A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room

by Dave St. John

  O’Connel felt the power in the man’s arm. “I’m not sure.”

  “So what’s going on? I saw you cleared your stuff out. Man, I can’t believe you’re goin’.” He came over to lean with his massive arms on a desk, lowering his voice. “Those folks downstairs after your job?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded slowly. “They are.”

  The short, powerful man shrugged, big hands held wide. “After twenty years? What’d you do, man, steal a pencil?”

  “I broke the rules.”

  The big man went back to work. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you broke the rules.” He made another precise pass down the dusty board, leaving it looking new. “We all break rules. What I want to know is, did you do right?”

  O’Connel thought. “Yeah,” he said, knowing it was the truth. “I did what I could.”

  Genaro finished the board, tossing the eraser onto his cart bag.

  He pointed at him with a stumpy brown finger. “Then you’re straight with yourself and you’re straight with God.” He took up a red dust mop and began moving between the rows of desks, moving them out of his way with his hip as he went. “The rest of them? They don’t matter. No,” he said, his eyes on the floor, “I mean, what is all this, anyway, a dream, right? That’s all it is. Nothin’s real but what’s in here—” He touched his temple. “And in here.” He pressed a hand to his breast, shaking his head slowly. “Sheeit, man, everything else’s just put here to fool us into taking the wrong way home.” Genaro went on about his work, as if O’Connel had gone.

  O’Connel stood thinking a minute, and then turned to go.

  “Genaro.” The big man cocked an ear, looking back over a stocky shoulder.

  “I’ll be seeing you, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah!” He waved a big hand and went back to sweeping. “I got a feeling you’re right about that.” Genaro’s humming followed him down the deserted hallway as he headed for the stairs.

  • • •

  Solange looked up, hands freezing over her keyboard.

  Twenty parents turned to gawk as O’Connel came into the gym.

  Mrs. Noble hesitated in her droning discourse, red painted mouth open, lipstick smear on an eye tooth.

  The board sat at two long tables set end to end in front of a stage decorated for a coming melodrama. The masks of comedy and tragedy hung just behind them, painted on canvas over the head of the stage. From her place next to Hugh, Solange watched as he found a seat in back. Her face burned. She prayed no one would notice, but she imagined they all did.

  Why had he come, to see her humiliated? Could he be that cruel? The bastard. She’d given him the one thing she valued most, and now, like a pig he came to gloat.

  Her stomach throbbed.

  Just a few hours ago she had spent the night on his couch, loved the touch of his hands on her hair, offered herself to him. She cringed with embarrassment to think how incredibly stupid she had been.

  Hugh had taken the news very hard. He said he respected her decision, but his eyes had turned cold and dead. She wouldn’t let him pay the price for her largess. Hands trembling, she went on writing her resignation.

  Recovering from her surprise, Mrs. Noble went on ticking off O’Connel’s sins on plump fingers. Tuning her out, Solange glanced up to find his eyes on her. Looking quickly down again, she breathed deeply, rage building inside her. She smiled fiercely as she wrote, fingers stabbing savagely at the keys. She’d trusted him, cared about him-now she would pay.

  Dr. Merrill, face cadaverous, touched her arm and nodded in O’Connel’s direction, eyes questioning. She managed only a small shake of her head, and returned to work.

  At last Mrs. Noble sat.

  Mr. Davies, board president, called for other comments. He was a big man, utterly without guile, a man Solange had seen in tears over district infighting. A simple man trying to do what he could, the only way he could, she respected and liked him. He grew wine grapes, and looked the part. The only time she’d ever seen him in a suit was when he gave out diplomas at graduation. Tonight he wore jeans, shirt, a cap bearing an herbicide logo.

  He would do what he had to, do it without rancor, without playing favorites. He was Hugh’s, and so her strongest ally; but though chairman, against Noble’s block of four he could do little. Fair, honest, unpretentious, he was, Solange decided, the ideal executioner.

