracking, splintering–punctuated by McHabe’s helpless whistle.
It was an extraordinary and terrifying sight. Who called the cops, where they came from so quick
ly, I don’t know–but the moment they appeared, the mob turned into kids, weaving back to their places in the same grim silence, and waiting with vacant faces among the debris.
It was like something rehearsed, performed, and finished; so that when the bell rang, they left as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“I’m afraid it was my fault, Mr. McHabe,” I began.
“You’re damn right it was your fault. I warned you. I told you what would happen if you run this school with ideas. You didn’t believe me. Maybe now you will.”
