Chapter 20: Police State
It is mid-September and we look more like a police station than a school. In the past 24 hours we’ve had three Baker Acts, seven arrests, one transfer to a boot camp and a surprise visit from The Boss.
I continue to explain to the Deputy of the Day my philosophy regarding arrests, which usually prompts him to explain his philosophy to me: these are bad kids, most will end up in prison. What they need is a good whuppin’. Kids who disrupt school need to be arrested.
“Disruption of school function” is the standard crime for which my students are arrested. It is a broad, general crime that could be applied to just about all of my students on any given day. And on this beautiful autumn day, I almost thought the dragnet would trap them all.
Cassandra, the foster child who was insulted by former teacher Tammie, is arrested for disruption of school function because she screamed and cursed at Noreen, her teacher, before running out of the classroom. The arrest may jeopardize her chances to return to her biological mother. Cassandra’s case worker tells me that Cassandra has been in foster homes since age four, but Mom has “worked the case plan,” meaning she has completed the necessary courses and met the requirements to get Cassandra back. In fact, she has already “won back” one of her thirteen children. The case worker confesses that Cassandra’s mother is very low functioning and regularly phones Cassandra to ask for help managing her money and bills. Cassandra is anxious to go back home. While I am not convinced Cassandra should be returned to her mother, I don’t want the process delayed by having her arrested. Alas, the deputy on duty beat me to Noreen’s classroom and of course Noreen made sure to charm and flirt with the deputy in the bus circle this morning so he is more than happy to help her out by making an arrest or two.
Luke, of hoop earring fame, is arrested for disruption of school function because he screamed and cursed in the classroom. This is not unusual, but today the Deputy happened to witness it.
DerMarr is arrested for disruption of school function because he refused to do any work and registered his protest loudly. In truth, we could do this with DerMarr daily. But today Stephanie’s emotional reaction guided the deputy’s decision.
It all began when shortly before lunch, Stephanie stormed out of the Orientation room and into my office, threw her keys and walkie-talkie across the room and screamed, “I quit.”
I felt this was probably not a good sign.
Lynne, my business manager, who is a close friend of Stephanie’s, ran after her. I headed to Stephanie’s Orientation room fearing another Tammie scene with a rioting, teacher-less class. Instead I found the Deputy had taken over the class and everyone was calm, except DerMarr. The Deputy was in the process of arresting DerMarr. He explained DerMarr was so disruptive Stephanie became hysterical. I take over the class until Lynne finishes counseling Stephanie. The Deputy takes away DerMarr.
Fifth grader DerMarr is a twelve-year-old black child who has been held back twice and is thus far larger than any of our elementary students. He is large and aggressive. Stephanie wants him out of Orientation but she is reluctant to move him since his behavior is so awful. He is the first child I am thinking about rejecting. We are spending a lot of time dealing with his misbehaviors and his irate mother.
DerMarr’s mother was in my office screaming at me on his first and second and third days of school. Each day we’ve had pretty much the same conversation. I tell DerMarr’s mother he needs to wear khaki or blue jean shorts or pants with a navy collared shirt. Mom tells me: “Nobody told me nothing ‘bout no uniform.” Mom threatens to withdraw DerMarr from Prospect. She was lied to. Nobody told her there was a dress code. She tells me she has no money to buy uniforms. I offer one of our Prospect shirts. Mom doesn’t want him in one of our “nasty” used shirts and she continues to send DerMarr in nothing close to our uniform: today he is wearing bright orange shorts and matching shirt with a large FUBU logo. I add to my to do list: Call Henry re: DerMarr’s mom.
More arrests…
Adoncia and Alexia/Pilar are arrested for disruption of school function for fighting on the bus and in particular, for using their belts as weapons. Their fighting started when the busses tried to leave for home, causing a major delay in our dismissal. The girls were screaming, flailing and not willing to listen to anyone. It was a struggle just to get them off the bus.
Torrey’s arrest provides the most excitement and drama. Torrey is the large white girl who likes to lift her shirt to show her breasts in public. Last school year Torrey accused her stepfather of sexual molestation. DCF didn’t believe her but they did place her in Cressler House, the children’s shelter. She hated it there and begged to come home. She did, but family relations were severely damaged. Torrey is one of our most difficult girls. She has already been arrested twice this school year: the first day for hitting Ionya and a few weeks later for the girl-bus-brawl. Her mother wants her sent to boot camp.
This morning the Deputy was going to arrest Torrey for theft: stealing candy from the teacher’s desk, having Adoncia as lookout and then telling the teacher Cassandra did it. Actually this happened yesterday. The Deputy gave Torrey 24 hours to return the candy and write an apology letter, but she didn’t, so this morning he was going to arrest her. Torrey tearfully promised to make everything right by dismissal. The Deputy agreed to cut her some slack. That was before the kickball game.
After lunch Neeley’s and Noreen’s classes came outside for their fifteen minutes of vigorous exercise. As the students began to divide into teams for kickball, Tayshaun, our football hero, walked onto the field with a towel around his neck. Torrey grabbed the towel and hit Tayshaun with it.
After Tayshaun is hit with his own towel, he takes the fuzzy orange kickball (designed to look like a huge tennis ball) and throws it in Torrey’s face. Torrey becomes very angry and screams that Tayshaun is attacking her. While Neeley and Noreen admonish Tayshaun, Torrey paces like a caged animal. Suddenly Torrey sprints to the fence that separates the play yard from the parking lot. Leaning over the fence, she overpowers a plastic, PVC, pipe. She snaps it off and runs toward Tayshaun brandishing the pipe as a weapon. The removal of the pipe causes an immediate and dramatic gusher of water to spray up from the ground at least four feet into the air. The other students screech and stampede, running to play in the water while Torrey tries to attack Tayshaun with the pipe. Torrey gains strength with her anger; it takes several adults to contain her while Tayshaun dances just out of reach taunting her. The Deputy arrives on the scene and handcuffs Torrey. She blubbers and cries saying she will pay for the damages but please don’t arrest her. The deputy takes Polaroid photos of the waterspout. A plumber is called to stop the geyser. Between Torrey’s previous arrests and this pipe incident, her mother may get her wish regarding boot camp.
Perry is arrested for bringing a knife to school. Perry is a white, nine year old boy in our elementary classroom. He is intelligent, likes to read and often when I observe his class, he will be the only one on task. While others are hopping around and making Midge’s head hurt, Perry is sitting quietly at his desk working his math problems. Perry explains he brought the knife to school because he is planning to knife Davey on the bus because Davey has his football. Davey does have Perry’s football but only because Perry traded it for Davey’s roller blades. Perry still has Davey’s roller blades but his stepmother doesn’t approve of the trade, won’t let him use them and has been trying to return them but Davey’s family doesn’t have a phone.
Perry’s stepmother, who legally adopted him, doesn’t know what to do with him. She asks to speak with me and gives me his background. Perry was raped by his cousin four years ago, when he was five. The two families were camping. He tried to tell his aunt and uncle but they sent him back into the tent with his rapist cousin. The next day the rapist cousin carried Perry into the lake by the campground and threatened to drown him if Perry ever told what happened. Perry is now very afraid of water and not too fond of men. Perry is desperate to carry a weapon (earlier this year he stole his grandfather’s loaded gun). To Perry the world is a very scary, dangerous place where adults won’t protect you. Perry’s biological mother no longer sees Perry; she was arrested for prostituting her daughter, Perry’s sister, Lara. Mom arranged for 13-year-old Lara to have sex with the landlord in exchange for free rent while they were living in Louisiana.
In addition to these arresting seven children today, we Baker Act Frankie, Ionya and Darrin.
Frankie
Frankie’s parents were both arrested recently. A neighbor took him in but tiny white, nine year old Frankie snuck out a bedroom window at night and ran away looking for his mother. The neighbor felt she wasn’t getting the support (i.e. money) she needed to deal with him so she turned him over to DCF and they put Frankie into Cressler House. Frankie should be taking medication for his hyperactivity and he has an abscessed tooth and spits blood during the day, but he isn’t getting his medication or any medical care for that matter. Today he tells his teacher, Midge, that he wants to put a gun in his mouth and blow his brains out. We Baker Act Frankie.
Ionya (again)
Ionya worked hard to get Tyisha to fight with her. Ionya threw pine needles, then rocks, then spit at Tyisha. Tyisha resisted the temptation to retaliate. I tell Ionya it looks to me like she wants someone to beat her up. She agrees “I want them to beat me up and kill me so I can be dead.” Ionya is Baker Acted again.
Darrin
Darrin is rare on our campus in that he is obese. He is here because he stole his mother’s medication and tried to sell it to kids at school. He says he did it so he could have friends and be popular. Darrin is never in trouble here at Prospect, the other students tease him mercilessly. He wrote a poem today about wanting to die and how he would not be alive tomorrow and how the other kids would be sorry they picked on him. He has tried suicide in the past. We Baker Act Darrin.
Grant me the serenity
Grant is a small, thin white boy who just turned eleven. He wishes he didn’t. The judge feels Grant is now old enough to serve his sentence for murder. When he was nine and his parents were still married, Grant was left alone at night while both his parents worked. Sometimes he was lonely, sometimes he was scared, so sometimes he had friends come over even though he wasn’t supposed to. One night a friend came over and the two boys started playing with a gun. Grant shot his friend. In an instant one life, one childhood and one marriage ended. Grant has no behavior or academic problems, but he is at Prospect because he is a felon and the public schools don’t want felons. Grant’s father phones me to say that Grant will be sent to his “program” any day, they don’t know when, but soon. Justice will be served?
In the midst of all the arresting and Baker Acting, The Boss decides to surprise me with his first visit to my campus. He spends most of the day standing on the ball field talking on his cell phone. I offer him a corner of my office but he says my portable doesn’t provide any privacy, so he takes and makes his many calls standing in the fenced corner of the play yard near the baseball diamond. Many of my teachers express frustration: they want The Boss to stop in their classrooms. Some are proud of their lessons and want to show off, others want him to see “what they have to put up with.” I try, in vain, to encourage The Boss to visit any classroom anytime. I give him a campus map and a copy of the school schedule. At the end of the day The Boss says he would like to speak with me.
