by Dan Brown
“I'm going to have Mr. Randazzo try to arrange it so you'll have her starting tomorrow.”
“She should be with you at least till Christmas. Hopefully longer,” Barbara added.
I exhaled, glad the letter never made an appearance. No matter how true my allegation about the conscious creation of a “dumping ground,” Mrs. Boyd would have taken mortal offense at it. I would have burned the bridge for sure. I picked up my planbook from the table. “Thank you,” I said.
Cordelia Richardson and I met in the Teacher Center during my prep period. She was elated with the arrangement; coteaching with me sounded infinitely better than her current setup of random K–5 substituting spots.
“You just worry about teaching, and I'll handle the management at first,” she said. “We'll straighten them out together!”
The next morning, Ms. Richardson was waiting in room 217 when I ushered in the line. “Who that?” asked mystified Marvin Winslow.
“Why we got that mean sub here?” Lito demanded to know.
“Silence and I'll explain everything. Eddie, Joseph, Tayshaun. I'm about to speak. Thank you. Today, 4-217 is the luckiest class in the school. From now on, you have two teachers, Ms. Richardson and me. We're running the show together. Stop moaning and groaning like kindergartners. Take out your homework so I can see it, and groups one and two use the closet.”
As I began roving around the room to check homework, Ms. Richardson's voice resounded like an airhorn. “Take off that jacket! No jackets in school!”
Tiffany looked confused and terrified. I had always let her wear her hooded sweatshirt in class as long as the hood stayed off. All of the kids knew I wore a gray hoodie over my shirt and tie instead of a regular autumn jacket.
“Get rid of it now!”
Tiffany looked to me. “Do it, Tiffany,” I commanded.
“Sit up straight in your chair, Tiffany!” Ms. Richardson boomed. “You're still slouching. No slouching in school, Tiffany! SIT UP STRAIGHT!”
Tiffany straightened her posture and sniffled, staring at her desk. Nobody moved.
“School is not fooling-around time. That's over!” Richardson was a powerhouse.
The next two days contained my smoothest lessons of the year. Even Eddie participated; he was really getting multiplication. When Deloris called Lakiya a “crack ho,” Ms. Richardson immediately took them both out of the room, and I kept rolling along with math.
Ms. Richardson's privately shared criticism was constructive and actionable. “Your homework-checking system creates a lag and you need to be on them every second. I can introduce a new system tomorrow, and if you like it, you can keep it.” Her system involved leaving a numbered folder on each group before the day began. As students enter, they insert their homework in the folder. I would collect the folders and find a few minutes during independent work time to check the work. Ms. Richardson also recommended making a publicly displayed grid, charting completed and missed homework. This would foster healthy competition to get the most checks and give recognition to conscientious students.
She was right on both counts. Once my “Homework All Stars” chart went up, homework completion went up over twenty percent, and I had more control in the tone-setting mornings.
Thursday, November 13, was Report Card Day. Classes were dismissed at 11:30 and walk-in parent-teacher conferences were slated for 1:00–3:00 and 5:00–7:30. No report cards went home unless they were directly handed to a parent or guardian. Ms. Richardson stayed by my side through the first afternoon session.
Grades were given in the same one-to-four rubric as the state standardized Tests.
1 = far below grade-level standards
2 = approaches grade-level standards
3 = meets grade-level standards
4 = exceeds grade-level standards
Ones failed; everything else passed. Teachers were discouraged from giving threes and flat-out restricted from fours in the first marking period. Mr. Randazzo told us this was so the report cards would show improvement over the year.
Lakiya, Deloris, Marvin, Daniel, and Eric got nearly straight ones. Everyone else hovered around twos except Sonandia, who got straight threes. Her mother was first to arrive for a conference.
Our meeting was short and sad. I said I understood why she had asked to transfer Sonandia and that Karen Adler was a wonderful teacher. I extolled Sonandia's virtues, recommended more nonfiction reading at home, and said I would miss her daughter. We shook hands and parted. Good-bye, Sony.
A line of parents and families formed outside my door, waiting to see Mr. Brown. It was a reality check as to how many people had a stake in the embattled 4-217 experience.
