Relentless Pursuit

by Donna Foote

  Now, when the kids were all seated, he asked, “You guys ready? Are you gonna cry? I’m gonna explain how to take the test real fast, but first I want to congratulate you all for finishing your year of biology. I’m extremely proud of you and extremely impressed. This was one of my best classes. My e-mail address is up on the board. If you ever get very sad, when it’s around 1:52 in the summer, because you are not getting your minds blown away somewhere else, contact me.”

  After the kids were done, he gave them ten minutes in which they could ask him any questions they wanted. They had been peppering him with questions about himself all year. Just a few days before, Jordan, a big friendly kid in his crazy fifth period, said: “I think I know your name. It’s between Manuel and H-R-A-G.”

  Another kid, stumbling over the pronunciation, said: “It’s Hrag Hamalian, right?” Hrag told him he was close. So it came as no surprise that the first question they wanted answered after the test was “What is your full name?”

  “Hrag Manuel Hamalian,” he responded.

  Next up: How old are you?

  “Twenty-three,” he said.

  “Twenty-three?” they said in surprise.

  “Any other questions?”

  Jimar, a fifth-period regular, raised his hand. “Can you give me an A?”

  “That’s it?” said Hrag. “No more questions? If you need to shed a tear for the end of the class, I have plenty of napkins up here!”

  And that was it. He had spent the whole year hiding his identity, and all they really wanted to know was his name and age.

  There were only two half days left, and the kids couldn’t stop saying his name. But they had difficulty pronouncing it, until Derrick figured it out. “It’s like the Dodge commercial,” he said. “‘Like a rock.’”

  Before they left for good, a few kids came up to Hrag.

  “I thank you, man,” said Derrick.

  Martin chimed in: “You my favorite teacher, Mr. H. You cool.”

  “I’m gonna miss you, Mr. H!” said Tiana. “I love you!”

  “Well, he love Miss Rifkin,” concluded Jimar.

  Back in September, a few days before school started, Rachelle had done something that had never been done before at Locke—something other teachers, and even Dr. Wells, mentioned whenever her name was brought up. She had gotten her room assignment, and when she checked it out, room 241 was little bigger than a broom closet—and unbelievably ugly. It was painted the same color as every other room in Locke—a kind of pasty cream, a color that would only ever be seen in an institution.

  She couldn’t bear the thought of being in that awful little room all day for an entire school year. And she figured that if she felt that way, the kids probably wouldn’t enjoy it much, either. So she decided to paint it. She went to the store, picked out a lovely aquamarine paint, and got to work. She didn’t have a ladder, so she just stood on a filing cabinet and pushed it from wall to wall until the job was done. Then she decorated the walls.

  Everyone who walked into her room was shocked.

  “Did you ask anyone?” they asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  “Well, you can’t do that!” they insisted.

  “Well, nobody told me I couldn’t,” she shot back. Besides, even if someone didn’t like the idea of a teacher painting her own room, Rachelle was pretty certain—even back then—that nobody was going to do anything about it.

  After the year was over, she knew for sure. The color of room 241 would be aquamarine till the day they tore the building down.

  Even before the trip to Catalina, many of Rachelle’s classroom management issues had disappeared. Kids were always in her room during lunch, and though she never allowed them in, they thought of her room as a safe haven, a place to go when they were ditching other classes. Franco and Pedro, quiet boys who were great friends, came to her room every day before school to see if she needed any help, or just to hang. If she had forgotten anything in her car, she would give them the keys, and they would rummage around in the clutter for whatever it was she needed. When she wasn’t taking care of her kids, she was helping Stephen with his. Whichever players couldn’t fit into Stephen’s car would hop into hers, and she’d ferry them to their games and practices.

  As much as she had dreaded it, she ended up loving the general ed class that got dumped into her lap on Valentine’s Day. It was amazing to see how much easier to handle the kids were, and how much faster the pace. In fact, she had enough extra time to set aside one day a week to discuss social issues with them. One week they took on date rape; another week it would be something else—like drug abuse or safe sex. The kids looked forward to the sessions as much as she did.

  One of the very last things she asked the boys in period four to do was write a letter to themselves detailing everything that had happened during the year. It was the same thing a high school teacher had asked her to do when she was their age. Once the letter had been turned in, she never thought about it again—until four years later, when it showed up in her mailbox. Her teacher had mailed it, and it was one of the nicest gifts she had ever received.

  So that was going to be her present to these kids. She gave them some prompts: “What did you do this year? What were some major events? What is going on with your family? Did you meet anyone special, do anything new? What is the one thing you want to remember about this year? What advice would you give yourself for next year?”

  While they scribbled away, she congratulated them. The year was over. The next class would be the end-of-the-year party. She would bring food, and they were welcome to bring in a movie, as long as it wasn’t rated R.

  They deserved a party. She had been working them pretty hard, reviewing everything they needed to know for the final. They were having fun, too. The kids had an awesome sense of humor. When they were reviewing Darwinism, she asked the class what happened if you grew the best male.

