The Great Expectations School

by Dan Brown

  Now I picked my phrases straight out of the New York State standards book. “Well, one assignment could be writing a journal entry from the point of view of a Native American child. It would be good for creating a narrative procedure and responding to literature.”

  Guiterrez laughed. “Okay! See? It's not so hard!”

  I wanted out of that room. I did not like at all how every conversation with Ms. Guiterrez bore a discomfiting overtone of her exerting authority over me.

  “The students should not write cold,” she added. “They must do a prewriting activity on a graphic organizer.”

  I knew this already. Graphic organizers, or various kinds of thought outlines, went without saying. I wanted to add that I never intended to teach my students lists of meaningless facts; of course literacy skills would be central to our social studies activities. The moment had passed.

  “Okay, I have some business to take care of,” she said, grabbing some papers and striding purposefully out of the office, handing me a typed two-page evaluation for the formal observation. I got a satisfactory rating with the criticism, “There is no evidence of developmental lessons…. Their [sic] should be evidence of a print-rich classroom.” As for missing the developmental lessons, I can only assume that Guiterrez figured that the kids were bar graph experts on observation day by blind luck or osmosis. And I couldn't help imagining inviting her to sit in on my upcoming “their-there-they're” lesson with the fourth-graders.

  So began my short-lived but fruitful collaboration with Ms.Abigail Barrow. She talked to me as if I did not know thing one about anything regarding school, children, or human interaction, but she supplied some useful materials, including a thick batch of supplemental readings, questions, and activities about Native Americans.

  She also ran 4-217’s closing map skills lesson by writing questions on big chart-paper sheets and posting them at five stations around the room. The kids got excited to work in teams and rotate to the stations. I kept Ms. Barrow's questions on the walls for months, scoring compliments from Mrs. Boyd for fostering a more print-rich classroom.

  The Ms. Barrow meetings petered out because we both recognized that while the help with lessons was useful, it was really in behavior management where 4-217 had trouble. As a soft-spoken older lady who had been out of the classroom for years, she could not help me there. It looked bad for her when my kids acted up while she conducted the class.

  Ms. Barrow left me an invaluable set of desk-size laminated maps with the United States on one side and the world on the other. The kids loved them, especially since each student got his own, and they provided endless material for geography lessons, games, and fast-fix time-fillers. Cat Samuels borrowed them often.

  “They are lost in the woods,” my new self-talking self explained to the bathroom mirror. “You have a map. You can teach them. You are Mr. Brown.” I frowned at the lopsided Windsor knot of my tie and pulled it loose to redo it.

  In reality, my confidence in my lessons was improving, but my attempts to control Lakiya, Deloris, Eric, Lito, Tayshaun, Cwasey, and Eddie went nowhere. I could not get all seven of them to be quiet at the same time. If they somehow were, Bernard would be squabbling with Verdad, or Destiny would be upset about something her best friend Tiffany had said to her. Occasionally, Athena or Gladys Ferraro called out disruptive things, which killed me, because I counted on them to be my stars. My sentences in class alternated: one about the lesson, one about discipline, one to answer a question, one to mediate a conflict. Getting into a rhythm was impossible.

  Meanwhile, Daniel and Marvin stagnated in the back of the room. One time, Dr. Kirkpatrick picked Daniel up and returned him a half hour later. She told me that back in Detroit, Daniel was in intensive one-on-one special ed, and he should never have been placed in a regular class. She also asked me if I had noticed his stuttering problem and the long gaps of time he took before responding to a question. I told her of course I had. She explained that his speech problems were a blessing in disguise, because they could be the tipping point to push through a recommendation to transfer him to a specialized school. I filled out several forms with my analysis and anecdotal records about him.

  Two months later, Daniel Vasquez left P.S. 85 to begin to get the help he needed.

  Marvin Winslow was proving himself to be a dangerous boy. He stole Tiffany Sanchez's purple pencil sharpener, and when she asked for it back, he cold-cocked her in the cheek. I was reading with Dennis and Joseph and didn't see it. Sonandia tapped me on the shoulder and plainly said, “Tiffany is crying ’cause Marvin hit her.”