Sitting in my portable, the Boss begins to shuffle and rearrange papers. When he looks up his eyes are cold and unrevealing. As I look I back at him I wonder: does The Boss see me as the enemy? Do I represent all those white, female teachers who tormented him through grade school and on into high school marking up his papers with red pen and giving him C’s when he felt he deserved A’s? Instead of seeing a dedicated principal does he see a representation of every teacher who “did him wrong?” Or worse, does he see me as the representation of white power and black oppression so rampant in this country but especially so here in Florida? And if The Boss does see me as the enemy, do I have the power to change this perception?
The Boss tells me he is very upset at what he has seen at my school. I assume he means the arrests and Baker Acts, but I am wrong. The Boss is upset with faculty attire. He feels the teachers are not dressed professionally. He points to Neeley who is wearing a t-shirt today. I promise to pay more attention to staff attire.
And when The Boss finally leaves I weep invisible tears for the children who left my school today not in a bus, not to go home, but in a squad car heading to jail, or to the mental health center or to boot camp. And I weep for a boss who doesn’t know or care this is the real problem, the real crime.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Chapter Nineteen: Hey Bus Driver
Chapter 19: Hey Bus Driver
Like my students and faculty, thoughts, visions and problems related to busses spill over from the school day into my evenings, nights and early mornings.
It is 8:00 pm and I am at Publix. My cart already has bag salad and tofu and I am staring at Lean Cuisine dinners when my cell phone rings. It’s transportation coordinator, Shasta. I am surprised because Publix is usually a dead zone for cell service; I think Shasta mentally willed this call to go through. She is crying. Shasta is tough and doesn’t cry. My concern level is high; I stare slack jawed at the frozen dinners trying to figure out what’s going on. Shasta’s sentences are hurling through the cell phone like scrabble pieces. I keep working to arrange them into something recognizable. My fluency in Shasta-speak is failing me. I am able to translate two key facts: the mother of a student, Preston, just verbally assaulted Shasta by the side of the road and the scene was so dramatic, commuters stopped to offer assistance.
Preston is a white, curly haired, fourteen year old eighth grader with a chronic disease that requires medication. When we registered Preston we met with him and both his parents to discuss his health and their concerns. Although Preston’s parents are divorced, his Mom and Dad both attended the meeting. Preston’s mother’s words and voice expressed a lifetime of frustration and anger. She is a very large woman and her physical presence matches her aura. She sucked all the air out of my office as she vented regarding the failings of Preston’s previous schools and her demands for my school. Preston’s father barely said a word; he once tried to hush his ex-wife causing her to momentarily redirect her anger at him. He shrank backwards into the chair.
Reading between the lines I suspected Preston was a master at manipulation and had managed to deflect punishment for his misbehavior by blaming teachers. Preston did not seem mischievous, rather he seemed profoundly sad. Shasta, Lynne and my bus drivers were sent for training on how to handle Preston’s medication and condition.
Pressing the cell phone hard to my ear, I try to fill in the blanks of Shasta’s tale. I think back to the bus departure scene. We had two busses in the shop for repairs that day and one in for required regular maintenance. Shasta teamed with driver Audra because by combing busses we had too many students on Audra’s bus. Drivers were supposed to contact parents prior to departure to tell them students would be late due to the game of musical busses, but it is likely they didn’t reach all of them.
Shasta’s choppy voice continues as she tells me that when Nishonda was getting off the bus at her stop, she punched Selma hard in the face. Selma’s face was bloodied and Shasta radioed for the Lakeboro Police feeling it was necessary to report the event as an assault. The Police dispatcher told her they were too busy to come so she had to escalate with 911. Finally, a squad car was sent, but this additional delay meant the bus was very late getting students home.
After Nishonda’s assault on Selma and after the Police arrived, Shasta and Audra continued the route and finished dropping off all their students. As they pulled away from the last bus stop, a car sped past, swerved in front of them and stopped to block their progress. Preston’s mother leapt from the car irate, red-faced, screaming and cursing. It seems she was frightened when it got late and Preston still wasn’t home, so she jumped in her car and went out in search of Preston’s school bus. Her fear turned to anger when she cornered Shasta and Audra. That was when two Good Samaritan drivers stopped to offer assistance.
I work on calming Shasta. I tell her the situation is over now and Preston’s mother has gone home. I promise to handle Preston’s mother in the morning. Reassured, she hangs up. I pick vegetable lasagna and head to the check out.
The next day, after the morning staff meeting, we are surprised and unhappy to find the students from Ellie’s bus milling about in the parking lot, 30 minutes early for school. Shasta hunts down Ellie to investigate and my phone starts ringing. Parents and students report their bus sped past the stop this morning without stopping or even slowing. I often receive calls from students who are late to the bus stop and try to blame the driver for coming early, but this is a new twist. Shasta delivers her investigative report: Ellie is going through the “change of life” and had to hurry to a bathroom. She skipped five stops and dropped off her students half an hour early.
Shasta finds this explanation acceptable. I do not. I coach her again on how to have a discipline meeting with Ellie. This won’t be the first mostly unsuccessful discipline meeting: Ellie has a habit of adding time to her time sheet, usually in 30-minute increments. Shasta does not like to conduct disciplinary meetings with her drivers.
Ellie is still on the bus
We hire two new bus drivers, Kelli and Carolyn. Carolyn and her husband are renting a place in my apartment complex. To save time in the morning, Carolyn keeps our bus secured in the vehicle storage area the complex offers primarily for boat owners and semi-truck drivers. The road through our complex is a one-mile loop. When I take my daily predawn run shortly after 5:00 am, Carolyn often drives past me in our bus. We wave. This interaction feels particularly satisfying. It is weird, but all is well and right in the world if one of my bus drivers and I connect in the dark.
Like my students and faculty, thoughts, visions and problems related to busses spill over from the school day into my evenings, nights and early mornings.
It is 8:00 pm and I am at Publix. My cart already has bag salad and tofu and I am staring at Lean Cuisine dinners when my cell phone rings. It’s transportation coordinator, Shasta. I am surprised because Publix is usually a dead zone for cell service; I think Shasta mentally willed this call to go through. She is crying. Shasta is tough and doesn’t cry. My concern level is high; I stare slack jawed at the frozen dinners trying to figure out what’s going on. Shasta’s sentences are hurling through the cell phone like scrabble pieces. I keep working to arrange them into something recognizable. My fluency in Shasta-speak is failing me. I am able to translate two key facts: the mother of a student, Preston, just verbally assaulted Shasta by the side of the road and the scene was so dramatic, commuters stopped to offer assistance.
Preston is a white, curly haired, fourteen year old eighth grader with a chronic disease that requires medication. When we registered Preston we met with him and both his parents to discuss his health and their concerns. Although Preston’s parents are divorced, his Mom and Dad both attended the meeting. Preston’s mother’s words and voice expressed a lifetime of frustration and anger. She is a very large woman and her physical presence matches her aura. She sucked all the air out of my office as she vented regarding the failings of Preston’s previous schools and her demands for my school. Preston’s father barely said a word; he once tried to hush his ex-wife causing her to momentarily redirect her anger at him. He shrank backwards into the chair.
Reading between the lines I suspected Preston was a master at manipulation and had managed to deflect punishment for his misbehavior by blaming teachers. Preston did not seem mischievous, rather he seemed profoundly sad. Shasta, Lynne and my bus drivers were sent for training on how to handle Preston’s medication and condition.
Pressing the cell phone hard to my ear, I try to fill in the blanks of Shasta’s tale. I think back to the bus departure scene. We had two busses in the shop for repairs that day and one in for required regular maintenance. Shasta teamed with driver Audra because by combing busses we had too many students on Audra’s bus. Drivers were supposed to contact parents prior to departure to tell them students would be late due to the game of musical busses, but it is likely they didn’t reach all of them.
Shasta’s choppy voice continues as she tells me that when Nishonda was getting off the bus at her stop, she punched Selma hard in the face. Selma’s face was bloodied and Shasta radioed for the Lakeboro Police feeling it was necessary to report the event as an assault. The Police dispatcher told her they were too busy to come so she had to escalate with 911. Finally, a squad car was sent, but this additional delay meant the bus was very late getting students home.
After Nishonda’s assault on Selma and after the Police arrived, Shasta and Audra continued the route and finished dropping off all their students. As they pulled away from the last bus stop, a car sped past, swerved in front of them and stopped to block their progress. Preston’s mother leapt from the car irate, red-faced, screaming and cursing. It seems she was frightened when it got late and Preston still wasn’t home, so she jumped in her car and went out in search of Preston’s school bus. Her fear turned to anger when she cornered Shasta and Audra. That was when two Good Samaritan drivers stopped to offer assistance.
I work on calming Shasta. I tell her the situation is over now and Preston’s mother has gone home. I promise to handle Preston’s mother in the morning. Reassured, she hangs up. I pick vegetable lasagna and head to the check out.
The next day, after the morning staff meeting, we are surprised and unhappy to find the students from Ellie’s bus milling about in the parking lot, 30 minutes early for school. Shasta hunts down Ellie to investigate and my phone starts ringing. Parents and students report their bus sped past the stop this morning without stopping or even slowing. I often receive calls from students who are late to the bus stop and try to blame the driver for coming early, but this is a new twist. Shasta delivers her investigative report: Ellie is going through the “change of life” and had to hurry to a bathroom. She skipped five stops and dropped off her students half an hour early.
Shasta finds this explanation acceptable. I do not. I coach her again on how to have a discipline meeting with Ellie. This won’t be the first mostly unsuccessful discipline meeting: Ellie has a habit of adding time to her time sheet, usually in 30-minute increments. Shasta does not like to conduct disciplinary meetings with her drivers.