  “You get more girls,” came the response.

  Then she asked, what happened if you got more girls?

  “You get more sex!” they answered.

  And if you were able to mate, then what?

  “You get more babies.” And what did more offspring get you?

  “More money!” proclaimed Shandrel, to a roomful of kids who knew all about the welfare system.

  Like Taylor, Rachelle decided to play a game as the final prep for the end-of-the-year test. She put her version of Jeopardy! on PowerPoint and announced: “Another Rachelle Snyder Production” as the title page flashed on the whiteboard.

  “That’s your name? Rachelle?” asked one of the boys.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “But Miss Synder! That’s ghetto!”

  She gave the kids a choice: they could form teams, or it could be every man for himself. They went solo, and they were amazing. Most seemed to have mastered the material she had taught. Rachelle began to think some of them had actually made significant gains.

  She knew she had—in terms of her own maturity. The job had put a lot of things in perspective for her, given her a different lens on society, made her think, Am I really helping? What do I want to do with my life?

  She didn’t know what she wanted to do ultimately, but she did know that in the short run she wanted to get better at teaching. All her life she’d been able to skate. If she was going to stay—and she had decided that she was—then she wanted to do the job right. There were a lot of ways she could improve. She wasn’t okay with just being okay.

  There were things she could accomplish if she was serious, if she didn’t take this as a filler job and committed herself to being a professional. If she stayed in the classroom, she’d have to get more skilled at content. And she would love to learn how to teach reading. She had tried teaching literacy at different points in the year, but not with any consistency. She went back and forth on it. But literacy was the key. Teaching a class that could read proficiently would change everything.

  Looking back over the year, Rache
lle thought that she probably hadn’t helped to close anything—certainly not the achievement gap—but she might have opened some things for her kids when she took them to Catalina. Just to have the experience of seeing something they’d never seen before—at least not in real life—had to be mind-expanding. Mr. Baker had made a videotape of the trip, and she showed it on the last day, for the end-of-the-year party. The kids were transfixed. They wanted to watch it again and again.

  Whenever Phillip wanted to get his students’ attention, he rearranged the classroom. At the end of May, with just six weeks of school left, he did it again. He had come in over the weekend and moved all the desks into a huge semicircle. When his kids walked in on Monday morning, they knew immediately that something was up.

  Phillip announced the beginning of his high-intensity, three-week geometry boot camp, his last concentrated effort to raise achievement. He was using the phrase “boot camp” for a reason. When the brain hears those words, he explained, it understands immediately that “this is something serious; the expectations are very high.” Seventeen out of thirty-nine students in period three were failing his course, the highest number of all his classes. Phillip needed the borderline students to prioritize their efforts and energy. If they weren’t willing to do that, they should leave. His focus would be entirely on the people who wanted to pass.

  “This will be the most intense classroom experience you have ever faced,” he explained. “In this last month, I will have no pity on you. It is time to get down to business. That door is always there for you to walk out of. It is time that those students who are here for the right reasons get serviced correctly.” He had prepared a PowerPoint, and the “expectations” slide popped up on the whiteboard. Students needed to be on time, be prepared, be respectful, and be their best. Failure to meet those expectations would result in suspension, and a suspension would result in an automatic failure. Phillip handed out photocopied contracts for each student to sign and return.

  Boot camp began with a lesson on how to calculate the area of three-dimensional objects. He was a great believer in hands-on activities, and he often used foldables to help his students to visualize geometric concepts. He handed out paper with the outlines of rectangular prisms. The kids took out their scissors, cut along the lines, and folded the papers into their shapes. The room was silent.

  Phillip had developed a reputation at Locke. He had heard a lot of it before: he was mean, he was too blunt, he cut students down, he went overboard with his discipline. And he wasn’t a team player. At the end of the year, he walked into a meeting of the other geometry teachers. They were planning the final together and hadn’t even bothered to include him. And that was okay, because Phillip didn’t think their test was very good—it was disorganized and didn’t hit enough standards. Other teachers also questioned his grading system. Why would he grade 100 percent by the tests? Didn’t he know the majority of students couldn’t show what they knew that way? After a year at Locke, all he could say was that his approach was working. He had the test results to prove it.

  Phillip might not have been the model teacher that Teach For America—or Locke—expected in terms of classroom management and structure, but he believed he was the teacher that his kids needed and responded to. He had to be assertive. He could not waver. He did what he had to do to make sure he was king of the castle. He wasn’t at Locke to be his kids’ friend. He was there to make systemic changes and to make them in a short time.

  So he didn’t think twice about kicking kids out of his class; in fact, he didn’t see why the school should be forced to keep them. It wasn’t until the end of the year, when there were only a few weeks left, that Locke got rid of the bad apples. The students with straight F’s all across the board, who had no chance of passing, were quietly “checked out” of school. School police officers were sent to ticket any kids found wandering the halls without a pass. Phillip thought it was a good thing. By removing the kids who didn’t care, it allowed teaching to occur and learning to happen.