  I spun to see Marvin darkly scowling at the sobbing girl. I flew into a rage.

  “How dare you ever hit a girl! That is the weakest, most cowardly thing anyone could do! How dare you bring that into our classroom!”

  I told Sonandia to take Tiffany to the nurse for ice. When they left, I continued my verbal lambasting, telling Marvin he was on lunch detention for a week, and if the class earned that Halloween party, he had certainly just thrown his invitation in the gutter.

  “I don't care. I don't care,” Marvin muttered. “I don't care.”

  He did care, because when the class lined up for lunch he remained in his seat, catatonic. The line got restless, and Tayshaun and Bernard started pushing each other. With the whole class's impatient urging, Marvin finally joined the line. Upon entering the cafeteria, he separated from the group and pressed his face into the wall, crying, “I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm bad.”

  “What you did to Tiffany was very bad, but you are not a bad person. Look at me. Marvin, look at me! If you accept your punishment for breaking the rules, you'll have a clean slate. I'll even think about letting you come to the Halloween party. But no hitting in school and no hitting girls ever. This is very fair.” I patted him on the shoulder and walked away.

  As I left him, he punched the wall and cried, “I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm bad…”

  I walked to the fifth-grade side of the cafeteria to sit with my summer school coauthor Jimmarie. She didn't have many friends in Mr. Krieg's class and preferred to eat alone by the window. I often sat with her for a few minutes; sometimes we talked, sometimes not. We appreciated each other's company, briefly allowing ourselves to forget the people with whom we spent a majority of our day.

  That night, I called Marvin's and Tiffany's mothers to tell them about the punch. Both thanked me for the explanation and that was it.

  The next morning, Marvin came to school chipper as ever. We did math in the morning, the only subject where he had a fighting chance of holding his own with the class. He understood the rules of place value, but if you gave him a worksheet, he would be lost. He needed every problem started for him. His effort that morning was outstanding and when he told me that the 6 in 12,685 is actually worth 600, I was thunderstruck with pride.

  Yesterday, I had promised him a week of lunch detentions, but that felt like a remote world ago. I decided not to enforce the sentence and no one seemed the wiser. Also, a teacher tipped me off to the rumor that for punishment, Mrs. Winslow locked her children in the refrigerator. How could you stay mad at Marvin Winslow?

  Meanwhile, trouble was brewing with Verdad Navarez. He had been absent the day before, and now he was silent all day, seething, almost hyperventilating in the back of the room, staring at his desk surface. I took him out in the hall and asked what was bothering him. Verdad coldly mumbled, “Tomorrow I'm-a bring a gun to school and kill Eddie. I swear to God, I'm-a snuff him.”

  Wait a minute.Verdad and Eddie were buddies. My skin pebbled with fear. I called the principal. Mrs. Boyd asked for Verdad's mother's phone number, but I knew their line was disconnected. Fortunately, Verdad's mom, Yvette Lara, was in the parking lot to pick him up at dismissal. She said she would talk to Verdad, and we arranged to meet in room 217 after school the next day.

  The next afternoon, Ms. Lara and I sat down at group two while Verdad waited in the hall. She was probably my age. Biting her lip, she spoke i
n a straight voice. “You don't have to worry about Verdad bringing a gun to school. That's not him. He would never do that. He gets very angry sometimes. He's been very different since last spring when we think he found out… about his father. His real daddy died when he was a baby. My husband is his stepfather, but we never told him. He does have two brothers and a father with different last names than him.”

  “Have you talked to him about it after you think he figured it out?”

  “No. We should. He's got it tough. Please don't take it out on him, Mr. Brown.”

  “No, of course not. I know Verdad is a great kid. Everyone likes him. And he's the number one mathematician in the class.” Ms. Lara cracked a shining, proud mother's smile. I showed her Verdad's flawless Birthday Bar Graph. “But he needs to bring a bag to school. And he needs to do his homework, especially in writing.” I showed her the class homework log. Verdad had completed his assignments decently in September, but in October he altogether stopped.