Ellie is still on the bus
We hire two new bus drivers, Kelli and Carolyn. Carolyn and her husband are renting a place in my apartment complex. To save time in the morning, Carolyn keeps our bus secured in the vehicle storage area the complex offers primarily for boat owners and semi-truck drivers. The road through our complex is a one-mile loop. When I take my daily predawn run shortly after 5:00 am, Carolyn often drives past me in our bus. We wave. This interaction feels particularly satisfying. It is weird, but all is well and right in the world if one of my bus drivers and I connect in the dark.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Chapter Eighteen: Weekends
Chapter 18: Weekends
We take turns, my husband and I. One weekend he flies, one weekend I fly. Neither of us minds flying, but the person flying has to leave work right away on Friday, and neither of us wants to burden our coworkers by doing this every week. We’re both “Gold Preferred” on USAir, which means we can usually upgrade to first class at no extra cost. The best part about flying is reading. If I didn’t fly every other weekend, I might never get a chance to read! Mostly I read in the airport during layovers. I read a little on the airplane, but I am so sleep deprived I usually fall asleep before we leave the ground. I take along two books: one non-fiction - usually on how to be a better principal and one fiction – my dessert.
When it is my turn to fly, I always tell my faculty in the Friday morning meeting. They nod their sleepy 8:00 a.m. heads as they munch on chocolate donuts (my Friday treat to them). I tell them because I don’t want them to try to talk with me at the end of the day and then feel upset at my brusque demeanor. But they forget and on flying Fridays I can be found trying to extricate myself from intense conversations as I watch the clock and estimate how fast I’ll have to drive on I-75 to make my flight, crossing my fingers I don’t run into heavy traffic or a thunderstorm.
I have become familiar with the Orlando airport and familiar to its employees. Danny at USAir gives me a big smile and waves me over to his station when I check in. He knows I like a window seat in first class and not the first row, please. I’m always running late so I appreciate it when Donna at Big Apple Bagels starts to assemble my vegetarian bagel sandwich as I approach the counter. She remembers the extra avocado and no mayonnaise. I fill my water bottle at the third water fountain by the elevators - it has the best pressure. I don’t use the fourth stall in the women’s room by the Disney shop - it has no lock. Oh, another thing I know about the Orlando airport I learned from dropping off my husband Sunday nights – don’t kiss on the escalator from the pedestrian tunnel: you get a shock! Just as I do on campus, I wear my sneakers with my skirt at the airport; I know I’ll have to run.
USAir often forces me to run by delaying the departure from my first airport so I have to sprint at the connecting airport. I prefer to connect through Pittsburgh: high ceilings, great shops. My plane often lands near Ben and Jerry’s ice cream shop. Do I really have time before my next flight and do I want one scoop or two? Charlotte isn’t bad, but Philadelphia is the worst. The corridors are narrow, crowded and dark; I always have a long walk between gates and the Philadelphia employees are either surly or apathetic.
I arrive in Rochester around midnight and collapse in my husband’s arms. He knows from my cell phone calls whether I got my Ben and Jerry’s or not. If not, he has some ready for me. Our Rochester weekends are quiet times. We barely let go of each other all weekend and Sunday comes way too fast.
Things are different when my husband flies to Florida. We often go to one of the Disney World parks – we bought season passes and we both love Disney, especially EPCOT, especially the food at EPCOT. But once football season starts, we can’t go to Disney on Saturdays.
Are You Ready for some Football?
Football is huge here in Florida. None of my students follow baseball, a few can discuss basketball but nearly every boy and many girls like to talk football. Living with a rabid Jets fan for over 25 years, I can fake my way through superficial football discussions. On Saturdays from August through November there are non-stop games on two fields at Berke Jungers Park. Berke Jungers is in the southeast section of town about eight miles from Prospect. When I learn ten of my students play on football teams, I begin spending my Saturdays at Berke Jungers to watch my students play. The students are always excited to see me and my husband at their games, and they delight in discussing the highlights in the parking lot on Monday mornings. The county has 25 teams, divided by geography roughly corresponding to school district lines. Games for younger children start at 8:00 am, the middle schoolers start at 10:00 and run until after 8:00 pm. Since my students come from all over the county, I know boys on at least half the teams. One Saturday my husband and I join my teacher Daphne at Berke Jungers to see Brock and Timmy play.
Brock and Timmy are both white. Their team, the Broncos, comes from the northeast corner of the county, which is very rural and very white. Timmy is a chubby, blond, baby-faced boy who acts younger than his 13 years while Brock subscribes to high times and has been known to stash marijuana in his cleats. Brock barely acknowledges our presence but when he is on the field, as he often is, I see Brock sneaking glances at us. Timmy bounds over to us and smiles proudly and talks about the game. We see Timmy’s Dad in the bleachers. Timmy’s Dad is a bag of bones; he looks older than his age. He smells of cigarette smoke, and discussions with him are interrupted by spasmodic coughing. He is raising Timmy alone - Mom is a “crack whore.” I am guessing Dad doesn’t have long for this world; his sunken cheeks and gray skin remind me of too many men I saw fading away on San Francisco’s Castro Street in the 1980’s when AIDS first attacked.
During the game children who are too young to play football along with girls not interested in being cheerleaders, gnaw on boiled peanuts as they gambol barefoot in the dirt and trash strewn grounds cavorting over and around the cigarette butts, peanut shells, soda cups and crushed potato chips. They lean over the chain link fence to watch the game when signaled by the voices of Grandmothers with multiple tattoos who momentarily remove limp cigarettes to shout encouragement and obscenities at their kin. Sweat coats everyone as the temperatures climb into the 90’s by mid-morning.
As we go to leave, we see two other Prospect students in their football uniforms, Eli and Tayshaun. Eli is a thirteen -year -old Hispanic boy; Tayshaun is a twelve -year -old black boy. They are hanging around the hot dog stand, engaged in the manly art of blustering about whose team is better. Their games are later and I won’t get a chance to see them play today. Tayshaun and Eli make me promise to return another Saturday to see them play.
High flying adored
Tayshaun has been bragging to me for weeks about how he is a star, so I finally say I’ll come judge for myself. One Saturday, my husband and I make good on my promise.
Tayshaun is the team captain of the Junior Giants and he is also the quarterback. I watch him position his teammates at the line of scrimmage by making them hold out their arms while Tayshaun jogs up and down the line to check for compliance. Tayshaun scores most of the points for the Junior Giants. He can throw, pass and run. Tayshaun ties the score at the last minute to send the game into overtime. The crowd is standing and chanting “Tay-shaun, Tay-shaun, Tay-shaun.” The Junior Giants win in overtime on a score by Tayshaun.
Wow, Tayshaun really is a football star! Besides his repeated claims, I had a few other clues about his athletic prowess from Tayshaun’s coach and the daily newspaper. Tayshaun’s coach picks him up every afternoon at school to make sure he gets to practice on time. Every day counselor Rusty or I stop the coach and, leaning into the window of his pick up truck, we talk about Tayshaun’s day: his attitude and academic work along with any concerns we have regarding Tayshaun’s behavior. We take the time to do this believing that from time to time the coach talks to Tayshaun about something other than which plays to run. Thanks to the generosity of our local newspaper, all my students receive the paper every morning at no cost to them or the school. Thursday is Youth Sports Day in the Sports Section. Tayshaun is frequently mentioned. Columns referring to Tayshaun are cut out for many a current events assignment and posted on bulletin boards. Tayshaun’s fame eclipses that of our elected officials.
Now how do we get Tayshaun to use his leadership skills in the classroom? Tayshaun is smart, attractive and athletic but I worry the good things about Tayshaun will not be enough to counter the negatives: Tayshaun is quick to anger, physically violent, defiant, dishonest and disinterested in academics. Maybe if we had cheerleaders in math class?
One afternoon Rusty brings Tayshaun to my office. This morning Tayshaun wore a sweatband to school, which is not allowed. He’d take it off when asked, but refused to give it to staff. As soon as the teacher turned her back, Tayshaun had the headband back on or was snapping it at other students. All day he’s been belligerent and rude, cursing at his teachers. Rusty called Tayshaun’s mother. She said she couldn’t come get him because her car was in an accident. Tayshaun is now sitting in my office, scowling and looking at me sarcastically. I try to talk about Tayshaun becoming a leader in school the way he leads on the football field. He interrupts and taunts: “Whatchya gonna do, call my coach? He don’t fucking care. He thinks ya all’re full of shit. All my coach cares about is football.”
I’m guessing that goes double for Tayshaun.
My husband and I saw Eli during Tayshaun’s game, he was suited up, but his game wasn’t scheduled to start for a couple hours. We said hi but didn’t stick around for his game. On Monday I overheard Eli, Tayshaun and some other boys talking in the bus circle. Tayshaun was bragging, “Ms. Smee came to see my game.” “Yeah”, says Eli, “mine too and her husband was there. Man he is tall, like seven feet tall.” Unlike Tayshaun’s team, Eli’s team has a losing record. His peers start to give him the business about his team, Eli defended himself saying “Ms. Smee and her husband came to see me play because I’m great, even if my team isn’t!”
The only problem is, I still haven’t seen Eli play and I feel guilty about it. I know how much it means to my students when we go to their games. I really need to get a football schedule and figure out when Eli plays.
Too bad my girls don’t play football. They need some appropriate outlets for their anger. I am reading Odd Girl Out, a book on aggression in girls. (I think I need to read this book fast. Girls make up 20 percent of our student population but they cause a disproportionate number of our problems.)
My husband’s interest in football extends to visiting football stadiums. One hot Saturday, my husband and I take a trip to Gainesville to visit the famous Ben Hill Griffin Stadium; “the Swamp” of Steve Spurrier, UF Gator college football fame. The campus is quiet and mostly deserted. We walk around the perimeter of the stadium hoping to get a peek inside. We try a couple gates, but they are locked. An official looking gentleman approaches. We expect he is about to chastise us for trespassing. He breaks into a big smile as he nears us saying, “Would you all like to take a look inside.” We nod and soon find ourselves seated in the sunny “Swamp.” It is media day and on the field players are perched on tall chairs with an array of microphones and cameras. A handful of curious onlookers wander the stands. I doze off on the warm but hard bleachers.