  Mr. Davies recognized Mrs. Garcia. A small woman exuding a pinched confidence, she told her tale so convincingly that even though Solange knew differently, she began to pity poor Vincent.

  He was, it seemed, the victim of a callous, uncaring, inflexible teacher-a teacher who demanded too much.

  Next was Lyle Walker’s mother, looking badly in need of a drink as she sneered back at O’Connel. Wearing purple sweats three sizes too small, she laced all she said with profanity as she told how her son had been physically abused. The boy, sitting beside her, beamed triumphantly as his mother berated O’Connel before the board.

  From the way she described the assault, it seemed to Solange no less than miraculous that he was able to drag himself out of intensive care to the meeting. She ended by threatening to sue the district if O’Connel wasn’t fired.

  Forgetting her anger, Solange met his eye and on the instant knew their thoughts were the same.

  That was it-the failed parent’s trump card-a lawsuit.

  Next, Davies gave Mrs. Lovejoy the floor. Listening to her describe O’Connel’s insolence made Solange smile. Had he been willing to compromise, Solange knew she would have nothing but praise for him. Puzzled by her reaction, she wondered at the change in herself Only a week ago, she would have believed it all, seen only what she was meant to see, been fooled by those she knew now for the hucksters they were. Had she changed so much, so quickly? Mrs. Fleming was asked for her opinion. Standing in her awkward way, she glanced over at O’Connel, eyes sorry for what she had to do.

  Fleming’s job was no more secure than hers, Solange knew, and although she went along, it was clear the task gave her no pleasure.

  Far from damning, her condemnation was a limp thing. Solange was relieved when at last she sat down.

  Witnesses exhausted, Davies peered down the table at Hugh.

  “Dr. Merrill, you and Ms. Gonsalvas have something more, I believe?” Barely looking up, Hugh shook his head.

  Mrs. Noble whispered to Davies, and a frown creased his boyish face.

  “I was under the impression that Ms. Gonsalvas had been observing Mr. O’Connel all this week. Does she have some information for us?” Hugh looked as old as she’d ever seen him look—and as unhappy.

  Still he was silent.

  Davies, growing impatient, went straight to Solange. “Ms. Gonsalvas, do you have anything to contribute to this hearing on Mr. O’Connel’s competence?”

  She would make this fast. There was no reason to stick around to hear what went on after. The insurance company had dropped off a car, the key was safely in her purse. In five minutes it would all be over-her career, her life, her dreams. “I’m afraid the data disk with the information I’ve collected has been lost. And so, I’ve decided…”

  “I think you may be talking about this,” O’Connel said, setting the disk before her.

  On his mouth was the same half smile. Why was he doing this?

  “You left this in my room and I accidentally picked it up.” He reached over and before she could stop him, snatched the disk containing her resignation out of her hand. He smiled for an instant. “And I see you have mine.”

  Then he knew—but how? She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. She would never understand him—never.

  • • •

  It was her show now.

  Solange, voice steady, read from her laptop, describing each incident in the letters of reprimand she had written.

  From the back of the gym, O’Connel smiled. She was amazing.

  A few moments ago, he’d have sworn he had caught her off guard.

  Now she spoke
with her usual businesslike assurance.

  He didn’t listen to what she said; he didn’t care about that. Letting her words wash over him like a strange language, the sound of her voice was all he heard-a strong, competent, sensual voice-a voice he would never hear again.

  She sat and he raised himself from his reverie. Davies asked him if he had anything to say, and standing, he noticed Herschel, the OEA rep sitting in the front row and felt his hackles rise. “Before I get started, I want him out of here.” Herschel turned around in his seat, Adams apple working up and down. “I’m here as your representative.” O’Connel looked at Davies. “I ought to have a say about whether or not I want to be represented, don’t you think?” Mr. Davies nodded in agreement, but before he could speak, Herschel spoke up again. “I have as much right as any other resident of the district to be here.”

