Chapter Fifteen: The Walkie-Talkie is Calling Me (again)

Chapter 15 – The Walkie-Talkie is Calling Me

5:00 a.m.

Often when I run, the rhythm of my pounding feet is matched with an internal chant. Sometimes I control the chanting and make it informative (4 miles done, 2 miles to go) or affirming (good pace, keep going). Other times my barely conscious thoughts sneak in and cause irritation. Today I am itched by a chant that teases: “Miss Rosie, Mr. Rusty, Miss Rosie, Mr. Rusty.”

Most of my staff insist on having the students call them by their first name preceded by the title of Mr. or Miss (never Mrs.). I‘ve talked to the team about mainstream conventions and respect, and I have made it clear I prefer for the students to use an appropriate title plus the teacher’s last name. Lynne, my business manager, switches from “Miss Lynne” to Ms. Trendall, and Stone Simmons has always insisted the students call him Mr.Simmons, but with the rest of my faculty, my words are ignored. When Mel (that would be Mr. Mel) my predecessor was principal, this is how they did it and they don’t plan to change now. I know I should let it go. In the big scheme of things this is not important. I thought I got a grip about this weeks ago, but the chant looping through my brain tells me I’m still annoyed. In part it bothers me because it sounds like a form of address slaves used with their masters.


6:00 a.m.

I always wear skirts or dresses (corporate business attire) to work. I believe dressing up doesn’t ensure respect, but it helps. At a conference on child abuse I hear many people who work with poor children express the opinion that we should “dress down” to avoid intimidation. I don’t agree, but clearly I come across as middle class and more affluent than my students. The words of Luke’s mother ring in my ears “if I were loaded like you. . .” But is it my clothes, my car or my language that advertises my privileged background? Would parents curse less at me if these class barriers didn’t exist?

My wardrobe has a split personality. My New York clothes are mostly black or grey. Once I wore a navy blue suit to New York City and I felt like a garishly dressed tourist. My Florida suits are coral, lime green, and orange. Today I choose the coral suit with the fitted, short -sleeved jacket and a-line skirt. In retrospect, I’d have done better to wear something looser and darker, something better suited for exercise, and to match the dirt.

7:00 a.m.

One of the first things I do upon arriving at work each morning is remove my shoes and put on sneakers. I do this because I know I’ll be running all over campus. The students are confused by my apparel: why does Ms. Smee wear running shoes with her dress? I tell them it is a New York thing. I post a newspaper photo of women in Wall Street power suits carrying brief cases and wearing sneakers. Of course these women wear the sneakers to and from work and change into appropriate shoes at work, while I do the opposite.

8:50 a.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. “Ms. Smee we’ve got a fight on bus 1068.” I am already in the bus circle greeting arriving students so I hop onto bus 1068 and find Noah Ruze, Nora’s brother, thrashing wildly, his eyes unfocused fury. Shasta, my transportation coordinator, reports he has been trying to pick a fight the entire bus ride. Nora tries to restrain and calm her big brother. Together we herd him off the bus. Nora explains Noah’s behavior: last night he found out he will be leaving in four days for a six-month boot camp program. We decide Rusty, my counselor, will keep Noah with him all day. Noah will never be more than arm’s length from Rusty. I call to verify his departure date for the program. Once confirmed, I suspend Noah until his departure date. Keeping him here this week won’t help him and puts our other students at risk. Goodbye Noah.

9:00 a.m.

He’s back.... Darius is the newest student in Stephanie’s orientation class. He apparently was here last year but Mel, my predecessor, transferred him back to public school declaring Darius was ready to return. He wasn’t. I watch Darius in the parking lot in the morning. He moves with a hunched shuffle typical of the institutionalized. When I read his file I see he is bright, maybe even gifted and he has been in more foster homes than he has spent years on earth. Darius is a twelve-year-old white boy who was born in Springfield, Massachusetts and lived with his biological parents until he was four. Unspecified abuse caused Darius and his two younger brothers to be removed and put in foster care. One brother has muscular dystrophy and is in a special needs foster home. The other brother has been adopted. Darius is now twelve and currently living in a foster home with three other male, adolescent, foster children. His foster mother is a single, black, woman who teaches at a Baptist school. Darius has longish straight brown hair, big brown eyes, freckles and a winning smile. He hugs all his former teachers and counselors. He seems happy to be back at Prospect.

9:30 a.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me: It’s Midge, my new elementary teacher. Henry, my liaison in the public school, had been encouraging me to start an elementary level classroom. There is only one alternative school in town that accepts elementary students and Henry wants choices for parents. While being politically careful not to make negative comments about the other elementary program, Henry implies there is little instruction going on and he would like me to design an elementary program with the same dual focus on academics and behavior evidenced by my middle school program. I hire Midge because I think she can handle the elementary students. Midge is an older, obese white woman who grew up in central Florida. She is an artist and has taught art to children of all ages. While she is not yet a certified elementary teacher, I believe (and hope) her experience and enthusiasm will make her a success.

Today I learn that Midge has a very expressive voice - that is to say she can sound rather hysterical. When the toilet in her classroom backs up, she shouts into the walkie-talkie that the place is flooding and she must abandon the room. I look out my door to see half a dozen elementary age boys shouting, shoving and running around behind my office.

When I return to my desk, Lynne, my business manager, is there with a question: what happened to Robyn, the new girl who couldn’t find a place to do her homework? Lynne ran an attendance report this morning and noticed Robyn has been absent for over a week. I flinch; I hate it when a child falls through the cracks. I pick up the phone and call Robyn’s home. I speak with her stepmother who says Robyn has been sent to live with her Grandmother in Cincinnati. Step-mother adds her opinion: “And she’d better stay there too because she won’t be allowed back here. I swear I’ll put her out on the streets before I have that little whore wrecking my marriage. “ Goodbye Robyn.

10:00 a.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. “Kathleen Smee, this is uh, Neeley. We have uh, a situation. I need Lorayne arrested; she is uh threatening to kick me in the balls.”

“TMI!” exclaims Lynne who monitors all walkie-talkie transmissions. Too much information is a common walkie-talkie faux pas.

Lorayne, of tongue ring fame, is very upset . My youngest teacher, Neeley, confronts her about bringing cigarettes to school. Neeley makes this accusation in front of the class and, unsurprisingly, Lorayne reacts inappropriately. She becomes agitated, cursing at Neeley and shouting that she wants to kick him in the balls. In fact she repeats this last statement several times. The class is in an uproar. Lorayne is not a popular child and many boys are indignant that she is allowed to threaten a teacher. Several boys are vocal in calling for the arrest of Lorayne. Neeley joins the chorus. Instead, Rusty provides verbal discipline and I suspend Lorayne for three days.