  Before he had started teaching, he had read all about kids who attend schools like Locke—kids who don’t want to learn, who don’t want to be in a classroom with high expectations, and who don’t respect the teachers who set those expectations. When he signed up for TFA, he wanted to see if those kids could be saved, if urban schools could be saved. And what he had found was, the kids who really deserved to be “checked out” were the exceptions. There wasn’t a student in his right mind who didn’t want to learn, and Phillip had yet to find a parent who didn’t want that for her children. If he had learned anything this year, it was that his power was derived from his students.

  Phillip always told his kids he was heartless, but he didn’t enjoy being mean. It was hard to put on that poker face every morning and keep it there all day long. He liked to joke around. The truth was, he was an intensely emotional person. And at the end of the year, he was going to let them see that side of him. His human side. On the very last day before finals, he was going to have a party. Once again he would rearrange the desks, and this time he would make the room into a community square. The kids would all bring in food, and then he would say something publicly about each and every student. He felt like there were kids who didn’t feel valued or validated at Locke. And he was always on them to be better. Now he wanted them to know how much he appreciated each one of them, and how, on some level, every one of them had improved. It would be a kind of “my bad,” to let them know that nothing was done in vain. He wanted to make them cry.

  The community square was set up for the last full day of school. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” he said once everyone was seated. “I want you to stop talking, and I want nothing on your desks. Once everyone’s desk is cleared and all of you are listening, we will begin.”

  He cleared his throat and began to explain the day’s proceedings. The kids had forgotten to bring food for the party, so unlike his first period, which had enchiladas, period three would involve no eating. There would also be no bad behavior. He had kicked five people out of the previous two classes; in order to have a farewell, students had to act like adults.

  “This is what adults do,” he said.” When they leave a job, they have a farewell. People say kids, students, can’t handle farewells. But I’m looking at some of you, and I see qualities that resemble adults’. So I am going to believe all of you are adults. This is an opportunity for me to express my appreciation, and I’m not going to be upstaged by anyone!

  “Okay, so,” he continued, “this is an opportunity for me to convey to you the imprint you will leave with me, and to enjoy the last moment as period three that we will ever have. This moment means a lot to me because it is the only opportunity I have to tell you exactly the level of sincerity and admiration I have for you. So I am going to start off with a quote from someone I love to listen to, and who always has something profound and applicable to say. And the reason I start off with this is that it captures what I think you all have shown. The quote has to do with victory, and it is by Oprah Winfrey: ‘Although there may be failures in life, there is always a possibility to triumph—no matter who you are or where you come from, the ability to triumph as a human being is with you always.’”

  Phillip took the rest of the period to honor each kid. Damone was someone who challenged him every day to be a better teacher; he would experience great success. Bethany, hands clasped before her face as if in prayer, heard Phillip tell her she was an all-star student. Sergio was a kid who Phillip at first wasn’t sure had the drive to succeed; he had proven to have the strongest drive of anyone in the class. David had never demonstrated his true capabilities until this semester; Phillip believed him to be one of the smartest students he had ever come across. Miss Catrina, with her thirst for knowledge, was amazing. Viviana was one of a kind. Cyiarra had a mind of her own; not everyone had the capacity she had to confront a teacher respectfully. Mister Sanchez was a star that shines brightly. Oscar was a silent force in the room. Ramiro was a
person who didn’t realize how smart he was. Fernando underestimated his own ability to focus; he was humble and always appreciative, an inspiration to all. And on and on it went. He had carefully prepared his remarks. No two people heard the same accolade.

  When he finished, Chrystyna spoke for the class: “Quiet, everyone, or I’m not gonna say it. This class, we were forced to come here. You are one of the best teachers, Mr. Gedeon. You explained everything, and let everyone get it. I am happy I was in this class, and I learned so much. I love you all!”

  When they filed out of his room, Phillip sighed. It was evident by their reactions that they had never before been told how special they were.

  Phillip went to the graduation ceremony at 3 p.m. that Wednesday. He didn’t personally know anyone who was graduating, but he wanted to see what graduation at Locke was like. It was a day of suffocating heat. Helicopters circled overhead, their whir an unspoken reminder that Locke was in the heart of the L.A. badlands. It had been a mad scramble to pull the ceremony off. Just minutes before the event was to begin, teachers were still in the community room on the first floor assembling the photocopied programs. Some had been printed without the names of the candidates and had already been distributed to the early arrivals. It was a mess. No one knew with absolute certainty how many, or which seniors, had actually graduated. Wells and other administrators had been dealing for days with hysterical parents insistent that their kids deserved to graduate. It continued up until the day of graduation, when Wells had a lady on the ground, in a faint in his office, upset that her child was not certified to graduate. He found it ironic. The parents you could never get hold of during the school year were the same ones on the floor fainting on graduation morning. He realized something else. It consistently happened with black folks. He couldn’t recall ever having a Latino parent on the floor begging him for anything. It underscored how big a thing graduation was to the African American community. The thing was, it was as if graduation was a finalization, not a beginning.