Lito Ruiz brought an entourage of his Spanish-speaking grandmother, his twenty-year-old sister who acted as translator, her boyfriend, another young man whose relation was not explained, and an infant who reeked of an unchanged diaper. We all lamented the September glasses-breaking incident, but Lito's smile lit up the room when I showed his grandmother his small stack of successfully completed “A+” work. Maimouna's father came in, eyes bloodshot and smelling thickly of marijuana. The whole time I talked to him, I could not shake the memory of Maimouna writing about how she gets whipped. Lakiya Ray's calm mother assured me Lakiya would complete her work, as long as the boys stopped harassing her. When I explained that Lakiya was hardly a victim of harassment during class time—quite the contrary—Mrs. Ray very clearly tuned out. Cwasey's mother and stepfather looked truly stunned when I told them about Cwasey's propensity and lack of remorse for hitting girls. They told me it would never happen again, but I recalled his blue card had said, “Mother is supportive but her interventions seem to roll off his back.” I discussed work samples with every parent. I talked about strengths, opportunities to become stronger, and how crucial it is to read together at home.
Deloris's mother came in reeling from savage reports from Deloris's Success for All teacher, Ms. Cole, Mr. Daly (regarding lunch-room behavior), and the gym teachers, with Deloris's younger sister Ladeisha and older sister Lakeisha's teachers still to visit. She began our meeting with a preemptive speech about how “some girl named Destiny” was always picking on Deloris, and how this intimidation was probably the reason for all of the ones on her report card. The tirade lasted several minutes.
I looked directly at her. “First of all, Deloris has not fully completed one assignment all year. Often, she doesn't even write her name on her paper. She has had a few arguments with Destiny, but now they are sitting in opposite corners of the room, and that has absolutely nothing to do with Deloris's grades being what they are. Deloris has an intelligent mind—she could probably be a great lawyer with her ability to argue—but she is not doing fourth-grade work and is blaming everyone else for it. The time to make excuses is over. The only way for Deloris to pass fourth grade is for her to take responsibility for her own schoolwork. That is it.” I had never spoken so forcefully to someone I had just met.
My speech seemed to connect. By the end of the conference, Deloris said, “I promise I'm going to really do my work and try hard all the time.”
Athena Page's mother (also named Athena Page), whom I knew relatively well already, nodded vigorously when I talked about Athena's chattering at inappropriate times. Athena sat silently, nervous and fidgety.
Ms. Page told me, “Thank you for the good news about math, but you will see an improvement with the talking. Athena, tell Mr. Brown what punishment you're on.”
“No TV.”
“And?”
Athena's face fell. “No Christmas.”
Eddie's and Tayshaun's parents were the only no-shows, giving 4-217 an excellent percentage of attendance. Karen and I dragged ourselves out at 8 p.m., cotton-mouthed from setting personal talking records. Progress was happening, though. I could feel it. And dammit, Athena Page was going to have Christmas.
The next morning I expected two things to happen, and neither did. First, I thought Mr. Randazzo would approach me at lin
eup to transfer Sonandia to Karen's class. He didn't, and Sony led the 4-217 line as usual. The second thing I counted on was to see Ms. Richardson in my classroom when I arrived with the group, but she wasn't there. Mr. Randazzo swung by at 8:30 and said, “Heyyy, Dan! Cordelia Richardson's out, back problems or something. Okay?”
Not okay, Mr. R. There was no way I could keep the strict-discipline momentum going by myself.
Surprisingly, the day went fine. Kids adapt quickly to some things, and they behaved as if Ms. Richardson were still in the room, save for a few minor scuffles and disruptive insults. My spirits were also buoyed by having a bonus day with Sonandia, and simply that it was Friday, day of anticipatory, limitless tolerance.
Walking down the hall for dismissal, Sonandia wrapped her hand in mine and said, “Mr. Brown, will you please be my daddy?”
“I'm your teacher, Sonandia.” And not for much longer.
“Please be my daddy!”