I hate to suspend our students. Rarely does it have any positive effect on them, mostly it buys us some calm. Getting the most troubled child out of the classroom gives the teacher a much-needed reprieve. At best, the suspended child sits at home in front of TV and video games for the duration of the suspension. At worst they are unsupervised, on the streets, risking injury, committing crimes.

My friend and mentor Rex Stewart, found a solution to the suspension dilemma for his students at King Middle School. Rex obtained a grant to pay for a bus, a teacher and an aid. Suspended students were transported on a separate bus to a building owned by the school but now used mostly for personnel offices. The suspension teacher taught suspension school lessons to the suspended students. Rex ran this for a year; it worked very well. Suspensions and the accompanying bad behavior decreased once students learned a suspension meant suspension school, not free days off. The grant money was only for a year. When the grant ran out, Rex requested money from the school board to continue. His request was denied.

10:15 a.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. Shasta, my transportation coordinator, wants to meet with me. Unbeknownst to Shasta, Stephanie, my orientation leader, asked to meet with me as well. Separately, each woman expresses concern about counselor Ernie. He was overheard telling students he will get the school hours changed so the day ends at 3:00 pm. He has also been telling students he will “punch the principal in the mouth” if she won’t change the dismissal time. Both Shasta and Stephanie are friends not only of Ernie, but also of his daughter and wife, but they are uncomfortable with his comments. I kick myself again for not jumping at the opportunity to accept Ernie’s resignation. The eternal optimist, I fantasize about getting help with the Ernie situation from Ebencorp’s HR department. After leaving two voice messages and sending one email to Let’s-rap-Leighton, the HR liaison, I call The Boss. It goes to voice mail; with The Boss, it always goes to voice mail.

10:30 a.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. “Darius is AWOL again” Stephanie the orientation leader alerts. Fortunately each time he runs, Stephanie is able to coax him back, so far.... I stop by the orientation classroom and Stephanie tells me Darius’s complaint is that he is bored in orientation and wants to be assigned to his “real class.” I ask Stephanie to give him some more challenging work in addition to the standard orientation lessons. I introduce myself to Darius and promise him we can shorten his duration in Orientation if he stays in the room and demonstrates he understands the school rules. He nods and agrees: no more AWOL’s.

10:45 a.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. Lynne, my business manager, is calling to say Vince, the custodian is in my office and he is not pleased. I return to my office to find Vince standing next to my desk holding up a foul, dripping clump of navy blue. “This here shirt was stuffed in Miss Midge’s terlet. Y’all better train your teachers cause I ain’t got time to go fishin no shirts outta terlets ever few minutes.”

10:50 a.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. “Ms. Smee! Fight! Claymont and Brock. Urgent!” I arrive in time to see Claymont punching Brock in the face. It is rare for Claymont to fight his own battles, he usually stays behind the scenes calling the shots. Claymont won’t say why he hit Brock, but I guess Brock said something fairly inflammatory to Claymont. The Deputy arrests Claymont for assault. I should protest, but I don’t. Am I numb or defeated? Stone compliments Brock on his self-control in not hitting Claymont back. A squad car is called for Claymont.

11:00 a.m.

It is time for an informal observation in Rosie’s room. Armed with my checklist, I begin the search for “strengths and opportunities.” The strengths are that Rosie clearly cares about her students, has a lesson planned on nutrition and her classroom is warm, inviting and decorated with appropriate educational material. On the flip side, Rosie selects to ignore many misbehaviors I would like addressed. There are four boys and two girls present today. I take notes:

* Students arrive for class in a loud, rowdy fashion taking the wrong seats.
* Keith gets out of his seat three times, without permission, to sharpen his pencil.
* Eli is sleeping in class then awakens and wanders to the door to look out the window.
* Brock rolls up a magazine and repeatedly hits the desk with it.
* When asked what foods are high in protein, Brock suggests a source of protein is methamphetamines
* Brock and Eli loudly debate whether their teacher, Mr. Simmons (Stone) takes steroids.
* Aidan shouts to Brock and Eli, "shut up so I can speak."
* Aidan says, "I need cigarettes." Brock promises to bring him some tomorrow.
* Brock tells Eli he is "just a pussy."
* Aidan begins to bang his pencil on the desktop.
* Ionya and Jillane keep raising their hands but their peers do not. The shouted out answers from the boys are frequently accepted without reminders to raise hands.

Part of the nutrition assignment is to write down everything eaten for a week. Students volunteer to read aloud descriptions of their food consumption. Nearly everyone has the same answers for breakfast and lunch; the meals provided by the school. But few have anything listed for dinner. Rosie asks: “What about at night, when you sit down with your family...” She catches herself and rephrases the question. “What do you eat at home, maybe when you are watching TV, after school and before bed?”

Something clicks with Eli and he quickly writes in his food journal. Looking up he explains, “Thanks for reminding me Miss Rosie, I forgot to put down the potato chips.”

More than a few of my students survive primarily on the meals the school provides. Hunger, not obesity, remains the number one nutritional problem for my students.

11:15 a.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. New elementary teacher Midge is emoting over the airwaves again. Lynne, my business manager, knows I’m observing Rosie’s class so she offers to go investigate. Lynne is usually reluctant to get involved with classroom management issues, but the elementary classroom is next door to our portable and she is worried that Midge is not having a good first day of school! Lynne later briefs me on what she observed: There are six boys in Midge’s class. The classroom looks like a strong wind blew through tossing papers, crayons, math toys and puzzle pieces everywhere. Midge gives 100% of her attention to one child at a time while the others riot: they run about, stand on desks, remove ceiling tiles and climb into the ceiling, throw garbage out the windows, plaster the wall with spit wads, scribble on desks and stuff crayons into the disk drive of the computers.

11:30 a.m.

The walkie-talkie isn’t calling me, for the moment. I check my folder for teacher lesson plans and phone lists. Every Monday teachers and counselors are expected to give me copies of their lesson plans for the week in a standardized format and to turn in a spreadsheet “phone list.” I created individualized phone lists for each teacher listing all the students in his or her homeroom, parent names, phone numbers and a blank column for dates when called (or attempted to call) and a larger column for comments. I remind the staff every Monday to put these in my mailbox, but there are always a few who are late or never turn them in. I have learned to wait until Tuesday or Wednesday to sit down and read through these plans and lists. Stone never gives me anything unless I hound him and even then he often “forgets.” Neeley is usually late. I take time now to determine who was remiss and to read and critique the lesson plans and phone logs I do have.

12:00 noon

Outside Rosie’s class, I meet up with Rusty, my counselor. We take advantage of a rare moment of calm to talk. He tells me he and Ernie used to divide their time between North and South campus, but recently Ernie has taken to spending the entire day in Noreen’s classroom on south campus. As Rusty tells me this, I recall just this morning seeing Ernie and Noreen (both married with children) rough housing, with Noreen running and jumping on Ernie’s back. The scene made me uncomfortable but it didn’t reach my consciousness until Rusty mentions Ernie’s new “office.”