When my husband and I are in Florida and we aren’t going to football games or going to EPCOT, we are running. We are training for the Disney Marathon, which takes place every January, and we have “long runs” scheduled for every other weekend. Since there are no shoulders on Florida roads, we do our long runs where I do my daily runs – around the apartment complex. Since the road is a one-mile loop, we make many loops on Saturday mornings. It isn’t as scenic as the long runs we’ve done in rural upstate New York, but at least we don’t have to stash our water and Gatorade in side of the road shrubs; we just set the bottles on the bumper of our car and take a swig every lap. The Florida heat slows us down so we get up at 6:00 am even on Saturdays.
Shortly after moving to Lakeboro, my husband and I developed a Saturday ritual: after running, we drive through Lakeboro neighborhoods looking for the best place to build a house. After many months on the market, we finally sold our former house outside Syracuse, New York. We did some househunting in Rochester, New York (where my husband’s company has its headquarters) but we didn’t find anything we liked in our price range. We are determined to have our next house increase in value. The real estate market in upstate New York is “soft”; we lost money on our last home and we don’t want that to happen again. Real estate in Central Florida appears to be a better investment.
The arguments for buying a house aren’t all logical. We feel uprooted, homeless and anchorless with our one-bedroom rental apartments in Rochester and Lakeboro. We want to have a place for our son, relatives and friends to gather on holidays and vacations. We want to hang our paintings and photos and to plant oleanders, gardenias and crape myrtle. But putting down roots in Lakeboro is somewhat frightening and fraught with unknowns: Will I continue to be principal of Prospect? Is the Central Florida culture too alien for two northerners? We can’t know the answers but we do know we want a house.
Our Lakeboro househunting keeps bringing us back to one new sub-division, Kimber Pines. We like the style of the houses, the many trees left intact and the layout of the neighborhood. We tour some model homes and talk with a builder. We wander around three lots for sale. My husband paces the property, dodging giant spiders and envisioning the layout of our unbuilt home. We debate the pros and cons of building a house in Lakeboro. My husband and I are not timid about making decisions, this is not to say our decisions are always wise ones but we can never be accused of wishy-washy indecision. We select a model, meet with the builder to discuss modifications, arrange for financing and then, after our Saturday runs, we spend our Florida weekends watching the progress on our future new home. During the week my husband will often phone to ask whether anything new has happened with our house. I have trouble providing him the details he craves – I rarely leave work before dark so the best I can do is pull onto the dirt, put on my high beams and step carefully around our land trying to notice what is different.
At least once every weekend my cell phone rings. Sometimes it is a teacher telling me tales of illness and warning of a Monday absence, but usually it is The Boss. The calls from The Boss aren’t urgent, he usually wants to assign me something to do first thing Monday morning. I don’t like work oozing into my weekends. It makes me feel resentful since I devote nearly every waking hour and a few sleeping hours to work Monday through Friday. I need the weekends to refuel.
The weekends are wonderful, but much too short. Sunday nights are horrible. At the airport, we both try to be brave and not let tears show, but we hate parting. Every Sunday I question my decision to move to Florida.
We take turns, my husband and I. One weekend he flies, one weekend I fly. Neither of us minds flying, but the person flying has to leave work right away on Friday, and neither of us wants to burden our coworkers by doing this every week. We’re both “Gold Preferred” on USAir, which means we can usually upgrade to first class at no extra cost. The best part about flying is reading. If I didn’t fly every other weekend, I might never get a chance to read! Mostly I read in the airport during layovers. I read a little on the airplane, but I am so sleep deprived I usually fall asleep before we leave the ground. I take along two books: one non-fiction - usually on how to be a better principal and one fiction – my dessert.
When it is my turn to fly, I always tell my faculty in the Friday morning meeting. They nod their sleepy 8:00 a.m. heads as they munch on chocolate donuts (my Friday treat to them). I tell them because I don’t want them to try to talk with me at the end of the day and then feel upset at my brusque demeanor. But they forget and on flying Fridays I can be found trying to extricate myself from intense conversations as I watch the clock and estimate how fast I’ll have to drive on I-75 to make my flight, crossing my fingers I don’t run into heavy traffic or a thunderstorm.
I have become familiar with the Orlando airport and familiar to its employees. Danny at USAir gives me a big smile and waves me over to his station when I check in. He knows I like a window seat in first class and not the first row, please. I’m always running late so I appreciate it when Donna at Big Apple Bagels starts to assemble my vegetarian bagel sandwich as I approach the counter. She remembers the extra avocado and no mayonnaise. I fill my water bottle at the third water fountain by the elevators - it has the best pressure. I don’t use the fourth stall in the women’s room by the Disney shop - it has no lock. Oh, another thing I know about the Orlando airport I learned from dropping off my husband Sunday nights – don’t kiss on the escalator from the pedestrian tunnel: you get a shock! Just as I do on campus, I wear my sneakers with my skirt at the airport; I know I’ll have to run.
USAir often forces me to run by delaying the departure from my first airport so I have to sprint at the connecting airport. I prefer to connect through Pittsburgh: high ceilings, great shops. My plane often lands near Ben and Jerry’s ice cream shop. Do I really have time before my next flight and do I want one scoop or two? Charlotte isn’t bad, but Philadelphia is the worst. The corridors are narrow, crowded and dark; I always have a long walk between gates and the Philadelphia employees are either surly or apathetic.
I arrive in Rochester around midnight and collapse in my husband’s arms. He knows from my cell phone calls whether I got my Ben and Jerry’s or not. If not, he has some ready for me. Our Rochester weekends are quiet times. We barely let go of each other all weekend and Sunday comes way too fast.
Things are different when my husband flies to Florida. We often go to one of the Disney World parks – we bought season passes and we both love Disney, especially EPCOT, especially the food at EPCOT. But once football season starts, we can’t go to Disney on Saturdays.
Are You Ready for some Football?
Football is huge here in Florida. None of my students follow baseball, a few can discuss basketball but nearly every boy and many girls like to talk football. Living with a rabid Jets fan for over 25 years, I can fake my way through superficial football discussions. On Saturdays from August through November there are non-stop games on two fields at Berke Jungers Park. Berke Jungers is in the southeast section of town about eight miles from Prospect. When I learn ten of my students play on football teams, I begin spending my Saturdays at Berke Jungers to watch my students play. The students are always excited to see me and my husband at their games, and they delight in discussing the highlights in the parking lot on Monday mornings. The county has 25 teams, divided by geography roughly corresponding to school district lines. Games for younger children start at 8:00 am, the middle schoolers start at 10:00 and run until after 8:00 pm. Since my students come from all over the county, I know boys on at least half the teams. One Saturday my husband and I join my teacher Daphne at Berke Jungers to see Brock and Timmy play.
Brock and Timmy are both white. Their team, the Broncos, comes from the northeast corner of the county, which is very rural and very white. Timmy is a chubby, blond, baby-faced boy who acts younger than his 13 years while Brock subscribes to high times and has been known to stash marijuana in his cleats. Brock barely acknowledges our presence but when he is on the field, as he often is, I see Brock sneaking glances at us. Timmy bounds over to us and smiles proudly and talks about the game. We see Timmy’s Dad in the bleachers. Timmy’s Dad is a bag of bones; he looks older than his age. He smells of cigarette smoke, and discussions with him are interrupted by spasmodic coughing. He is raising Timmy alone - Mom is a “crack whore.” I am guessing Dad doesn’t have long for this world; his sunken cheeks and gray skin remind me of too many men I saw fading away on San Francisco’s Castro Street in the 1980’s when AIDS first attacked.
During the game children who are too young to play football along with girls not interested in being cheerleaders, gnaw on boiled peanuts as they gambol barefoot in the dirt and trash strewn grounds cavorting over and around the cigarette butts, peanut shells, soda cups and crushed potato chips. They lean over the chain link fence to watch the game when signaled by the voices of Grandmothers with multiple tattoos who momentarily remove limp cigarettes to shout encouragement and obscenities at their kin. Sweat coats everyone as the temperatures climb into the 90’s by mid-morning.
As we go to leave, we see two other Prospect students in their football uniforms, Eli and Tayshaun. Eli is a thirteen -year -old Hispanic boy; Tayshaun is a twelve -year -old black boy. They are hanging around the hot dog stand, engaged in the manly art of blustering about whose team is better. Their games are later and I won’t get a chance to see them play today. Tayshaun and Eli make me promise to return another Saturday to see them play.
High flying adored
Tayshaun has been bragging to me for weeks about how he is a star, so I finally say I’ll come judge for myself. One Saturday, my husband and I make good on my promise.
Tayshaun is the team captain of the Junior Giants and he is also the quarterback. I watch him position his teammates at the line of scrimmage by making them hold out their arms while Tayshaun jogs up and down the line to check for compliance. Tayshaun scores most of the points for the Junior Giants. He can throw, pass and run. Tayshaun ties the score at the last minute to send the game into overtime. The crowd is standing and chanting “Tay-shaun, Tay-shaun, Tay-shaun.” The Junior Giants win in overtime on a score by Tayshaun.
Wow, Tayshaun really is a football star! Besides his repeated claims, I had a few other clues about his athletic prowess from Tayshaun’s coach and the daily newspaper. Tayshaun’s coach picks him up every afternoon at school to make sure he gets to practice on time. Every day counselor Rusty or I stop the coach and, leaning into the window of his pick up truck, we talk about Tayshaun’s day: his attitude and academic work along with any concerns we have regarding Tayshaun’s behavior. We take the time to do this believing that from time to time the coach talks to Tayshaun about something other than which plays to run. Thanks to the generosity of our local newspaper, all my students receive the paper every morning at no cost to them or the school. Thursday is Youth Sports Day in the Sports Section. Tayshaun is frequently mentioned. Columns referring to Tayshaun are cut out for many a current events assignment and posted on bulletin boards. Tayshaun’s fame eclipses that of our elected officials.
Now how do we get Tayshaun to use his leadership skills in the classroom? Tayshaun is smart, attractive and athletic but I worry the good things about Tayshaun will not be enough to counter the negatives: Tayshaun is quick to anger, physically violent, defiant, dishonest and disinterested in academics. Maybe if we had cheerleaders in math class?
