Emergency Teacher (7 page)

“Hey you guys, this is going to be a great year for us. I expect a lot from you, and I plan on working my hardest,” I said. “You know, it's important to me that we are proud of each other, and that, uh, you all learn and everything.”

I took some index cards off my desk. “Please follow the directions on the board and copy down what's up there.” They dropped their heads obediently. They listened, and even raised their hands, though timidly. This was easy. They didn't seem to be the hardheaded thugs I had been warned about. I wasn't going to have to “break them down.” I was going to be able to teach them. The morning swam along, until the door opened again at 9:30 AM. Mrs. G., again, and she wasn't alone.

“Good morning, Ms. Asquith. Good morning, T61,” she chimed. A line of students shuffled behind her.

“We don't have another sixth-grade teacher for T62's class, so we will be combining the classes for now,” she said.

My heart sank as another dozen or more students piled into the room, some carrying desks and clanking them against the walls. Had Mrs. G. only realized this morning that she was one teacher short? The little heads passed in front of me, like candies on a conveyor belt. I wanted to protest, but their little faces looked alarmed. Imagine arriving on the first day and being told you had no teacher! They looked ashamed as they found seats in the corners and climbed up onto the radiator. I covered my desperation with a happy face, a survival tactic I would come to master throughout my year.

“Of course,” I said with a weak smile, “I'm so glad you are joining us.”

Mrs. G. played along and then escaped out the door. I counted thirty-three students. What worried me was that there were fifteen more students on my list unaccounted for. What if they came in tomorrow? I began to sway and reel on my imaginary tightrope. The combined classes meant I had both groups in the afternoon, which meant I needed another two hours of material to teach. I had anticipated one lesson for T61 in the morning, and then repeating the lesson in the afternoon to the other group. Suddenly, I was left with three hours to fill. Groping around my desk drawer for more index cards, I was thinking so hard I was no longer seeing anything in front of me.

“Miss?” a student called out. I looked up. Thirty-three pairs of hands rested on desktops waiting for instruction. The bright colors of new T-shirts and jackets dotted the room.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he said.

“Um, okay.”

In the fifteen seconds it took me to search for a piece of paper and write, “pass to bathroom,” a conversation started in the back. I didn't want to do discipline on the first day, so I ignored it. “Where's the bathroom, Miss?” the boy asked, walking to the door.

“I don't know. Just ask when you get out there.”

Facing the class, I employed another classic teacher phrase by telling them, “Clear your desks, please.” No one really had anything on their desks. The door opened again. It was the bathroom boy. “It's locked. Miss.”

“Well, try to find someone to open it.”

He disappeared again.

“Okay, class, we're going to make personal information cards.”

A student in the back raised his hand.

“Miss, can I sharpen my pencil?”

“Sure.” As I passed out index cards, he snaked around several aisles before arriving at the pencil sharpener. A few students twittered and looked to see my reaction. I glanced away, pretending I hadn't noticed. Another student raised his hand.

“Miss, I don't have a pencil.” I returned to my desk to search for one.

Another student raised her hand.

“Miss, my Band-Aid is loose.”

“Um.” Bringing Band-Aids had not been one of my Big Issues. I pretended to rifle through my desk, knowing there were none there. “Don't worry about it.”

Encouraged by my attentiveness, several students began raising their hands.

“Miss, can we go by our other school from last year and say hi to our old teacher?”

I fumbled to answer everyone's questions and keep the class moving. Finally, I interrupted, “Look, everyone, please stop talking and write down your full name, address, and phone number on your index card.”

But that unleashed a torrent of questions, and when I couldn't keep up, they shouted them out.

“Miss, I don't know my address.”

“Miss, how you spell Lehigh Avenue?”

“Miss, we don't got a phone.”

“Miss, how you spell Lehigh Avenue???”

From the back, a little girl, whose name tag read VALERIE, shouted, “Meessss, yo no entiendo.” “I don't understand.” I rushed around trying to accommodate everyone. Several students chatted with one another. I ran to the back to help Valerie. An hour, maybe two, slipped past. By the time we finished personal-identification index cards, the class, like an orchestra with each musician playing a different song, had spun off in thirty-three different directions. I was trying to conduct each one. Everyone was calling my name, and when I turned to quiet one group, another one flared up. Several more students asked to use the bathroom, and when I started saying no, two girls claimed to “have my P.”

“No, no one else is using the bathroom,” I said. I thought this made me strict. But then, one girl started to cry, and later she reported this to Mrs. G., who informed me as though I were a sixth-grader myself, that students had a right to the bathroom.

By 11:30 AM, I had to go to the bathroom, too. What were teachers supposed to do? At any given moment, at least one student from each corner of the room, and the middle, was calling my name. “Mmeeesss Asquith!”

A little boy, his eyes bulging madly, waved his hand. I rushed to his desk. His name card said, “Miguel, 11 years old.” He had baby fat still bulging from his cheeks, like a chipmunk furrowing nuts. He had clasped his hand across his mouth, eyes wide with terror. Was Miguel about to become that “he-threw-upon-the-first-day” kid?