As we talk, we both keep our eyes on Stephanie’s orientation class. She is walking her class from the lunchroom to their classroom. It‘s a short walk but these are our newest students who aren’t adept at walking in a line. Stephanie is unhappy with their behavior so they return to the cafeteria to run through it again. As they file inside, quietly grumbling, the cafeteria door suddenly opens and Darius bursts out. He is screaming obscenities, flailing his arms and running fast. Stephanie does what she has no doubt done several times today: she sticks her head out the door and tries to coax Darius back into the room. This time it doesn’t work.

Darius is running toward the road and shouting that he hates this fucking place and he is going home. Rusty moves to intercept. Darius permits Rusty to turn him around. They walk across the baseball diamond with Rusty’s hand on Darius’s forearm and Rusty talking calmly. Darius is still agitated and as they approach, Darius suddenly spins away from Rusty, punching Rusty as he tries to run again. Rusty and I double-team Darius. To avoid injury to him or to us, we instinctively use the DFY, New York State approved restraint procedure. In seconds Darius is on the grass with Rusty holding his arms and me holding his legs. Rusty continues to talk in a therapeutic, trance-inducing voice to Darius. Rosie’s class, including Rosie, hear the commotion and rush to watch from the doorway of her classroom. Rusty and I stay sprawled in the dirt until we feel Darius’s arms and legs relax. Soon Darius is calm and ready to talk with Rusty. My coral suit is covered with dirt. I hope it’s nothing the dry cleaner can’t remedy.
12:30 p.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. The woman from the Special Education department is here. It is time for the annual review of Tina/Natasha’s IEP (individual education plan). This a federal requirement for all children labeled as ESE (special education). The meeting is in the counseling office. Tina/Natasha’s guardian is present as is a public school special education specialist. We determine Tina/Natasha needs a more restrictive environment; there is another Alternative School in town (the Avenue School), which has, among other things, a padded room. Tina/Natasha’s guardian doesn’t like this idea. She decides she will homeschool Tina/Natasha. Either way, goodbye Tina/Natasha and good luck to your guardian.

1:00 p.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. In my office is the probation officer for Lenny, the not-so-tough boy whose mother treats bug bites with a hot coke bottle. The probation officer has decided Lenny would be better served at ESAK, the alternative high school. The probation officer has Lenny’s mother in his car. He is signing Lenny out now to take him to ESAK. Lenny is called to the office; he is as surprised as I am by this turn of events. Can he say goodbye to “Miss Rosie”? No time, says the probation officer. I watch the car drive off campus with Lenny’s head out the window, screaming goodbye as he is driven away toward ESAK.

1:10 p.m.

I stop in Tammie’s classroom. Her class is making a volcano. It seems to work well and I see students who are engaged and learning. I commend Tammie on her classroom management techniques and using hands-on methods for science. Fifty minutes later, the walkie-talkie is calling me back to Tammie’s room. What I find is simultaneously bizarre and abhorrent: Tammie is challenging one of her students, Cassandra, to a fight. “Let’s step outside and we’ll take care of it there,” Tammie dares Cassandra as Tammie takes off her shoes. (I’m not sure why, maybe Tammie finds it easier to fight in stocking feet.) Cassandra is raring to go. I’m fairly certain Cassandra can take Tammie. I break it up, remove Cassandra from class and tell Tammie we need to talk later. Tammie suddenly announces she is sick, her son has strep throat and she thinks she might too. She leaves. I divide her students between Noreen and Neeley. Noreen and Neeley are not pleased.

2:15 p.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. Rosie has a crime tip. Claymont, who was arrested this morning in the altercation with Brock, is a well-liked leader on campus. Many of his friends are upset about his arrest. One of them provides the tip - check out Brock’s gym bag. The boys who play football (county sponsored teams) bring their uniforms and equipment to school and leave them on their bus. The Deputy and I go to the bus and look in Brock’s gym bag. We find his uniform and inside his football cleats, a package of cigarettes and in the box of cigarettes, marijuana. The Deputy must arrest. A squad car is called for Brock.

2:30 p.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. It is the Deputy. Ionya, back from her recent hospitalization for suicide ideation writes on a sheet of paper that she wants to kill herself and plans to do so tonight. The Deputy agrees that we have to Baker Act her. Again. A squad car is called for Ionya.

3:00 p.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. I can’t make out the messenger or the message, but when I hear Alexia/Pilar trumpeting profanity, I know to dash to the cafeteria because that’s where drama club is meeting. This grant-funded program brings three to four drama teachers to our school daily for two months. I didn’t write the grant for this program, but I treat it like a wonderful gift. However, this gift horse bites back. Nearly every afternoon the drama teachers seek me out to talk about problems with several girls in the drama class. The drama instructors want the “good kids.” They want to kick out the others. Each day I have to cajole and beg to help them see the good in all our students. The club is popular with girls, but when several of my girls get together, there is usually trouble.

Alexia/Pilar is always so dramatic I thought drama would be a perfect outlet for her, but Alexia/Pilar is not pleased at the rules and today she is shouting she doesn’t give a fuck about this school or this program and she doesn’t care what happens to her. The drama teachers want to kick her out immediately. I suggest Alexia/Pilar go talk with Rosie, with whom she has good rapport, to see if she understands the consequences of her actions and might be willing to try drama again tomorrow. The drama teachers are not pleased. They tell me that prior to Alexia/Pilar’s tirade, Estralitta charged, screaming and screeching, out of drama. Selma ran after Estralitta. My students provide entirely too much drama for the drama teachers.

3:15 p.m.

The walkie-talkie is calling me. “Ms. Smee, there are no volleyballs for volleyball. We’re out on the volleyball court and I need..... NO! STOP IT. I NEED ASSISTANCE ON THE VOLLEYBALL COURT. URGENT.” Today is Daphne’s first day to instruct volleyball. Volleyball is popular; many students chose it. Daphne makes the discovery that she has no volleyballs while I am on the phone with The Boss (he has questions about my budget). While she is talking, Timmy, lacking a volleyball, hits Shandon in the head. The Deputy arrives on the scene before I do, but no arrests are made. I suspect the Deputy knows it is nearly 4:00 p.m. and almost time for dismissal, and thus for his day to end. The required paperwork and the wait for a squad car means at least a 45-minute delay. Whatever the reason, I am generally happy when an arrest is avoided.

3:50 p.m.

I meet with Rosie before she leaves, to discuss my observation of her classroom. She is upset about the departure of Lenny and about my feedback regarding classroom management. Rosie reminds me she has a Master’s Degree in, and a passion for counseling, not teaching. She goes on to tell me she knows Darius and knows that the restraint was unnecessary; she could have calmed him down without putting him on the ground.