* * *
I felt lonely all weekend, even though I was surrounded by friends. I couldn't explain what I was feeling and didn't bother to try. My parents encouraged me to resign to salvage my health. Twice I dialed several digits of Jess's phone number before hanging up. I talked to Karen for a long time on Sunday night.
Monday morning, Sonandia was in my line, and, thankfully, Ms. Richardson was in my room. She said she had back problems and might soon need an operation. With her around, the week sped by swiftly. We neared our big multiplication test. Half of the class understood the concepts and knew the times tables inside out. The other half might as well have been playing their Game Boys during all of our lessons.
Sonandia stayed in my class every day, and no one said anything. On Friday, November 21, the other shoe dropped.
Ms. Richardson was absent, and I got word that she was undergoing back surgery. She would never coteach with me again. I had hoped for a collaborator for the rest of the year, or until Christmas at the bare minimum, but I wound up with one for just six school days. When I announced that Ms. Richardson was gone, the class reacted with genuine groans of disappointment. Their sadness took me by surprise; I thought they hated her for her ultratight discipline. In six days, they had gotten attached.
I was eating lunch in 217 when Jennifer jogged in. “Mr. Brown, they need you in the lunchroom right now. You have to come down!”
The scene in the cafeteria was not what I expected. Sonandia had separated herself from the class and was sitting by the window, her face buried in her arms on the table. She was crying hard. Sonandia never cried in front of the class. Her pals, Gladys Viña and Julissa, patted her on the back.
“Sonandia, what's wrong?” I asked frantically.
She shook her head, not looking up.
“She's upset,” Gladys V. explained.
“Tell me what happened,” I said to the support crew.
Sonandia lifted her head. “I don't want to make the change. Please. I don't want to make the change.”
My pulse quickened. She hadn't known about the transfer. Or had she? I thought she did. What was going on?
“It's all right, Sony. I'm going to miss you too. But Ms. Adler's a great teacher and I'm going to check in on you all the time.”
Olga, Sonandia's mother, left her post between the two lunch-rooms and relieved Julissa and Gladys V. of back-patting duty. Sonandia continued crying. “I don't want to leave Mr. Brown. Please!” She and her mother spoke in Spanish, and Sonandia cried harder.
Everything happened quickly. I dashed to Mr. Randazzo, who was supervising the fifth-grade cafeteria.
“Dan, what's up? You okay?”
“Mr. Randazzo, I know I'm a new teacher and I've been knocked around a bit. But I'm on my feet now, and the class is really improving…”
“I know. I'm hearing the screaming through the wall less and less.”
“I know that both of us were kept out of the loop in the decision to move Sonandia. Her work has been excellent with me, though, and she's improving…”
“I just told her she was going to Karen in the afternoon.”
“I know. But she doesn't want to move. She's crying her eyes out right now.”
“What?”
“Can we give this some more time? I want some more time. A couple weeks.”
“Let's go see what this is all about.”
Mr. Randazzo and I walked to Sonandia and her mother, making an impromptu summit of the four key players in this crisis. Randazzo said, “Ms. Tavarez, if Sonandia doesn't want to make the switch, going to the new class could actually hurt her. She's not going to do her best work if she's unhappy.” Sonandia nodded in concurrence. “Maybe we should let her stay with Mr. Brown if that's what she wants.”
Ms. Tavarez, put on the spot, pursed her lips. “Okay,” she said.
I wanted to burst into a wild touchdown dance, but I kept a straight face and nodded slightly and gratefully. Sonandia's reaction surprised me. Her tears stopped, but she said nothing and stared blankly ahead. Then she put her head down again. I think she was ticked at all of us for putting her through this.
On the D train home, tears trickled from me for the first time since I became a teacher. What a turnaround! My emotional swell soon gave way to a heartening realization. I no longer needed lofty aphorisms to propel me. My concrete reason to stick with it was gloriously clarified. Every day from here on I owed to Sonandia for standing up for me, for wanting me to be her teacher. She brought me back.
As of Monday, the SFA cycle was over, which meant Fran Baker and my ninety-minute midmorning respite from 4-217 were temporarily gone, and I would miss them terribly. Now I had to plan for three-and-a-half- and four-and-a-half-hour blocks and I wasn't used to it.