  “Hersch, old buddy,” O’Connel said, “I’ve been paying extortion to the effete, elitist snobs at the NEA for twenty years, and all I’ve ever gotten is a lot of junk mail and propaganda about saving the whales and disarming honest American citizens. If you hadn’t gotten your agency fee clause in the contract, half the teachers never would have joined. I hate the things you stand for, and I will be damned if I’ll have you here. Now get out or I’ll put you out myself”

  “What do you think, Herschel?” asked Mr. Davies reasonably.

  “If he says he’d rather not have representation, we can honor that, can’t we?” Hershel thought it over, bushy gray eyebrows bristling. “Well, a rep should be present at all disciplinary hearings, but,” he threw up his hands, “If he refuses representation, then I suppose it’s his funeral.”

  O’Connel waited until the door had clanged shut behind him before he began. “Okay, I’m not going to waste any time debating what Ms. Gonsalvas said about me.” He allowed himself the briefest glimpse of her, and found her watching him, worry plain on her face.

  “It’s all true. But I do have something to say.” He lifted a hand, searching carefully for the right way to say it.

  “Something— Something isn’t right, here. The newspapers, they don’t want to hear about it. What they want is feel good puff pieces about cute kids having fun, not stories about what doesn’t work. The last thing anybody wants is a scandal at a local school that’d make it harder to pass the next bond, and nobody wants that.

  Education is our highest priority, right? And more money always helps, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I just don’t buy it. Are teachers underpaid—yes. Do we value education highly enough—no. I’m still not convinced more dollars will translate into better test results.

  I mean, look at what happened with computers. They were going to change everything, right? Well have they? Or do we still have the same problems we had before? Nationwide we’ve spent hundreds of billions to put schools on line and what’s changed? Aren’t the same kids still failing? Aren’t the same ones making it? “Let’s talk about something that does make a difference. For every six teachers, we have four paper pushers—that’s the average across the country—forty percent. In a few years, the ratio will be one to one. Think about that— nearly half the employees in this district don’t teach, and the less they do, the more they get paid.

  “Don’t think I’m saying the secretaries, the janitors, the bus drivers don’t earn their money. Most of them should make twice what they do. I’m talking about the people we don’t hire subs for, the psychologists, the counselors, the directors, the coordinators, the administrators who are always at meetings, and never, never in the halls. What do they do? Who knows? They may help some kids, at least we hope they do, but is having them here worth nearly doubling class size? Davies leaned back in his chair. “What about the children with special needs? What are you suggesting we do for them?”

  “That depends on which children you’re talking about,” O’Connel said. “Kids that can learn belong in the classroom, kids that can’t need to be where they can be helped. If they can be...some can’t. Terrible thing to say? Maybe. Also true.” O’Connel kicked his chair across the polished maple court floor. “Four out of five new dollars spent on education are spent on special ed. Why? “Somebody somewhere has got to stand up for the majority, the normal kid who wants to learn, wants to do well. There are a few out there. I see them-but nobody else seems to.” Mrs. Noble stood. “What about bilingual and migrant programs? We serve a large population of Hispanics at Silver Mountain, in case you’d forgotten. Are you seriously suggesting we cut them?”

  “I’ve seen kids come in here speaking zero English,” O’Connel said. “This was years before anyone had heard of bilingual or migrant- and a few years later they spoke better English than I do.

  Salina and Maria were home from UCLA this week, maybe you remember them. Look at them now! We didn’t teach them in Spanish.

  We kicked them off the dock into deep water, and they swam.

  I’ve seen it again and again, not just with bright kids, with all kinds.

  School works. For kids that try, it always has.”

  “I don’t want to bore you with the money side of it,” Mrs. Noble said, doing her best to be insulting, “but without Title One, bilingual, migrant money we’d have to lay off teachers. Is that what you’re suggesting?” What was the point? He wasn’t going to change anyone’s mind.

  He knew that. He would never make them see. “No, but we’ve got kids here now that have been in the bilingual program for five years, and they still don’t speak English. Five years. Maybe that’s what we want— kids who never learn English. At least they justify the need for the program. If that is what we want, we’re doing fine.