4:00 p.m.

Stephanie stops by to tell me her view of the Darius restraint. She quotes Ernie as saying that Rusty and I might do that in New York but it isn’t allowed here in Florida and I had better arrange for legal restraint training for the whole team and in the meantime he is going to call Ebencorp to report this incident.

A principal must have skin like leather and rock hard self-esteem. I like to think I have both, but it doesn’t stop me from self-doubt regarding the Darius restraint.

4:15 p.m.

Rusty and I write up the Darius restraint. Since Darius’s primary complaint is that he can’t bear a week in orientation, we agree to make a contract with him, no more AWOL and we’ll get him into his regular classroom the day after tomorrow. Rusty will call Darius at home tonight and let him know.

I overhear Neeley talking with his dream team partner, Noreen. They agree I don’t support the teachers or care about their safety as evidenced by not arresting Lorayne (who earlier today threatened Neeley’s privates).

4:30 p.m.

I am working on a school newspaper. Since my staff members are overwhelmed with their current responsibilities, I decide I will put together this first issue myself. For the past week I have been reminding teachers to give me student work for the paper. I also ask for a brief summary from each team on current events in their classrooms. Today is the deadline. Here is what I find in my mailbox: one poem by one of Neeley’s students about how much she hates homework.

Nice coaches never win. I resolve to become tough or, depending on one’s viewpoint, tougher.

Since I can’t work on the newsletter without any content, I attack the Title One Grant. The Title One liaison, Corinna, says the grant still needs revisions. I have to clarify that the books I want to buy won’t be primary texts but enrichment material. She keeps chanting, “Supplement not supplant.” I do understand, but it is hard to supplement when there is nothing there to supplement. As I start rewriting the grant, The Boss phones returning my earlier voice message regarding Ernie. The Boss tells me Ernie has been with Ebencorp for many years and because of his size (like The Boss, Ernie is tall and wide) he is a “presence” on my campus. The Boss says I should try to understand Ernie and talk with Ernie about his concerns. I put my forehead into my palms and close my eyes.

5:30 p.m.

Daphne is on her way home, but she sits down to talk with me. She is upset about many things: her students, her husband, Florida. . . I let her vent even though I watch the clock slowly tick past six then seven. I promise her volleyballs for tomorrow.

8:15 p.m.

I stop at Winn Dixie to pick up milk. I generally do all of my shopping at Publix but the Winn Dixie is very convenient - just down the block from my school. I run into Lenny in the dairy aisle. He is barefoot and buying a half dozen eggs. I say hi; he smiles but hurries off. I want to say how sorry I am that he left and is going to ESAK. I want to wish him luck at ESAK. But he is gone before my mouth can find the words. I am not accustomed to running into one of my students outside of school. In fact, this is the first time. I suppose my students and their families don’t live where I live and don’t shop where I shop.

After Winn Dixie and my daily stop at Books-a-Million for the NY Times, I head directly to Wal-Mart. There are no volleyballs for sale. I buy three soccer balls. Anything is better than having the volleyball players use Shandon’s head.

9:04 p.m.

At 9:04 I sit down to eat dinner and write in my journal. I write that this has been my worst day so far and for the first time I am thinking seriously about quitting.

I talk to my husband at least once a day. When I share my challenges he listens and often offers good advice – he is far enough from the problems to have some perspective. I can (and often do) tell him everything, my whole day blow-by-blow. But I have to be careful. When I tell him about my encounters with The Boss, he gets upset. He is worried I’ll lose my job. He enthusiastically supports my living in Florida to pursue my career, but if I become unemployed, what is the point? I don’t tell him that today was so awful I want to quit. Some feelings are better put in a journal than spoken aloud.

Pep talk before sleep: I am not a quitter. Tomorrow will be better. It almost has to be. It always is.

Chapter Fourteen: Meet the Parents

Chapter 14: Meet the Parents

Every morning I get up on my soapbox to preach the rewards of parent communication, reminding and begging my teachers to call parents weekly and send notes home daily. Obviously I need to role model this behavior. It isn’t always easy. I play an endless game of phone tag trying to return calls from parents who can only be reached for a short time at any given phone number. They call on break from their jobs at the Waffle House or the dry cleaners or McDonalds. When I call back, break is over and they aren’t allowed to come to take a phone call. I call back a few days later and they’re busy or it’s their day off or, not infrequently, they no longer work there. Parents call from a neighbor’s house, but by the time I get the message, they’ve gone. I am persistent even though I know when I do reach the parent, I’ll be called names, cursed at and threatened. Guilty confession: sometimes I misplace the phone messages.

In some ways it is easier to profile the typical Prospect parent than it is to describe the average student. Typically the parents of Prospect children are not cooperative and have anger control problems themselves. Most of these families are poor (over 85% of our children are eligible for free or reduced price lunch) and they lack the resources and skills to work effectively with the public school as a team to help their child. With few exceptions, discussions with Prospect parents are difficult and unpleasant at best. The attitude of these parents explains in a large part why the public school principals gave up and transferred these children to me.

Parents communicate with me not only by phone; they frequently drop by. Often when I enter my office, I find parents waiting there, in fact, I’ve never had a parent call to schedule a meeting with me, they just walk in. I’ve arrived at 7:00 a.m. to find a mother sitting on the stoop outside my office; I’ve stayed late and been startled by a child’s guardian pounding on the door to my portable at 8:30 p.m. Parents come to the school the way I go to the supermarket. I never phone Publix to tell them to expect me; I go when I’m hungry. It isn’t hunger that motivates my students’ parents to come see me, though. They come when they’re upset; and so many of them are prime candidates for anger control classes.

Prospect parents are angry because they are working but can’t pay their bills; they have sick children but can’t afford to take them to the doctor; they have a car but no money for gas; they have a home, but the water gushes in when it rains. Prospect parents are angry, but at whom? They don’t blame the economy, the government or the president. They don’t think their poverty and anger have been impacted by changes in Washington or Tallahassee. The fact that their suffering is constant over time and changes in political leadership, adds to their apathy about the democratic process and thus why voting and elections don’t make a difference. They are so far outside any “target audience” few candidates speak to, or for, them. Instead they focus their anger closer to home. They are angry at their bosses (but when they express it they lose yet another job) their children, their lovers and themselves, they are also angry at me.