  Her face fell. “He lost his bag. I don't know how he lost it, but it's gone.” I started to say something, but she continued, “I kept Verdad home the other day because he didn't have any clean clothes to wear. I don't know if I can get him a new bag. I need to get coats for three kids. They turned off my phone, which you know about…” She fell silent.

  I didn't know what the hell to say. An idea flashed to give her the cash in my wallet, but all I had was six bucks, and that was the wrong move anyway. I called Verdad into the room. “Verdad, good news. You have a wonderful mom who loves you very much. She and I are going to work together to make sure the rest of the year is going to be better for you than it's been this month. You're a really smart boy, and I'm glad that you're in my class. Can we work together?” I extended my hand and he shook it. His face brightened, and I realized I had never before seen him smile. I think worlds were colliding for him to see his mom and teacher together.

  Ms. Lara thanked me for meeting with her and she and Verdad went home happy. I felt good but a little strange. Nothing had changed in their desperate financial situation, but everything seemed sunnier from that day forward. Verdad did his work conscientiously and started bringing a bag to school. His demeanor was cheerful and his writing showed improvement. He was a changed boy for the rest of the year. That is, until his family moved suddenly over Christmas break and I never saw or heard about him again.

  Halloween approached. I shut off the lights during Success for All and read from a Mom-supplied Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark book, complete with sufficiently creepy charcoal illustrations. I had more leeway for antics with my SFA group, since they were a manageable bunch of half the size and one-tenth the volatility of 4-217. With a whoosh and a leap out of my reading seat at each story's terrible revelation, I drew delighted screams from Kelsie Williams, a polite girl from Ms. Mulvehill's homeroom, and the others. Switching the lights back on brought a chorus of disappointed moans as we beamed back to P.S. 85.

  First-year Fellow Trisha Pierson brought in twenty-six pumpkins, one for each of her little first-graders to carve. She said it was the cutest thing she'd ever seen, and the children treated their personal pumpkins like gold. I imagined Lakiya Ray chucking Destiny's hypothetical pumpkin out the window, cackling as it splattered on the asphalt.

  Several days before Halloween, I announced that our “Team Effort” board indicated the requisite number of stars over strikes. “Congratulations, we're going to have our first class party on Halloween, this Friday.” Unanimous cheers. “But I am now creating a list called the ‘Not Invited to Party’ list. If your name gets on there with two strikes next to it, we will be partying without you!”

  The class had in fact not earned a party. My hope, though, was that through some good Halloween cheer and a fun 4-217 party, we could take a step forward as the originally hoped-for “team.”

  The “Not Invited to Party” list was an effective misbehavior deterrent. Lakiya still did not do her work, but she was quiet all day. Daniel, who obsessed over being on the “Good List,” sat with folded hands, which influenced Marvin.

  Wild card Eric, however, could not resist pushing Joseph down the steps (a favorite pastime), and Tayshaun slapped Athena in the face, landing the offending pair on the unfortunate list. Tayshaun slammed his fist on his desk and buried his face when he got the final strike. Eric looked totally unmoved.

  I could not figure out Eric Ruiz. I was unconvinced his expression would change if I slid bamboo shoots under his fingernails or handed him a suitcase full of cash. Every year his teachers recommended that he be held back, but somehow he always got promoted.

  I was sixty-one dollars lighter after arranging a junk food super-buffet, complete with precious Domino's pizza, which greeted the 217 kids when they returned from lunch on Friday. Lined up outside the room, Athena and Cwasey literally jumped for joy. I sent Lakiya to escort Eric and Tayshaun to Mr. Randazzo's office. (Lakiya displayed mirthful diligence in accompanying her peers to meet their disciplinary consequences.)

  I had cleared the idea of stashing Eric and Tayshaun in his office with Mr. Randazzo the day before but now his door was locked and he was nowhere to be found. Ms. Devereaux could not be tracked down either, and all of the other rooms were having their own parties. I had ranted all week about excluding disrespectful kids from the party; now my threats proved empty.