  “Now we’ve got 21st Century School reforms coming down from Washington and Salem. It’s not all bad, I’m not saying that the vocational stuff’s right on the mark, but it’s loaded down with feel-good double speak. Like meetings. We’ve got site council meetings, pod meetings, grade level meetings, curriculum meetings, textbook adoption meetings, staff meetings, and, yes, even meetings where we schedule meetings. Sweet Lord, have we forgotten why we’re here?”

  “What’s wrong with meetings?” Solange asked. “How else can we stay in communication?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with them if you’ve got the time to waste.

  Take the site council. The idea of a community control over schools sounds good, but what really goes on? A site council meets every month and spends four hours reaching consensus on everything.

  How are the two parents supposed to influence the outcome with a meeting of six educators and two administrators? These guys are pros at oiling the water. If, on a rare occasion, someone actually has a strong opinion about something, they put off the vote. No disagreement allowed in these most enlightened of committees. The system’s set up to give the appearance of parental involvement while insuring no one rocks the boat. That’s one thing we do not want.” One of the board members asked Davies if he didn’t think they had heard enough.

  “I’m going to let you finish what you’ve got to say, Dai. I guess after twenty years, we owe you that much.”

  “Thanks, Ron. And school board meetings, let’s not forget them.

  The citizens of a community running their own school, another worthwhile goal, isn’t it?” Davies frowned. “Are you saying it isn’t?” O’Connel scratched his head in frustration. “You, Mr. Davies, are the way it’s supposed to work. You live here, farm here, your kids go here, you care about the school-that’s why you’re here. I respect that. But what’s sad is that most board members aren’t like you. They’re in it for something else. When the board puts together the requirements for the reroofing of the high school, and the only contractor that fills all the requirements is owned by a member of the board, are we supposed to think that’s coincidence? Don’t get me wrong, I believe it, but then I believe Oswald was a miracle worker with a Carcano, too.” He glanced at his watch. “I didn’t plan on talking this long, but thanks for letting me vent my spleen. I’ll leave you to
it.” He turned to leave.

  Davies called after him, tossing his cap on the table to run a hand over a bald head. “Wait just a minute. You did a good job describing what’s wrong, now I want to hear the answer-if you’ve got one.” He turned at the door. “Christ, Ron, I don’t know. Requiring everybody that draws a paycheck-administrators, counselors, psychologists- all of them teaching at least a couple classes a day might be a place to start. We’ve forgotten that a principal was originally a principal teacher, haven’t we? Something else, okay, why not vouchers? Tax credits? Anything that would let people choose where they send their kids might help.

  “We’re too big, too entrenched, too political. If vouchers could get off the ground, you’d see schools sprouting like mushrooms after a rainstorm. Some might even be good. It would be an exciting time. I’d like to see it.” He shook his head. “Of course it’ll never happen-NEA, OEA will see to that. They-and we-have too much to lose. If people could choose, they’d choose the best, and that wouldn’t be us. Not now anyway. No, I don’t have any answers, but when in America we’re afraid to give people the freedom to choose the best education for their children, there’s something wrong somewhere, isn’t there?”

  He went out into the cold, into the dark, the door slamming shut behind him. Suddenly tired, he sat on the cold stone steps, taking the weight off a bad knee by leaning on the metal rail as he let himself down, hands sticking to the frigid iron.

  Wincing, he rubbed a knee. The cold water hadn’t helped it any. Neither had carrying her. He smiled, remembering her riding his back. She didn’t look that heavy. Solid little thing.

  Down the hill, Wolf Creek thundered. As he thought it might, the wind had cleared the sky. Making a cup of his hands, he warmed them with his breath. A breeze stirred the last of the leaves in the tops of the oaks, cutting through his leather jacket.

  When he was a kid, a red Tijuana firecracker went off in his hand, robbing his fingers of feeling—that’s how he felt now.

  Dead.

  Cold.

  Empty.

  Eyes accustomed to the darkness, he looked out across the valley.