Luke’s Mom

Luke’s mother opens the door on the portable with such force the knob slams into the trailer’s siding and leaves a dent. I extend my hand in greeting, but she ignores it; angry sweat drips from her upper lip. My last encounter with her involved her son’s hoop earrings. Now she is upset because we told her we must meet with her and her son to discuss his behavior. Every third word out of her mouth is profane. Luke’s mother compares me, unfavorably, to my predecessor, Mel and like my staff, it seems she hated me before she met me. Now she starts to rant telling me that I am running this school like a prison camp and no wonder all my teachers are quitting. She says if she were loaded like me she could have gone to college and then she would be a much better principal than I am. She is loud and gesturing with her finger uncomfortably near my face. She tells me she can’t make any meeting at any time. I offer to hold the meeting early, before school, or late in the evening. She tells me no time slot works for her; she leaves for work at McDonalds at 4:30 a.m. and gets home at midnight after closing and she does this six days a week. I suggest we meet right now. No, she is on break off from McDonalds and she came here to give me a piece of her mind. I let her vent. I mention the good things about Luke. I say it must be difficult to be a single parent. She finally finds a time to come meet with us next week.

Thoughts of Luke’s mother stay with me. This woman works all those hours, at minimum wage, to support herself, Luke and Luke’s older brother. She wants Luke not just to have the basics, but to have the designer tinted glasses and gold hoop earrings. She is saving now to buy him the newest Play Station for Christmas. But she is never home and Luke needs her more than he needs the play station. I do not say this to her. I don’t trust the validity of my middle class point of view as it applies to her life. I also don’t want her to start cursing at me again.

Connor, his mother and his father

Connor, a thirteen-year-old white boy, is a new student. He is incredibly articulate and polite. His father tells us he was in the gifted program in public school. His reading test scores are in the 12th grade range. Connor has no problem being courteous and appropriate with adults. Connor’s problem is with his peers. He sees conspiracies where there are none. I meet with Connor and his parents in my office. Connor tells me, “I’m not getting along with other kids. I guess I just don’t try hard enough to get along.” Connor’s last report card was all F’s; his behavior has been so disruptive he has been suspended five times in four months and when he is in school, he is usually in the discipline office. Connor has been kicked off the public school bus for the entire school year. I wonder how long he’ll last on our bus.

I listen to Connor’s parents talk about their son. Connor has a counselor and is taking anger control classes. He loves to ride his mountain bike. He has a sister in college and a brother in jail. Connor takes medication for ADHD; he was taking Adderall but now he takes Metadate. Connor’s parents aren’t convinced that ADHD is the cause of his school problems. I look and listen to this family but something is amiss; this equation doesn’t balance. After our meeting I walk Connor and his parents to the door. Connor and his father hurry outside. Connor’s mother lingers, then turns to thank me. As she starts to walk out the door she adds “Connor and his father both have problems with anger.”

Robyn, her Dad and her Step-mother

Some parents I never meet, but I know them through their notes, phone calls and child’s comments. “My mother is a drug addict and a crack whore so I can’t live with her”, Robyn explains. Robyn lives with her father, stepmother and six “other people” in a single-wide trailer. The “other people” are a combination of siblings and step-siblings. Robyn is a new student, still in orientation. She is a thirteen year old white girl with a round, freckled face and a shy smile. Robyn isn’t used to homework and complains that she can’t find a quiet place to do the work. Stephanie, the orientation leader, sends home a note home asking Dad for his help regarding Robyn and her homework problem. Dad writes back to Stephanie saying he doesn’t want Stephanie or anyone else telling him how to raise his daughter and any problems Robyn has with homework are because Robyn is the problem. He writes he has other children and none of them have these problems. The note from Dad is followed up by a phone call from Robyn’s stepmother. She tells me Robyn hates her and is trying to break up the marriage and she is just this far from throwing her out and Robyn is a little whore just like her mother. Robyn tells me her father is talking about making her live with her grandparents in Cincinnati. She thinks maybe she would like that but she would miss her dad. “I love my Dad”, she confesses.


Renzo and his Mom

Renzo, a fourteen-year white old boy, is absent more than he is present. Sometimes Renzo lives with his father and stepmother, but mostly he lives with his mother. When he is living with his mother, he frequently misses school or is at least very late. Today he is late. When I see Mom dropping him off, I suggest we talk. Mom rubs his head and comments on his good looks. She asks me whether I agree Renzo looks like an Italian movie star with his olive skin, wavy black hair and sweet smile. Renzo’s behavior is not quite so attractive.

Renzo often refuses to do any work and curses at teachers - his current favorite is “I don’t have to do nothing you say, bitch.” He picks fights with other students; he is short and when peers mention it, he is quick with his fists. Renzo is bright but academically behind from missing so much school. He is also very protective of his mother. The tough bully walks across campus holding his mother’s hand and saying goodbye with hugs and kisses. With Renzo safely in class, Renzo’s mom sits in my office crying. Between tears she tells me she is undergoing Chemotherapy and is going to die and she knows she should send Renzo to school but she misses him so and she wants to spend as much time as possible with him before she dies. And no, she hasn’t told him she is dying. She just can’t bring herself to say the words.

.
Lindy’s mother without Lindy

She is there when I arrive. She has been waiting in the dark before dawn to talk to the principal. I unlock the door and invite her in. Lindy’s mother is a very thin white woman with ragged blond hair. Her face is bruised and her left ear is covered in a thick white bandage. I’ve never seen her before. She introduces herself as Mary. She wants to do the paperwork to enroll Lindy, but he won’t be able to start for a few weeks because he is in jail.

Last night Lindy beat her up and burst her eardrum. Remembering, her eyes start to tear. I write down a phone number for the domestic abuse hotline but she waves me away. “It was my fault really. He was beatin’ so bad on my baby, his stepbrother, and I couldn’t stop him, so I started to beat on him so he’d get off and beat on me instead of my baby. It got real loud and someone called the sheriff. When the deputies came I let them take him. I know you’re thinking I’m a real bad mother.”

Harmony’s Grandmother

Harmony, a fourteen-year-old white girl, and her grandmother, with whom she lives, are here to see me because Rusty, my counselor, threatened truancy court. I barely know what Harmony looks like. I know that last year she had major truancy problems and over the summer Rusty met with Harmony and her grandmother. At that time, Rusty explained that Harmony must come to school every day, not only to learn but as a condition of her probation. Harmony and Grandma understand and Harmony does come to school every day, for the first week of school. Then she begins to play games.

The bus driver reports Harmony has been hiding at the bus stop or bounding away when the bus arrives. This is really frustrating for the driver since Harmony lives an hour out of the way. The bus has to travel thirty minutes north on a dirt road to get to the remote neighborhood known as “Sheep’s Creek” and then thirty minutes back to the main road. The driver has made several calls to Grandma. Grandma tells the driver she sends Harmony out to the bus stop on time, she can’t vouch for what happens next. Sheeps Creek is heavily wooded; Harmony has no trouble making herself invisible among the trees and shrubs. Harmony attends now and then but in two months, she has been here fewer than ten days. Her probation officer tells me he can’t understand why: “Harmony lives with her Grandmother in a single-wide trailer in the woods. There is nothing to do and no one to do it with all day.” The probation officer assumes a child would rather be in school than stuck in Sheep’s Creek. Apparently Harmony does not agree. Grandma and Harmony are now in my office.