One afternoon Rusty brings Tayshaun to my office. This morning Tayshaun wore a sweatband to school, which is not allowed. He’d take it off when asked, but refused to give it to staff. As soon as the teacher turned her back, Tayshaun had the headband back on or was snapping it at other students. All day he’s been belligerent and rude, cursing at his teachers. Rusty called Tayshaun’s mother. She said she couldn’t come get him because her car was in an accident. Tayshaun is now sitting in my office, scowling and looking at me sarcastically. I try to talk about Tayshaun becoming a leader in school the way he leads on the football field. He interrupts and taunts: “Whatchya gonna do, call my coach? He don’t fucking care. He thinks ya all’re full of shit. All my coach cares about is football.”
I’m guessing that goes double for Tayshaun.
My husband and I saw Eli during Tayshaun’s game, he was suited up, but his game wasn’t scheduled to start for a couple hours. We said hi but didn’t stick around for his game. On Monday I overheard Eli, Tayshaun and some other boys talking in the bus circle. Tayshaun was bragging, “Ms. Smee came to see my game.” “Yeah”, says Eli, “mine too and her husband was there. Man he is tall, like seven feet tall.” Unlike Tayshaun’s team, Eli’s team has a losing record. His peers start to give him the business about his team, Eli defended himself saying “Ms. Smee and her husband came to see me play because I’m great, even if my team isn’t!”
The only problem is, I still haven’t seen Eli play and I feel guilty about it. I know how much it means to my students when we go to their games. I really need to get a football schedule and figure out when Eli plays.
Too bad my girls don’t play football. They need some appropriate outlets for their anger. I am reading Odd Girl Out, a book on aggression in girls. (I think I need to read this book fast. Girls make up 20 percent of our student population but they cause a disproportionate number of our problems.)
My husband’s interest in football extends to visiting football stadiums. One hot Saturday, my husband and I take a trip to Gainesville to visit the famous Ben Hill Griffin Stadium; “the Swamp” of Steve Spurrier, UF Gator college football fame. The campus is quiet and mostly deserted. We walk around the perimeter of the stadium hoping to get a peek inside. We try a couple gates, but they are locked. An official looking gentleman approaches. We expect he is about to chastise us for trespassing. He breaks into a big smile as he nears us saying, “Would you all like to take a look inside.” We nod and soon find ourselves seated in the sunny “Swamp.” It is media day and on the field players are perched on tall chairs with an array of microphones and cameras. A handful of curious onlookers wander the stands. I doze off on the warm but hard bleachers.
When my husband and I are in Florida and we aren’t going to football games or going to EPCOT, we are running. We are training for the Disney Marathon, which takes place every January, and we have “long runs” scheduled for every other weekend. Since there are no shoulders on Florida roads, we do our long runs where I do my daily runs – around the apartment complex. Since the road is a one-mile loop, we make many loops on Saturday mornings. It isn’t as scenic as the long runs we’ve done in rural upstate New York, but at least we don’t have to stash our water and Gatorade in side of the road shrubs; we just set the bottles on the bumper of our car and take a swig every lap. The Florida heat slows us down so we get up at 6:00 am even on Saturdays.
Shortly after moving to Lakeboro, my husband and I developed a Saturday ritual: after running, we drive through Lakeboro neighborhoods looking for the best place to build a house. After many months on the market, we finally sold our former house outside Syracuse, New York. We did some househunting in Rochester, New York (where my husband’s company has its headquarters) but we didn’t find anything we liked in our price range. We are determined to have our next house increase in value. The real estate market in upstate New York is “soft”; we lost money on our last home and we don’t want that to happen again. Real estate in Central Florida appears to be a better investment.
The arguments for buying a house aren’t all logical. We feel uprooted, homeless and anchorless with our one-bedroom rental apartments in Rochester and Lakeboro. We want to have a place for our son, relatives and friends to gather on holidays and vacations. We want to hang our paintings and photos and to plant oleanders, gardenias and crape myrtle. But putting down roots in Lakeboro is somewhat frightening and fraught with unknowns: Will I continue to be principal of Prospect? Is the Central Florida culture too alien for two northerners? We can’t know the answers but we do know we want a house.
Our Lakeboro househunting keeps bringing us back to one new sub-division, Kimber Pines. We like the style of the houses, the many trees left intact and the layout of the neighborhood. We tour some model homes and talk with a builder. We wander around three lots for sale. My husband paces the property, dodging giant spiders and envisioning the layout of our unbuilt home. We debate the pros and cons of building a house in Lakeboro. My husband and I are not timid about making decisions, this is not to say our decisions are always wise ones but we can never be accused of wishy-washy indecision. We select a model, meet with the builder to discuss modifications, arrange for financing and then, after our Saturday runs, we spend our Florida weekends watching the progress on our future new home. During the week my husband will often phone to ask whether anything new has happened with our house. I have trouble providing him the details he craves – I rarely leave work before dark so the best I can do is pull onto the dirt, put on my high beams and step carefully around our land trying to notice what is different.
At least once every weekend my cell phone rings. Sometimes it is a teacher telling me tales of illness and warning of a Monday absence, but usually it is The Boss. The calls from The Boss aren’t urgent, he usually wants to assign me something to do first thing Monday morning. I don’t like work oozing into my weekends. It makes me feel resentful since I devote nearly every waking hour and a few sleeping hours to work Monday through Friday. I need the weekends to refuel.
The weekends are wonderful, but much too short. Sunday nights are horrible. At the airport, we both try to be brave and not let tears show, but we hate parting. Every Sunday I question my decision to move to Florida.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Chapter Seventeen: Staff Infections
Chapter 17: Staff Infections
I got in late last night due to flight delays from La Guardia. It was after midnight when I turned off the light. I resigned myself to being tired when the alarm went off at 4:00 am. But the alarm never went off. The radio is set to the local public radio station so I can hear the reassuring voice of Bob Edwards on Morning Edition as I go about my morning routine. There wasn’t a power outage; maybe when I set the alarm I accidentally jiggled the volume control and muted the sound? Maybe the public radio station had technical difficulties and wasn’t broadcasting at 4:00 a.m? All I know is that I didn’t awaken until after 6:40. No time to run five miles, the only running that takes place this morning is around the apartment trying to organize myself and my belongings before a frantic shower. I really needed that run. I do not like losing control so early in the day. School has been in session for a month and I have developed a strict morning routine. From 4:00a.m. to 7:00a.m. is the only time I am in control.
I knew it would be difficult to control the students; I just never expected it would be so hard to control my faculty. Is it me or is it them and if it is them and I hired them, then isn’t it back to me? Ernie and the so called Dream Team are out of control and I need to reign them in.
Goodbye Ernie
It is Monday, and that in itself, is bad enough. Last Thursday Ernie, directly flouting our discussions and my verbal and written warnings, suspended two students from the bus without conferring with or advising me or the Transportation Coordinator, Shasta. He left before I could speak with him, then he took Friday as a vacation day. After the 8:00 meeting I sit down in his office to talk with Ernie. Before I finish my opening sentence he becomes belligerent and starts dialing his phone saying he wants to speak with his accusers. I am not sure who he plans to phone. He tells me he doesn’t trust me anymore. He stands up and in a very loud voice gives me his “verbal” resignation. Wisdom born of pain, I accept it and escort him to his car. He insists on stopping in the cafeteria to get his lunch where he exchanges telling glances with dream team members Noreen, Tammie and Neeley. He tells me he is going to call The Boss to tell him what has been going on here. He says he will tell The Boss that I permit people to drink alcohol on campus. I am confused until I remember Noreen asking to drink beer during the last half-day in-service. He rants about how he has been disrespected because of his lack of education. I remind him that I’ve never made an issue over his lack of education. He changes the raving to be about Ebencorp. I tell Ernie I accept his resignation and ask for his keys. He tells me he lost them. I tell him again to go home. Goodbye Ernie.
Role Playing for Neeley
I am concerned about Neeley. My youngest teacher, who used to be a writer for a Key West newspaper, is not doing well. He showed a video to his class last week. It was Blade Runner. I find this out when two parents call to complain. I am determined to make Neeley a better teacher. I develop a plan to meet with him regularly to go over lesson plans and discuss challenges. Today I will teach his class and role-model a well-planned lesson and a classroom under control. He is beginning the Narnia books. I do an introduction to the book, the time and place, introduce some “Britishisms”.... I don’t want Neeley to crash and burn.
With the exception of Torrey (she has to be reminded frequently to open her book) and Marcus (his hair is unbraided, he refuses to participate but is willing to sit quietly), all the students remain seated and reasonably engaged while I instruct the lesson. After about 40 minutes I suggest Neeley take over. I intend to stay and observe but Marcus becomes vocal about his non-participation “I ain’t doing shit.” So I escort Marcus to the counselors’ office. After dropping him off I return to Neeley’s classroom. I don’t think he expected me back.
I enter the classroom to find Neeley standing in the middle of the desks with students leaping around the room trying to catch yellow, mini boxes of Milk Duds he is throwing in the air. A few students, Warenita, Aidan and Renzo, are working on the Narnia related assignment – draw a picture of a time when you were lost. Connor balls up his drawing paper and starts to throw it around the room. Torrey is writing “I love Mr. Neeley” and drawing hearts on her paper. Lindy makes an airplane. Neeley stops throwing candy when I arrive and tries to focus the students, but the chaos prevails. Renzo insists Neeley likes the girls better because the girls got more candy. Aidan runs to the closet to get more candy. Neeley beats him to it and the two battle over control of the door knob until Neeley slams it shut declaring “There, it’s locked.” Aidan grabs the knob, tugs and the door flies open. He runs in and scoops up handfuls of candy. Neeley chases him into the closet. Warenita finishes her drawing and Neeley asks her to discuss it; she does but few can hear her and those who can are not listening. The class ends when Cassandra dramatically bursts out of the bathroom, with her blue jeans around her ankles and her long shirt covering her underwear. Is there any hope for Neeley?