My Success for All group had produced some bright moments. On the last day, Kelsie Williams attempted (with moderate success) to recite Robert Frost's “Fire and Ice,” which I had read and photocopied for them. When Mrs. Baker and I made a big fuss over Kelsie's performance, she timidly asked if she could read a poem that she wrote. Of course, Kelsie! She read a Halloween poem that I was sure she had composed as an assignment from her homeroom teacher, but our group showered her with applause, motivating other kids to write their own poems. I told the kids that I would always read and give performance time for any poems they would ever write in school or out, whether I was still their teacher or not. This led to several poets sporadically swinging by 217 throughout the year.
On Tuesday afternoon, a bubbly Ms. Richardson waltzed into my room, ostensibly free of crippling back pain, igniting a sea of cheers. “I've got a great new position down in East Harlem,” she said, smiling. I was surprised and confused, but it was good to see Ms. Richardson one last time to let her know how much I appreciated her help.
At 3 p.m. on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, P.S. 85 breathed a massive gasp of relief. I booked it to Port Authority to catch a Greyhound home for the holiday weekend. I fell asleep as the bus inched down the traffic-swamped Jersey Turnpike, thankful for a nine-year-old Dominican girl in the Bronx.
December
Courage Bear
NEW YORK CITY CAN GET VERY COLD very fast. Thanksgiving weekend had whizzed by, with my teaching stories being the star attraction at the big family dinner. No one could believe the insanity in P.S. 85. I raked leaves and watched football with my dad, had long talks with my mom, and snuggled with our little ChihuahuaPekingese, Mac. But in a blink, I was back in 4-217.
“If I am planning a trip from California to Idaho, which country's map should I use?” I asked. Several kids consulted their individual maps, but no hands went up. I called on random students, who shrugged blankly. I held up my placemat-sized North America map and pointed crazily at California and Idaho. “What country am I looking at?” Still nothing. “Sonandia, help me out.” Sonandia didn't know. “It's the U.S.A.!” I boomed. “It's our country!”
A few reluctant nods happened around the room. I pointed more. “If I travel from Texas to Louisiana, what country am I i
n? Julissa?” Julissa looked down at her worksheet.
“It's not on your paper. Just look and listen.” I pointed at Dallas and traced my way to New Orleans. “What country am I pointing at?
“The U.S.A.!” I exclaimed. “Who knows what U.S.A. stands for?” No reaction. I wrote “U nited States of America” on the board. “How many states are in the U.S.A.?”
“Fifty!” two dozen kids chimed in unison.
“Correct. Can anyone tell me which one of those fifty states we are in right now?”
Silence. Jennifer and Sonandia slowly raised their hands. I called on Jennifer. “Is it New York?”
“Yes! We are in New York State, and we're also in New York City, which has how many boroughs?”
“Five!”
“And which one are we in?”
“The Bronx!”
“Good. Back to the whole country, all of this area is the U.S.A. See? These are the fifty states making up one big country, the United States of America, with one president. So look at my finger. If I drive from here, Florida, to here, Georgia, what country am I in?”
No answer. “The U.S.A.!” I exploded. “This is all the U.S.A.! This is what our country looks like on a map. U.S.A.! If I travel from Florida to Georgia, what country am I in?”
“U.S.A.”
“Yes. If I travel from Wyoming to Colorado, what country am I in?”
“U.S.A.”
“From Virginia to North Carolina, what country?”
“U.S.A.”
“Now look very closely. If I travel from here, Rosarita, to right here, Mexico City, what country am I in? Look carefully.”
“U.S.A.,” the class chanted.
I wanted to chalk up the scene to the post-holiday morning sleepies, but I couldn't. How could none of them know these things? I found out that the third-grade social studies curriculum is “World Cultures,” focusing on foreign continents. Second and first grades, depending on the teacher, often gloss over social studies in the interest of a math and literacy fundamental skills blitz. Without substantive discussion about civics at home, these inner-city kids had never learned their country, state, or, as I soon discovered, what planet they lived on.