Grandma doesn’t have a car; a neighbor has driven them. We start to talk about what is keeping Harmony from attending when Grandma suddenly blurts out, “Harmony don’t know this but I’m sick. They found tumors in both my lungs. They say I got to have radiation chemotherapy.” Grandma stops, she chokes on her words and puts her face in her hands. Harmony, tears flowing down her face, reaches up and takes her Grandmother’s withered, weathered, hand. Grandma composes herself and continues. “Harmony’s real mother lives in a trailer down the road. Sometimes Harmony brings her casseroles but her Mama don’t want nothing to do with her. If I can’t care for Harmony I don’t know where they’ll send her.”

Grandma, Harmony and I talk. By the time they leave I have given permission for Harmony to miss school next Tuesday to go to the doctor with Grandma so she can ask the doctor questions. Grandma and Harmony promise she’ll attend more often in the future.

I am totally drained. Talking to angry or unhappy parents and grandparents is not my favorite part of the job. One of the best parts of my job is talking with and listening to students, but I don’t seem to be able to find the time to do this often enough. Rosie, one of my teachers, recently asked whether I miss teaching. Perhaps this was in response to me jumping in and taking over one of her lessons! While I like being a principal, I do miss teaching, but even when I was a teacher I lamented my inability to spend more time talking one-on-one with my students. Years ago I read extensively about British Infant Schools (elementary schools) and how the Head (principal) was seen not just as an administrator but as a master teacher who would spend up to half her days teaching classes as a role model for her teachers. This is the kind of principal I want to be, but paperwork, parents and constant crises keep thwarting my efforts.

Before I leave the phone rings: it is Harmony’s probation officer. He has decided to move Harmony to ESAK, the Ebencorp-run alternative high school in town. As a fourteen year old, she can enter their “pre-GED & job training” program even if she is technically a middle school student. I disagree with his decision and start to argue but he tells me I had my chance and blew it: Harmony missed too much school. He is moving her effective immediately. Goodbye Harmony.

If only there weren’t so many of them, or if there were more of me. I should be calling agencies in Herald County to find an organization that has grief counseling for children with dying parents – Renzo and Harmony could attend. Well, if they could get there. I should get a social worker or counselor to follow-up with Lindy’s mother and Robyn’s father and step-mother. But I don’t. I meet with parents, I listen, I take notes, I make suggestions, then they leave and the walkie-talkie calls me and while the encounters are not forgotten, I never seem to have the time, to make the time, to follow up.

Chapter Thirteen: Hey Bus Driver

Chapter 13: Hey Bus Driver

Sometimes it’s the budget, sometimes it’s the drivers, but most often, it’s the students who create my bus problems. Most of these troubles are the usual student problems - they just happen to play out on the moving stage of a bus. An argument that easily could have been diffused had it been set in a classroom or play yard, becomes more intense in the confines of a school bus. When students choose the bus as the arena for their scenes of aggression, I am usually dragged into the fray.

I dread Friday afternoons. My employees, even those who often stay late, are most anxious to leave on time on Fridays. Since I am usually catching a flight or picking up my husband from an airport on Friday evenings, I too want to depart straight away.

Unfortunately many of our students are not anxious to go home, especially on Fridays, and most especially on a Friday before a three-day weekend. On Fridays before vacation weeks - forget about it. Some of my students go home to empty houses: for others, “house” is too generous a term for the dilapidated trailers with sieves for roofs in which they live. Some go home to overcrowded rooms bursting with half siblings, step-siblings, cousins and Mom’s boyfriend. Many go home to an abusive adult: a parent, a parent’s significant other or a step-parent. Many go home to empty refrigerators and empty cupboards, to dirt and palmetto bugs and unwashed clothes. Our challenge, especially on Fridays, is to get the students on the bus. One Friday in late August, we almost didn’t make it.

It’s 3:40, five minutes until dismissal time. It’s drizzling rain and I smell fecal matter: the fetid mixture of manure, shallow septic tanks and the nearby sewage treatment plant.

The end of a long day, a long week. I arrive in the bus circle before the students and run into Quentin, the driver, about to board his bus. He’s celebrating his birthday today, and I deliver greetings and ask how things are going. I regret asking since things are not going well. As the children are dismissed and plow past me onto the busses, Quentin recounts his tales of bus driver angst: enroute to school today, Luke (minus his hoop earring) punched little Glenn in the eye. He punched Glenn because Glenn was throwing pencils at him. Glenn threw pencils at Luke because Alexia/Pilar told him to. Alexia/Pilar told him to because she was on the floor of the bus under Glenn’s seat kissing Luis and she was worried Glenn would tattle to Quentin so she distracted him by having him throw pencils at Luke. Yes, this is the same Luis who recently paid Tyryona a dollar to masturbate him on the bus. Quentin relives the horror as he retells the tale. He ends demanding all four children receive bus suspensions, effective immediately.

I struggle to explain to him why I can’t do it. From a practical prospective I may not be able to get in touch with relatives who can pick them up. But also I think it’s important to discipline progressively (write up the misbehavior, contact parents, meet with parents). A bus suspension can become a de facto school suspension for many of my students. Unlike a neighborhood school, my students may live over an hour’s drive from school and because they are poor, many families don’t have a car, or have a car but it doesn’t work, or have a car but it isn’t registered, or have a car with no hood, or have a car but no money for gas or have a car but no license. If a child’s behavior hasn’t been particularly heinous and a parent begs us to bus him, we try not to suspend but to find an alternate punishment

So I am trying to focus on explaining all this to Quentin while keeping watch over the departing students and interrupting myself to respond to students wishing me a nice weekend at the same time chastising rough housing students. In fact I am in the middle of my explanation on the progressive discipline protocol to a scowling Quentin when I detect shouting behind us.

Children have been steadily boarding the busses which are in the bus circle, wagon train style, but suddenly few students are on the busses. Pushing and shoving they tumble off the busses energized by the action in the middle of the circle: Selma and Warenita, two thin, thirteen year old black girls, are exchanging blows. Warenita is shouting she wants to press charges. (Why do my Florida students always shout this? I don’t recall this rant being part of the lingo of students in the north.) I try to wrangle the rest of the students onto the busses while other staff members hold Warenita and Selma. The students are in no hurry to get back on their busses. Watching girls fight is far more entertaining than anything going on in their homes.