Noreen and Tammie: passive aggressive dreams
During a random search we confiscate many cd’s, all from students in Noreen’s class. Upon questioning students we learn Noreen told her students they can bring in cd players and cd’s “even if it is against the stupid rules Ms. Smee makes.” I talk to Noreen. Yes she knows we all agreed to the rules. Yes she understands we forbid cd’s because the students steal from each other. Noreen denies telling the students they could bring in the cd’s. Who is lying?
I’ve been spending most afternoons in Tammie’s class to role model classroom management skills. I am really worried about Tammie’s science classes. Her class is wild, running around the field rather than walking in a line, bolting out of the room while she sits at her desk. I try to jam “how to teach” into 30 minute counseling sessions. I give her Harry Wong’s book First Days of School and pretty much beg her to read it. Tammie does not seem receptive.
He’s Back
Today should have been our third day without Ernie. Yesterday the Dream Team did a lot of whining about his absence, but I’m feeling a great sense of relief in the post-Ernie world.
In the morning meeting we talk about how to honor today: the anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Noreen calls in sick during the meeting. Neeley is very upset. He can barely control his class let alone his plus half of Noreen’s. Tammie seems nonplussed but she has to be concerned too. Her classroom management skills are pretty rudimentary. We don’t have the luxury of substitute teachers - either from a budget perspective or from a “get real” perspective: who would sub here?! When a teacher calls in sick, my options are limited. I usually try to keep students with their regular team of teachers and classmates. This swells class sizes, but keeping students with adults who know them is better than farming them out.
At about 11:00 I am talking to a group of students who are heading to counseling class from Neeley and Tammie’s classrooms on south campus. They are quiet and attentive until suddenly, as if bitten by scores of fire ants, they become agitated and break ranks running toward the parking lot. Their voices soar as one: “Ernie’s back!” They mob around him, hugging him, asking him why he quit. He tells them I fired him. More than a few evil looks and obscenities are hurled in my direction.
I herd the students into their counseling class then ask Ernie why he is on campus. He informs me he is here to return his keys. Ernie heads to the main office of the Haven High, I follow him in. Although our programs are totally separate, we share some bureaucratic business, such as key control, with Haven High School. I tell Ernie he must not return to campus. He says he can return to the Haven High campus anytime he wants. Agnes, the Haven High secretary (and Ernie’s friend) nods. My stomach knots as I envision Ernie making regular visits to campus riling up my students. Agnes proclaims: “Ernie is welcome to visit ANYTIME!” Feeling powerless, I am slowly shaking my head when to my rescue comes Tara, the Curriculum Specialist of Haven High. Tara contradicts both Ernie and Agnes and says if Ernie is not an employee of Prospect he must not be on campus - not Haven High Campus or Prospect Campus. Ernie storms off. I really hope the recurring nightmare of Ernie is going to fade soon.
Rosie readily agrees to become the new counselor to take the place of Ernie. I think she and Rusty will work well together. I hope and believe she will be a better counselor than teacher, if only because she wants to be a counselor, not a teacher.
Tammie and the long goodbye
“There’s a crisis in Tammie’s room.” Rusty shouts on the walkie-talkie. I’ve barely recovered from the Ernie visit but I am on my way. I arrive in time to witness Tammie’s car roaring off campus, spewing stones and dirt, with Tammie’s head hanging out the window shouting: “I fucking quit.” She follows this by a plethora of profanity. Tammie shouts again that she is quitting and that she used her cell phone to call Noreen (she had to phone Noreen at home since Noreen called in sick this morning), and Noreen is quitting too.
A full-scale riot is taking place inside and outside Tammie’s classroom. The girls are spilling from the portable and screaming curses back at Tammie as she drives off. It takes a long time to calm them down. Rusty and I de-escalate the mob and bit-by-bit we learn the story. After lunch today, the class was rowdy and Tammie started to curse at her students. She cried and threatened them. At some point she told Cassandra if her mother has any problems with what Tammie says and does then Cassandra can have her mother come “park her fat ass outside my classroom door.” These are surely fighting words to Cassandra. “Your mama” are fighting words to most of my students, but to a girl who was sexually attacked by her father when she was a toddler (he is in jail still for the attacks on Cassandra and her sisters), and as one of 13 children who has lived in over ten foster homes and is anxious to be reunited with her low functioning mother, this is blasphemy. Cassandra went wild and the other girls joined her tearing up the classroom, throwing desks and ripping posters off the walls. Tammie didn’t use the walkie-talkie to report this, instead she sent several boys to run to Neeley’s classroom (her boyfriend?) to let him know. Neeley’s sage advice? “Get the hell out of there!”
When the day of the emotionally unstable Tammie blissfully comes to an end, I find Neeley in my office. Tammie is the love of his life. He is heart broken at her departure, and doesn’t know what to do. I just listen. I don’t feel too confident in dispensing advice right now.
There is only one thing more surprising than the manner in which Tammie resigned, and that is in how she returns. Tammie appears at work the next day. The day after her cursing, skidding, screaming departure, she is behaving as though nothing happened. Tammie, Neeley and Noreen all enter the 8:00 meeting together. Solidarity? After the meeting all three want to see me but I refuse, saying instead I only need to talk to Tammie, alone.
We talk for 45 minutes. Tammie denies that she quit. She admits it was wrong to abandon her class but she did so because she felt threatened and Neeley told her to leave. She admits she never even tried to radio for help. I know I should fire her. But she begs to return and promises to read the Harry Wong book for new teachers I gave her on her first day at Prospect (Harry Wong is an educator, writer and speaker who has written books and produced videos to orient new teachers to the teaching profession). I forget to be tough and accept Tammie back but she is on a PIP (performance improvement plan). I have this thing about giving people, (students and teachers), second chances. I don’t know if this is a weakness or a strength.
Tammie and I talk about concrete things she can do to improve her classroom management skills such as planning ahead, frequently counting the number of students to make sure none go missing and asking for help when she needs it. Thirty minutes later Tammie walks her class across the campus but doesn’t notice that Adoncia is not with the class. Rosie finds Adoncia outside the portable smoking a cigarette. Adoncia, a J.Lo look alike, is a thirteen-year-old Hispanic girl from Brownsville, Texas. Rosie interrogates Adoncia and finds she hid cigarettes under the portable, in the ceiling tiles in the classroom, in the ceiling tiles in the bathroom and in a sack of flour in the supply closet (the flour is for a future science project). Adoncia is upset that she is in trouble and tells Rosie that while attempting to retrieve one of her hidden cigarettes last week she found Tammie and Neeley having sex in the empty classroom. Rosie knows Adoncia well and has a hunch this sordid tale is true, however Rosie is not about to plea bargain. Adoncia is given a citation from the Deputy for smoking on campus and Rosie tells Adoncia a phone call will be made to her guardians. Adoncia is non-plussed.
A new teacher starts. Yvonne is a petite white woman in her early twenties with freckles and shoulder length strawberry blond hair. I wonder whether I will be able to give her a new class or whether Tammie won’t last and she’ll have to take over Tammie’s class? Yvonne is very quiet but she is a real, certified teacher who moved to Lakeboro from North Carolina for this job. She is living in my apartment complex. I tell her if she ever needs a ride, I am happy to provide one. She looks as though I just offered to shave her head. Lynne tells me later that when she was helping Yvonne with the new employee paperwork, Yvonne’s facial expressions were odd, interspersed with lots of blank stares. Perhaps Yvonne, unlike Midge (my very emotional elementary teacher) has mastered the poker face, or maybe she has no thoughts or feelings to reveal, or maybe she is just terrified. Whatever the explanation, it is unnerving to converse with Yvonne. Will Yvonne last? Have I gone from looking for great teachers to just looking for warm bodies? I feel I am hiring the best among the applicants that I have, but how do I attract better applicants? New students arrive daily and I need to keep hiring to keep up. If my current staff isn’t stable I’ll have to redouble my hiring efforts. Tonight instead of working on grants, I conduct phone screening interviews with potential teachers.
The Back to School Night Open House
The focus of today’s morning meeting is tonight’s Open House. Parents will come to school tonight with their children and follow an abbreviated school schedule. It is frustrating we don’t have an auditorium or indoor space where everyone can congregate, but we devise a plan we hope will allow all parents to meet with all staff. We go through the schedule and make sure every role is assigned: Ruth, the cafeteria manager and Lynne, my business manager, will be sure food is served, always a vital element to any parent event. I am hopeful we’ll have a good turnout; teachers were responsible for calling all their students’ parents, sending home reminder notes (I printed on bright blue card stock) and for writing a note in every student’s planner. I end the morning meeting with a reminder to be sure classrooms are tidy and attractively decorated for parents. “Don’t forget to hang not only commercial posters but also student work.” In retrospect, I should have been more specific.
The Boss calls during the morning meeting, I let it go to voice mail and call him as soon as the faculty departs. The Boss is calling to tell me Ernie phoned him at home last night. The Boss first demands to know how Ernie got his home number. Before I can plead innocent, he “strongly suggests” I take Ernie back because “he has a presence.” I try to stand firm and cite specifics. The Boss isn’t interested. Ernie is giving The Boss a headache and he wants me to make it disappear. Finally I pose the unspoken question: “Are you mandating I rehire Ernie?” The Boss says no. Then Ernie will remain off my payroll.
Ernie resigned a week ago but the Ernie problems continue. He is like a ghost haunting my campus. I overhear Noreen, Tammie and Neeley talking about going to Snowbirds, a local bar, with Ernie and talking with him on the phone. Ernie has convinced them I am the enemy. Now when a student is acting up, instead of requesting a counselor, the three “dream team” members get on the walkie-talkies asking for me by name. If I am on the phone, or don’t respond immediately, they make a point of telling me how I don’t support them, how vulnerable they feel without Ernie, and so on. My patience with the Dream Team tactics is waning. I resolve to get tough and Tammie provides the catalyst.
Goodbye Tammie
"The worst part of the incident was that Marcus went awall (sic) and we or I tried to call Mrs. Smee at least 3 times and she did not respond despite the fact that she was on campus."
After I read the incident report Tammie wrote on Marcus, the hair braider, I call Tammie to my office.
“Tammie what is this?! An incident report is supposed to detail the student’s behavior. Moreover this report is untrue. You didn’t radio me three times; my walkie-talkie’s been on all day and there were no calls from you.”