  I tried to spin my allowing Tayshaun and Eric's presence as a beau geste for better teamwork and class spirit for the coming months. The kids were dead silent during my awkward speech, their eyes fixed on the pizza and sweets.

  For the next twenty minutes, everything was aces. I played Rubber Soul on Al Conway's borrowed boom box while the kids scarfed the candy and cupcakes with shocking alacrity. Marvin and Daniel found they could mix in happily when everyone was guzzling generic-brand orange soda. Hamisi said it was the best party of his life. Dennis nodded in vigorous agreement. When Lito and Joseph saw Dennis do that, they jumped in to affirm the motion.

  Thank you, Mr. Brown, thank you, Mr. Brown. The party was a hit, and now I could use it as a tangible, long-term class goal. Nobody has a great first two months, I thought. But now I'm on track. We're all in this together. I can lead this team of struggling, beautiful kids.

  Then the house of cards toppled. Tayshaun, on party probation, reasoned that it was a good idea to take the ice cubes out of his drink, sneak behind Julissa, and jam one in her eye. This happened while I was running a trivia game with some girls to determine who would take home the Domino's leaflet coupons, and by the time I was across the room, Julissa was clutching her face and crying. Lakiya poured her soda on the floor and pushed Verdad over it, causing him to slip. Mr. Randazzo came on the loudspeaker (there he was!) and announced that we were now having a “rapid dismissal,” and everyone needed to go directly home to minimize the risk of being hit by flying eggs. The announcement sent the class into a tizzy, scrambling for their coats and belongings. The floor turned into an instant morass of syrupy puddles of wet dirt.

  I yelled my head off, but the scene had disintegrated into a wild derby of whirling dervishes. My previous reverie disintegrated like dead roses, and a sober thought passed through my brain: I have been kidding myself. They were right about me. I have no management, no control. I am a failure. My kids are crying and injured and dirty and screaming, and I can't stop it. I looked up and saw Principal Boyd in the doorway, deep disgust on her face.

  November

  Snap

  ON HALLOWEEN, I took Jess to a roof party in Brooklyn, but we weren't there more than twenty minutes before I lost track of her. A text message some hours later informed me that she had gone home with Lowell Eldridge, a disc jockey who had come to the party dressed as George W. Bush, the Crawford ranch edition. I spent the weekend throwing up.

  A few minutes after midnight on Sunday, my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number on the caller ID. “Dan, it's Karen! Are you asleep?”

  “I'm dead awake.” I was beautifully surprised to ge
t her call. We effortlessly bitched about P.S. 85 for the next forty minutes. Our profanity-laced gripes were pretty comprehensive: Randazzo, Boyd, Guiterrez, lunchroom fiascos, petty but vicious fights, lack of student interest in academic achievement. She told me about her student Dequan's rubbing his penis against a female classmate's jacket during their Halloween party.

  A brief silence passed. “You looked pretty dark leaving on Friday,” she said.

  “Yeah. I think I might be going under.”

  “I felt the same way all last year. What the hell are we supposed to do when they just won't cooperate?”

  “I don't know.”

  “I try to think about something, and I hope you don't think I'm some kind of asshole trying to give you cheesy advice,” she said.

  “No, of course not. I need it.”

  “This is the thing. You might be the only good person in their lives. Some of them just go home and fight and have no space and see terrible things and everything is fucked up. The only time all day, or all year even—because summer is horrible—that they're with someone who is generous and good to them could be when they're with you. Something comes across just by being there, even if they're too young or immature or emotionally crippled to express it. They do appreciate you. It's a long year, and something will come across. It has to.”

  I still called in sick on Monday.

  Tuesday, November 4, was election day, and a full day of Professional Development for all teachers. I still felt ill, but I was incredibly thankful for this fourth day of respite from my students, following the Halloween disaster.

  I received a predictably terrible report from my Monday substitute, Ms. Richardson, a tall, middle-aged Nigerian woman who had been bouncing around P.S. 85 as a floating sub the past few weeks. “That mean girl is so fresh, that—”