“My tooth came out,” he said.

I kneeled and saw a baby tooth cupped in his palm, like a little bird.

“Open your mouth,” I said. I checked to make sure it wasn't some joke on me—no student was gonna get one past this teacher. But his tongue had blood on it. I smothered a little laugh and put my hand on his head.

“Does it hurt?” He shook his head.

“Good, then sit tight.”

Later, I wondered if a lost tooth merited a visit to the nurse. I really had no idea. But I also had no idea where the nurse's office was, or how to give him a hall pass to get there, if he even needed one. So, lost-tooth Miguel wasn't moving. That seemed fine with him.

To my relief, the first week continued much like the first day, which I described to Pete as gentle pandemonium. I taught a list of eight topics given to me by Mrs. G., including class rules and the fire-drill and salute-the-flag procedures. Some days it took me hours simply to review one topic, other times I sped through a lesson in three minutes. For example, the dress code. I stood in front of the class and read aloud some of the rules: no bandannas, no gang colors, no low-cut tops or miniskirts, etcetera. Then I posted the rules on the blackboard, and moved on. I thought that was it; that was teaching.

Most lessons were like chaotic streams of consciousness, punctuated by my occasional lecture on “sitting still.” Yet, overall, my impression was that the kids were sweet, obliging, and eager to endear themselves to me. So I received a few crank calls each night—Pete had told me not to list my phone number on that yellow Welcome! sheet—that was hardly a major inconvenience. My sister, Nikki, who was also a schoolteacher, warned me this could only be the honeymoon period, during which time kids act well-behaved, while gathering data on the new teacher, assessing how much they'll be able to get away with later on. (I wish I had listened.)

But at the time, I had such low expectations for my students, stemming from my own misconceptions about inner-city youth, that any small gesture of obedience was magnified in my mind. I recall my first week of teaching as a golden time. Sunny, cool September days, in which I drove back to my apartment around 4:30 PM, physically exhausted and bedraggled. The doormen understood I was a new teacher and that I had a really hard job. We would share a smile. They would greet me with an appreciative nod. Then, I either went for a run along the Schuylkill River or slipped to a pub around the block to correct homework over a much-needed beer, spreading papers across the dim bar. My dutiful pressing of animal stickers onto worksheets occasionally earned me a “you a teacher?” comment and a charity beer. I devoted the rest of the night to lesson planning at my computer. One big surprise was the time required to correct a day of class work and homework, and then prepare for the following day's lesson—in several subjects. It took at least three hours a night. But so far, my phone conversations with Pete and my sister were happy: Teaching was easier than anticipated. Ms. Vinitzsky, one of the helpful veteran teachers, told me it took five years to learn to teach. But I didn't think it would take me so long. The students liked me. I interpreted their docility as a sincere openness to working together to make ours the best class possible. I smiled at every cute thing they did. They were “really good.”

“When your desks are clean, I will dismiss you,” I said, kneeling to check the aisles. Our room had adapted to us. Balls of paper gathered around the wastebasket. Desks once aligned perfectly were slanted and shifting, like magnets, toward desks of nearby friends. Students had stuffed many of my handouts, primarily the welcome letter to parents, into the wire shelf under their seats.

At 2:47 PM, the principal spoke over the loudspeaker:

“Remember, failure is not an option! Thank you for all doing your best. Please have a safe weekend. Third floor may prepare for dismissal.”

“Pedro's row may go first,” I announced. Students poured out of the room, chirping “bye.” Several girls crowded at my desk.

“Miss, we thought you didn't speak Spanish, and we was all gonna play tricks on you,” cooed one girl with sleek black hair.

An 180-pound twelve-year-old stopped on his way out. The class called him Big Bird. He stretched out his meaty hand to shake mine.

“Tank you, Miss,” he said, his binder tucked under his arm. Big Bird wanted to be a lawyer. He spoke to me as though he already was one. “Good job teaching this week,” he offered.

I erased the board, and then wandered around the aisles for a few minutes, straightening desks, picking up pencils, and smiling to myself. I made a quick cell phone call to Pete, and we made plans to meet for dinner. “What a fantastic week!” I said. He congratulated me. “All right!” He laughed. “Wait until the spitballs start.”

A form for Mrs. G. caught my eye, and I picked it up to take it to her. I left my room and turned the corner toward the lockers and Mrs. G.'s office. School had ended five minutes ago, but already the place had emptied. Mrs. G.'s door was shut, windows dark, as were several others. The only sign of life was a guy from the cleaning crew, pushing his cart down the hall, and a portable radio playing rap music.

Back in my room, I felt a pang of loneliness without my students. True, it was only the second week, but we were already like a real class. Each day when I dismissed them for lunch, they ran up to my desk with questions and begged to eat with me. I wasn't supposed to care about being popular, but all that attention made me feel like a rock star. They each had their own needs. Luis, an eleven-year-old with porcelain skin and owlish eyes, stopped me each day before lunch to shyly ask, “Miss, is there a band at the school? I kinda know how to play trumpet.” Several students pushed past him with their own requests. I promised him I'd look into it.