“Neeley said you weren’t wearing it today.”
“Tammie, I always wear my walkie-talkie. But that isn’t the point. If Marcus was AWOL why didn’t you follow procedure and contact the counselors first?”
“Noreen said you need to be involved in all arrests.”
“Tammie, that makes no sense. Marcus was AWOL, why would we need to arrest him? Tammie, an incident report is supposed to describe the behavior of a student.”
Tammie shrugs and leaves. But she has arranged for more surprises . . .
I try to pop into every classroom every day - even if just for a moment. Today when I make my rounds, I inspect the walls for student work and other decorations for our Open House tonight. I make it to most of the classrooms during the day, tossing out compliments as I go, but I miss a few and I don’t get a chance to visit them until after the staff leaves for a dinner break prior to the arrival of the parents. When I unlock and enter Tammie’s classroom, this is what I find:
-black construction paper with student hand prints in chalk
-purple construction paper onto which is glued a newspaper photo of a woman under which the student wrote "drug dealer, prostitute, eat me"
-blue construction paper with a taped newspaper photo of a woman under which the student wrote "Mrs. Smee died cause they shot her and she never made it cause she's old."
-yellow construction paper with one word in large print "SEX"
So this is how Tammie had her students decorate her classroom.
I ask Tammie for her resignation and she complies. Noreen is furious, Neeley is depressed. I sternly lecture these remaining dream team members on my expectation they will not raise this subject with parents tonight, that they will limit themselves to discussing the curriculum and the behavior of the students. My worry was unnecessary. While over half of Daphne’s parent-student pairs attend, only one parent and student from the Dream Team shows up. It seems the Dream Team neglected to contract any parents.
Yvonne wins Tammie’s class. She says she is up for the challenge. I try to have a discussion with her regarding what lies ahead, but she says fewer than ten words, her facial expressions say less and I quickly tire of hearing my own voice. Will Noreen and Neeley ignore her or share their anger and negativity over the loss of Ernie and Tammie? How long will Yvonne last?
I get home late and check my email before going to bed. Midge, my elementary teacher, sends a short note about this evening’s open house.
“I thought the open house was fairly successful. All of my parents and students attended! There were two strange events, the novel I’ve been reading to the class, The Yearling, was stolen from my desk. I don’t know whether to be happy someone wanted a book that much, or dismayed one of my students (or their parents) would steal from me. Also when Trey’s family showed up – man, woman, three little kids; the man (Dad?) had a pacifier in his mouth and spent most of the evening sucking away. It might belong to the baby, but I know this is a sign of a crack addict. For so many weeks now we’ve been struggling to deal with Trey’s disruptive behavior, this is our first window into his family. I wonder whether Trey is a crack baby…. Enough for now. Goodnight. Midge”
What lessons have I learned from the Tammie and Ernie debacles? I get in bed feeling upset at myself for not making better choices with Tammie, for not developing her to be a better teacher and for not cutting my losses sooner when she was clearly beyond saving. Tammie lasted almost two months. And what has the Ernie mess taught me to do differently in the future? And what did I learn about getting support or help from The Boss? I start to fall asleep and suddenly remember it’s my brother’s birthday. It‘s too late to call him. He works nights and is asleep now. My work is all consuming and causing me to neglect the people I love. Despite my efforts to be efficient and organized, the many competing priorities leave me with a long, unfinished “to do” list every night. Is it the nature of the job or is it the nature of me? Have I lost sight of the line that separates “responsible, hardworking and dedicated” from “obsessive, consumed and compulsive”? I comfort myself knowing I don’t do any work on the weekends when my husband and I are together, unless, of course, my cell phone rings….
The last thing I do before succumbing to sleep is to check my alarm. Never again will I set the alarm to the radio option, instead it is set to a loud annoying buzzer, a noise that makes my spine spasm when it blasts at 4:00 am.
I got in late last night due to flight delays from La Guardia. It was after midnight when I turned off the light. I resigned myself to being tired when the alarm went off at 4:00 am. But the alarm never went off. The radio is set to the local public radio station so I can hear the reassuring voice of Bob Edwards on Morning Edition as I go about my morning routine. There wasn’t a power outage; maybe when I set the alarm I accidentally jiggled the volume control and muted the sound? Maybe the public radio station had technical difficulties and wasn’t broadcasting at 4:00 a.m? All I know is that I didn’t awaken until after 6:40. No time to run five miles, the only running that takes place this morning is around the apartment trying to organize myself and my belongings before a frantic shower. I really needed that run. I do not like losing control so early in the day. School has been in session for a month and I have developed a strict morning routine. From 4:00a.m. to 7:00a.m. is the only time I am in control.
I knew it would be difficult to control the students; I just never expected it would be so hard to control my faculty. Is it me or is it them and if it is them and I hired them, then isn’t it back to me? Ernie and the so called Dream Team are out of control and I need to reign them in.
Goodbye Ernie
It is Monday, and that in itself, is bad enough. Last Thursday Ernie, directly flouting our discussions and my verbal and written warnings, suspended two students from the bus without conferring with or advising me or the Transportation Coordinator, Shasta. He left before I could speak with him, then he took Friday as a vacation day. After the 8:00 meeting I sit down in his office to talk with Ernie. Before I finish my opening sentence he becomes belligerent and starts dialing his phone saying he wants to speak with his accusers. I am not sure who he plans to phone. He tells me he doesn’t trust me anymore. He stands up and in a very loud voice gives me his “verbal” resignation. Wisdom born of pain, I accept it and escort him to his car. He insists on stopping in the cafeteria to get his lunch where he exchanges telling glances with dream team members Noreen, Tammie and Neeley. He tells me he is going to call The Boss to tell him what has been going on here. He says he will tell The Boss that I permit people to drink alcohol on campus. I am confused until I remember Noreen asking to drink beer during the last half-day in-service. He rants about how he has been disrespected because of his lack of education. I remind him that I’ve never made an issue over his lack of education. He changes the raving to be about Ebencorp. I tell Ernie I accept his resignation and ask for his keys. He tells me he lost them. I tell him again to go home. Goodbye Ernie.
Role Playing for Neeley
I am concerned about Neeley. My youngest teacher, who used to be a writer for a Key West newspaper, is not doing well. He showed a video to his class last week. It was Blade Runner. I find this out when two parents call to complain. I am determined to make Neeley a better teacher. I develop a plan to meet with him regularly to go over lesson plans and discuss challenges. Today I will teach his class and role-model a well-planned lesson and a classroom under control. He is beginning the Narnia books. I do an introduction to the book, the time and place, introduce some “Britishisms”.... I don’t want Neeley to crash and burn.
With the exception of Torrey (she has to be reminded frequently to open her book) and Marcus (his hair is unbraided, he refuses to participate but is willing to sit quietly), all the students remain seated and reasonably engaged while I instruct the lesson. After about 40 minutes I suggest Neeley take over. I intend to stay and observe but Marcus becomes vocal about his non-participation “I ain’t doing shit.” So I escort Marcus to the counselors’ office. After dropping him off I return to Neeley’s classroom. I don’t think he expected me back.
I enter the classroom to find Neeley standing in the middle of the desks with students leaping around the room trying to catch yellow, mini boxes of Milk Duds he is throwing in the air. A few students, Warenita, Aidan and Renzo, are working on the Narnia related assignment – draw a picture of a time when you were lost. Connor balls up his drawing paper and starts to throw it around the room. Torrey is writing “I love Mr. Neeley” and drawing hearts on her paper. Lindy makes an airplane. Neeley stops throwing candy when I arrive and tries to focus the students, but the chaos prevails. Renzo insists Neeley likes the girls better because the girls got more candy. Aidan runs to the closet to get more candy. Neeley beats him to it and the two battle over control of the door knob until Neeley slams it shut declaring “There, it’s locked.” Aidan grabs the knob, tugs and the door flies open. He runs in and scoops up handfuls of candy. Neeley chases him into the closet. Warenita finishes her drawing and Neeley asks her to discuss it; she does but few can hear her and those who can are not listening. The class ends when Cassandra dramatically bursts out of the bathroom, with her blue jeans around her ankles and her long shirt covering her underwear. Is there any hope for Neeley?
Noreen and Tammie: passive aggressive dreams
During a random search we confiscate many cd’s, all from students in Noreen’s class. Upon questioning students we learn Noreen told her students they can bring in cd players and cd’s “even if it is against the stupid rules Ms. Smee makes.” I talk to Noreen. Yes she knows we all agreed to the rules. Yes she understands we forbid cd’s because the students steal from each other. Noreen denies telling the students they could bring in the cd’s. Who is lying?
I’ve been spending most afternoons in Tammie’s class to role model classroom management skills. I am really worried about Tammie’s science classes. Her class is wild, running around the field rather than walking in a line, bolting out of the room while she sits at her desk. I try to jam “how to teach” into 30 minute counseling sessions. I give her Harry Wong’s book First Days of School and pretty much beg her to read it. Tammie does not seem receptive.
He’s Back
Today should have been our third day without Ernie. Yesterday the Dream Team did a lot of whining about his absence, but I’m feeling a great sense of relief in the post-Ernie world.
In the morning meeting we talk about how to honor today: the anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Noreen calls in sick during the meeting. Neeley is very upset. He can barely control his class let alone his plus half of Noreen’s. Tammie seems nonplussed but she has to be concerned too. Her classroom management skills are pretty rudimentary. We don’t have the luxury of substitute teachers - either from a budget perspective or from a “get real” perspective: who would sub here?! When a teacher calls in sick, my options are limited. I usually try to keep students with their regular team of teachers and classmates. This swells class sizes, but keeping students with adults who know them is better than farming them out.
At about 11:00 I am talking to a group of students who are heading to counseling class from Neeley and Tammie’s classrooms on south campus. They are quiet and attentive until suddenly, as if bitten by scores of fire ants, they become agitated and break ranks running toward the parking lot. Their voices soar as one: “Ernie’s back!” They mob around him, hugging him, asking him why he quit. He tells them I fired him. More than a few evil looks and obscenities are hurled in my direction.