In ring one we have Selma versus Warenita, then we add ring two: Alexia, also known as Pilar, appears to be fighting a bus. It is unclear why she has two names, she once told me Pilar is her Spanish name while Alexia is her “Anglo” name. Alexia/Pilar, a muscular, Hispanic fourteen year old, is pacing about in an agitated state. Suddenly she rushes at one of the busses and throws her notebook at it, presumably trying to pitch it through the window all the while shouting obscenities. It appears the real object of her anger is Nishonda, one of our newest students. Alexia/Pilar then launches a full assault on the school bus, pounding her fists on the side and screaming. She can’t board the bus, the driver wisely keeps the door shut, so she continues to attack the bus. Teachers Stone and Daphne join counselors Rusty and Rosie as they struggle to hold Alexia/Pilar.

Then a cry goes out that we have a fight on another one of the busses. And in this ring, Torrey is charging down the aisle of her bus to attack Dante, Selma’s sometime boyfriend, who, weighing in on the Warenita versus Selma fight, may have said something in defense of Selma (and no doubt to provoke Torrey). Nina the bus driver is caught between Dante and Torrey (Torrey outweighs her bus driver by about 100 pounds). Transportation coordinator Shasta leaps onto the bus to try to pull Torrey off Nina. Stone leaves Rosie, Daphne and Rusty with Alexia/Pilar so he can join the forces trying to get Torrey off the bus. The Deputy calls for back up.

We are finally able to let the busses leave. In my office sits Selma at one end of the conference table, Warenita at the other end, Alexia/Pilar on the floor by the window and Torrey on the floor by the door. Rusty begins calling parents. Rosie and Daphne, both of whom are expert at calming students (especially girls) work their girl-magic trying to soothe and wipe tears.

It’s strange. A few minutes ago Selma, Warenita, Alexia/Pilar and Torrey were violent, out of control, semi-adults, threatening the safety and security of my entire school. Now they are just four little girls with tear stained faces, looking lost and more in need of hugs than handcuffs. Somehow both realities have to exist side by side, to ignore either one carries with it risks for both the girl and for those around her. But here in Central Florida, people are more likely to see the pathological rather than the pathetic.

Warenita’s mother is the first to arrive. Warenita’s mother is a slim black woman who used to have a drug problem. She is now a born again Christian and can become quite agitated when Warenita misbehaves, which she frequently does. Mom arrives wearing a clear plastic shower cap (it is now raining hard) which she keeps on inside the portable.

She feels Warenita’s problems are a result of following misguided (evil?) friends. Mom repeatedly questions Warenita. “How many friends I got? Tell me. How many friends I got?” All eyes are now on Warenita’s mother who no longer is a mother speaking to her daughter, but instead, with her voice on extreme volume, she adopts the cadence and oratory style of a preacher warning his flock of sinners about the burning fires of Hell. Warenita, no doubt from experience, recognizes this as a rhetorical question and says nothing. After several repetitions Warenita’s mother turns to me “You know how many friends I got? Warenita knows.” I follow Warenita’s lead slightly shrugging and trying to appear as though I am pondering the query. Warenita’s mother takes a breath as she prepares for a slam-bang finish: “One friend, that’s how many friends I got - one friend, JESUS. Jesus is the only friend I need.”

Sermon over, we brief Warenita’s mother on the situation and Warenita’s role in picking on Selma. Mom tells us that earlier this week Warenita told her mother she felt guilty about picking on Selma and her mother had Warenita phone Selma and apologize. I wonder if this was a set up for Selma, but we cling to this event as positive behavior on which Warenita should focus. Warenita tells her mother she wants to press charges against Selma. Her mother says no and I agree, pointing out that Warenita is likely to be arrested in such a scenario since she instigated the fight. Warenita and Mom prepare to leave.

In the meantime, Selma’s mother and stepfather have arrived. Mom is black; Selma’s biological father was Asian and her step-father is black with very bloodshot eyes. Our angle with Selma’s parents is to talk about the challenge of being the new girl and to point out that Selma’s strength has been in not responding to teasing - at least until this afternoon when she punched Warenita. I manage to mention Selma hasn’t been wearing the school uniform. Instead she wears very tight revealing tops. Selma’s parents don’t seem to know Selma needs to wear a navy blue shirt to school.

We must speak loudly now to be heard over the rain pounding on the roof.

While we are speaking with Selma’s family, Alexia/Pilar’s grandmother (her legal guardian) and younger sister arrive. Grandma doesn’t speak English and has no teeth. The old woman, probably looking older than her years, sits across the table from me. She is thoroughly soaked and dripping from the rain. I try not to stare at her puckered, sunken lips as rivulets of rain stream towards the hairs on her chin. Rusty sits next to her to translate. I speak in simple sentences knowing Rusty isn’t as fluent in Spanish as we pretend he is:

Alexia/Pilar refused to get on the bus. Alexia/Pilar was angry and started hitting the bus. Alexia/Pilar tried to get on the bus to hurt a student. It took four adults to hold Alexia/Pilar.

I speak slowly and Rusty translates along with help from Alexia/Pilar’s little sister. Grandma looks confused. I can’t tell whether Alexia/Pilar’s behavior confounds or Rusty’s translation. Meanwhile Alexia/Pilar is wildly pacing and gesturing and yelling in English. Her diatribe consists mostly of profanity mixed with accusations of a conspiracy. Rusty is shouting now, not out of anger, but to be heard over the rain and over Alexia/Pilar. He finally stops mid-sentence and points out to Alexia/Pilar that her tirade is pointless since her grandmother doesn’t understand English. Alexia/Pilar persists. When she pauses for breath I pick up on Rusty’s thread and say she might as well be speaking in Punjabi. She stops for a moment to ponder this then begins anew, undaunted. Alexia/Pilar’s younger sister, a cute, slender girl, tries repeatedly to calm Alexia/Pilar.

Alexia/Pilar’s mother arrives with Alexia/Pilar’s older sister. Alexia/Pilar’s mother is wearing an ankle bracelet: she is on house arrest for a drug conviction. The older sister and Mom are large, heavy women who stand dripping, backs against the wall, trying to become one with the paneling. Grandma sits crying, teardrops replacing raindrops.

Selma’s family and Warenita’s mother, who were departing as this scene unfolds, now stop to witness the Alexia/Pilar show. They must think their daughters look pretty good comparatively and their families don’t seem as dysfunctional as when they first arrived.

The phone rings, it is Torrey’s mother to say she will not come get Torrey and we should arrest her. Mom says an arrest is the only way to get Torrey the help she needs - admission into a program (boot camp). Mom wants to tell me the sordid tales she has shared before - Torrey’s accusations (all false of course in Mom’s eyes) of abuse at the hands of her stepfather and then her mother. I cut her short; there is too much happening in the center ring. I beg her to come get her daughter. She refuses.

A Deputy arrives to make arrests. The Deputy on Duty called in the report before he left at 4:00. First arrested is Torrey for assaulting the bus driver. This is her second arrest of the school year, she and LaQuanda were arrested on the first day of school for attacking Ionya. Alexia/Pilar is reenergized by this and escalates the intensity of her shouting. The officer puts an end to this behavior with gruff words, threats and handcuffs. Grandma’s sobs fill the void left by Alexia/Pilar’s retreat. No doubt this woman has watched her daughter cuffed and now it is her granddaughter’s turn. Grandma starts rocking and chanting laments in Spanish.

Finally all our guests are gone. It has been two hours since the busses left. Rosie, Rusty, Daphne and I write up the reports. Rosie and Rusty leave about 6:30. I drive Daphne to her south campus classroom (it is still raining) and she leaves about 7:30. I return to my office and try to get some work done. I write a new policy regarding dismissals: The homeroom teacher will walk the class to the bus in a silent line. After students are on the bus, each teacher must guard a bus door - anyone on the bus must stay on the bus - no dashing on and off. Students are either on the bus or off the bus.

My cell phone rings. It is The Boss. He is calling to say he doesn’t trust my investigation of the Tappy Gonzales blue bus situation. Tappy is asking for $600 and The Boss insists I pay him. About 8:30 I lock the door and start the two-hour drive to the Tampa airport to pick up my husband.

The following Monday, bus driver Nina, calls in sick. She calls in sick on Tuesday and Wednesday then she doesn’t call or show Thursday and Friday. Shasta, in addition to being her boss, is friends with Nina. Their kids play together and they go to the bar “Buckin Bronco” together and eat dinners at Pizza Hut together. So what happened to Nina? Shasta insists Nina quit because she and Shasta had a falling out and it has nothing to do with Torrey’s assault.

Nina is off the bus.

The busses take 25% of my revenue and some days, 100% of my patience.

Chapter Twelve: Had this been an Actual Emergency

Chapter 12 – Had this been an Actual Emergency

Here is what we practice in the Northeast: fire drills. In schools and at work we learn to walk calmly and quietly out of the building using the correct exit and following the approved route as highlighted on a map hanging by the door. Principals and managers usually schedule fire drills for nice days, especially unseasonably warm days in late winter. No one ever expects a real fire, so the drills aren’t frightening, at least they weren’t before 9/11.

Here in Florida we practice fire drills but we also practice, tornado drills, hurricane drills and armed evil intruder/mad bomber drills. Fire drills are just like in the north: the orderly departure, counting heads to be sure all are present and moving away from the hypothetically burning building. Prospect staff and students do surprisingly well with fire drills.

For hurricane and tornado drills, step one is to get all the students who are in portables into the cinderblock building. The faculty develops a plan, but it means doubling up and in some cases, tripling up on classes. This isn’t too bad for a quick drill, but every time we have a tornado warning or even a watch, we have to move the students from the “tornado bait” portables into classrooms. There are many variables to take into consideration when combining these classrooms. Several of our students have restraining orders against each other and legally they are not supposed to be on the same campus, and definitely not in the same classroom. We can’t move the elementary classes (both in portables) into a room with Tony, our resident 13-year-old child molester. Depending on the week, we have certain students who are at war with other students and they’d like nothing better than to take advantage of the chaos to settle some scores.

Once the students are in the rooms, there is a protocol that must be followed. For both hurricanes and tornados, everyone must move away from the windows. We don’t really worry much about practicing for a hurricane since meteorologists can predict them in advance with enough accuracy to close schools before students arrive, but tornados often spring up with little warning. For a tornado, after students move away from the windows, they must crouch under desks in the center of the room (similar to my childhood drills during the Cuban Missile Crisis except for those drills we crouched in the cloak room – no cloak rooms in Florida).

Sure fire recipe for disaster: put too many prone-to-misbehave middle schoolers in a room together and tell them to crawl under the desks. In addition to illicit displays of affection, unwanted touching of a sexual nature, pokes, pushing and wrestling, there are always a couple students who decide this is the perfect time to go AWOL and as the maybe-a-tornado winds whip, these children run around campus laughing at the sky, daring the weather to defeat them. One deputy, just before a drill, tells the students if they run outside during a tornado drill they will be arrested and charged with a felony. Only the most gullible believe him.

The most frightening drills are the armed evil intruder/mad bomber drills. For these drills we don’t move students out of their portables, in fact when the alarm is sounded and the word is spread (“Code Red”), everyone who isn’t already in a classroom must go to the nearest classroom, portable or cinderblock. We can’t announce “code red” on the walkie-talkies since the theory is the walkie-talkies may be operating on a bomb detonating frequency so an alarm is sounded by Haven High on north campus, but since the south campus can’t hear the alarm, someone (usually the principal) has to go from class to class to spread the word. Once the alarm is sounded and word is out, no students may be admitted to any classroom and no door may be opened to anyone, the principal included (someone might have a gun to her back, the deputy explains) except uniformed police officers (who presumably know how to avoid getting guns in their backs). During the drill no phones, walkie-talkies or other communication devices may be used. All lights are turned off and students must be silent and try to make themselves invisible so the classrooms appear empty and not good hostage taking locations. The objective is to fool any weapon toting bad guys. During these drills, public school officials come to our campus to time us and to try to tempt teachers into erroneously opening doors. We train well for this drill and pass with flying colors. But visualizing the need to use this skill in a non-drill scenario is troubling.

This stranger/danger drill does not seem as unlikely to become real as my Northeast fire drills. Within an 18-month time span, there was a shooting a couple miles from school which resulted in the death of one student’s brother, two banks within a mile of campus were robbed and a murderer who escaped from prison was spotted a few blocks from school. We became aware of each crime when we heard the tell-tale, rhythmic din of police helicopters as they circled the sky above our campus. We could always count on our deputy to provide details of the crime and descriptions of the criminals (he characterized one bank robber as either “a man dressed like a woman, or a very ugly, manly woman”). So we all take the hostage scenario seriously and unlike the hurricane/tornado drills, our students don’t fool around or bolt from classrooms for this drill. I suspect more than a few have nightmares about the possibilities

In a post-drill debriefing, Stone quips that any evil intruder/mad bomber foolish enough to take any of our students hostage, would quickly learn two things: their parents don’t care and in fact, don’t want them back and moreover the misery and torment inflicted by prison guards pales in comparison to what our students are capable of. In desperation, according to Stone, the hypothetical hostage takers would dial 911 to turn themselves in.

As usual, Stone’s sarcasm provides some stress-relieving laughter from the team, although I can see from the expressions on a few of my faculty’s faces, an acknowledgment of the sad kernel of truth in Stone’s words. While most Prospect children have an adult who loves them, there are far too many for whom there are no parents, foster parents or guardians who genuinely care what happens to them let alone who would be willing to lift a finger to rescue them, and there are probably a few criminal parents who would not hesitate to use their child as a shield.