I herd the students into their counseling class then ask Ernie why he is on campus. He informs me he is here to return his keys. Ernie heads to the main office of the Haven High, I follow him in. Although our programs are totally separate, we share some bureaucratic business, such as key control, with Haven High School. I tell Ernie he must not return to campus. He says he can return to the Haven High campus anytime he wants. Agnes, the Haven High secretary (and Ernie’s friend) nods. My stomach knots as I envision Ernie making regular visits to campus riling up my students. Agnes proclaims: “Ernie is welcome to visit ANYTIME!” Feeling powerless, I am slowly shaking my head when to my rescue comes Tara, the Curriculum Specialist of Haven High. Tara contradicts both Ernie and Agnes and says if Ernie is not an employee of Prospect he must not be on campus - not Haven High Campus or Prospect Campus. Ernie storms off. I really hope the recurring nightmare of Ernie is going to fade soon.
Rosie readily agrees to become the new counselor to take the place of Ernie. I think she and Rusty will work well together. I hope and believe she will be a better counselor than teacher, if only because she wants to be a counselor, not a teacher.
Tammie and the long goodbye
“There’s a crisis in Tammie’s room.” Rusty shouts on the walkie-talkie. I’ve barely recovered from the Ernie visit but I am on my way. I arrive in time to witness Tammie’s car roaring off campus, spewing stones and dirt, with Tammie’s head hanging out the window shouting: “I fucking quit.” She follows this by a plethora of profanity. Tammie shouts again that she is quitting and that she used her cell phone to call Noreen (she had to phone Noreen at home since Noreen called in sick this morning), and Noreen is quitting too.
A full-scale riot is taking place inside and outside Tammie’s classroom. The girls are spilling from the portable and screaming curses back at Tammie as she drives off. It takes a long time to calm them down. Rusty and I de-escalate the mob and bit-by-bit we learn the story. After lunch today, the class was rowdy and Tammie started to curse at her students. She cried and threatened them. At some point she told Cassandra if her mother has any problems with what Tammie says and does then Cassandra can have her mother come “park her fat ass outside my classroom door.” These are surely fighting words to Cassandra. “Your mama” are fighting words to most of my students, but to a girl who was sexually attacked by her father when she was a toddler (he is in jail still for the attacks on Cassandra and her sisters), and as one of 13 children who has lived in over ten foster homes and is anxious to be reunited with her low functioning mother, this is blasphemy. Cassandra went wild and the other girls joined her tearing up the classroom, throwing desks and ripping posters off the walls. Tammie didn’t use the walkie-talkie to report this, instead she sent several boys to run to Neeley’s classroom (her boyfriend?) to let him know. Neeley’s sage advice? “Get the hell out of there!”
When the day of the emotionally unstable Tammie blissfully comes to an end, I find Neeley in my office. Tammie is the love of his life. He is heart broken at her departure, and doesn’t know what to do. I just listen. I don’t feel too confident in dispensing advice right now.
There is only one thing more surprising than the manner in which Tammie resigned, and that is in how she returns. Tammie appears at work the next day. The day after her cursing, skidding, screaming departure, she is behaving as though nothing happened. Tammie, Neeley and Noreen all enter the 8:00 meeting together. Solidarity? After the meeting all three want to see me but I refuse, saying instead I only need to talk to Tammie, alone.
We talk for 45 minutes. Tammie denies that she quit. She admits it was wrong to abandon her class but she did so because she felt threatened and Neeley told her to leave. She admits she never even tried to radio for help. I know I should fire her. But she begs to return and promises to read the Harry Wong book for new teachers I gave her on her first day at Prospect (Harry Wong is an educator, writer and speaker who has written books and produced videos to orient new teachers to the teaching profession). I forget to be tough and accept Tammie back but she is on a PIP (performance improvement plan). I have this thing about giving people, (students and teachers), second chances. I don’t know if this is a weakness or a strength.
Tammie and I talk about concrete things she can do to improve her classroom management skills such as planning ahead, frequently counting the number of students to make sure none go missing and asking for help when she needs it. Thirty minutes later Tammie walks her class across the campus but doesn’t notice that Adoncia is not with the class. Rosie finds Adoncia outside the portable smoking a cigarette. Adoncia, a J.Lo look alike, is a thirteen-year-old Hispanic girl from Brownsville, Texas. Rosie interrogates Adoncia and finds she hid cigarettes under the portable, in the ceiling tiles in the classroom, in the ceiling tiles in the bathroom and in a sack of flour in the supply closet (the flour is for a future science project). Adoncia is upset that she is in trouble and tells Rosie that while attempting to retrieve one of her hidden cigarettes last week she found Tammie and Neeley having sex in the empty classroom. Rosie knows Adoncia well and has a hunch this sordid tale is true, however Rosie is not about to plea bargain. Adoncia is given a citation from the Deputy for smoking on campus and Rosie tells Adoncia a phone call will be made to her guardians. Adoncia is non-plussed.
A new teacher starts. Yvonne is a petite white woman in her early twenties with freckles and shoulder length strawberry blond hair. I wonder whether I will be able to give her a new class or whether Tammie won’t last and she’ll have to take over Tammie’s class? Yvonne is very quiet but she is a real, certified teacher who moved to Lakeboro from North Carolina for this job. She is living in my apartment complex. I tell her if she ever needs a ride, I am happy to provide one. She looks as though I just offered to shave her head. Lynne tells me later that when she was helping Yvonne with the new employee paperwork, Yvonne’s facial expressions were odd, interspersed with lots of blank stares. Perhaps Yvonne, unlike Midge (my very emotional elementary teacher) has mastered the poker face, or maybe she has no thoughts or feelings to reveal, or maybe she is just terrified. Whatever the explanation, it is unnerving to converse with Yvonne. Will Yvonne last? Have I gone from looking for great teachers to just looking for warm bodies? I feel I am hiring the best among the applicants that I have, but how do I attract better applicants? New students arrive daily and I need to keep hiring to keep up. If my current staff isn’t stable I’ll have to redouble my hiring efforts. Tonight instead of working on grants, I conduct phone screening interviews with potential teachers.
The Back to School Night Open House
The focus of today’s morning meeting is tonight’s Open House. Parents will come to school tonight with their children and follow an abbreviated school schedule. It is frustrating we don’t have an auditorium or indoor space where everyone can congregate, but we devise a plan we hope will allow all parents to meet with all staff. We go through the schedule and make sure every role is assigned: Ruth, the cafeteria manager and Lynne, my business manager, will be sure food is served, always a vital element to any parent event. I am hopeful we’ll have a good turnout; teachers were responsible for calling all their students’ parents, sending home reminder notes (I printed on bright blue card stock) and for writing a note in every student’s planner. I end the morning meeting with a reminder to be sure classrooms are tidy and attractively decorated for parents. “Don’t forget to hang not only commercial posters but also student work.” In retrospect, I should have been more specific.
The Boss calls during the morning meeting, I let it go to voice mail and call him as soon as the faculty departs. The Boss is calling to tell me Ernie phoned him at home last night. The Boss first demands to know how Ernie got his home number. Before I can plead innocent, he “strongly suggests” I take Ernie back because “he has a presence.” I try to stand firm and cite specifics. The Boss isn’t interested. Ernie is giving The Boss a headache and he wants me to make it disappear. Finally I pose the unspoken question: “Are you mandating I rehire Ernie?” The Boss says no. Then Ernie will remain off my payroll.
Ernie resigned a week ago but the Ernie problems continue. He is like a ghost haunting my campus. I overhear Noreen, Tammie and Neeley talking about going to Snowbirds, a local bar, with Ernie and talking with him on the phone. Ernie has convinced them I am the enemy. Now when a student is acting up, instead of requesting a counselor, the three “dream team” members get on the walkie-talkies asking for me by name. If I am on the phone, or don’t respond immediately, they make a point of telling me how I don’t support them, how vulnerable they feel without Ernie, and so on. My patience with the Dream Team tactics is waning. I resolve to get tough and Tammie provides the catalyst.
Goodbye Tammie
"The worst part of the incident was that Marcus went awall (sic) and we or I tried to call Mrs. Smee at least 3 times and she did not respond despite the fact that she was on campus."
After I read the incident report Tammie wrote on Marcus, the hair braider, I call Tammie to my office.
“Tammie what is this?! An incident report is supposed to detail the student’s behavior. Moreover this report is untrue. You didn’t radio me three times; my walkie-talkie’s been on all day and there were no calls from you.”
“Neeley said you weren’t wearing it today.”
“Tammie, I always wear my walkie-talkie. But that isn’t the point. If Marcus was AWOL why didn’t you follow procedure and contact the counselors first?”
“Noreen said you need to be involved in all arrests.”
“Tammie, that makes no sense. Marcus was AWOL, why would we need to arrest him? Tammie, an incident report is supposed to describe the behavior of a student.”
Tammie shrugs and leaves. But she has arranged for more surprises . . .
I try to pop into every classroom every day - even if just for a moment. Today when I make my rounds, I inspect the walls for student work and other decorations for our Open House tonight. I make it to most of the classrooms during the day, tossing out compliments as I go, but I miss a few and I don’t get a chance to visit them until after the staff leaves for a dinner break prior to the arrival of the parents. When I unlock and enter Tammie’s classroom, this is what I find:
-black construction paper with student hand prints in chalk
-purple construction paper onto which is glued a newspaper photo of a woman under which the student wrote "drug dealer, prostitute, eat me"
-blue construction paper with a taped newspaper photo of a woman under which the student wrote "Mrs. Smee died cause they shot her and she never made it cause she's old."
-yellow construction paper with one word in large print "SEX"
So this is how Tammie had her students decorate her classroom.
I ask Tammie for her resignation and she complies. Noreen is furious, Neeley is depressed. I sternly lecture these remaining dream team members on my expectation they will not raise this subject with parents tonight, that they will limit themselves to discussing the curriculum and the behavior of the students. My worry was unnecessary. While over half of Daphne’s parent-student pairs attend, only one parent and student from the Dream Team shows up. It seems the Dream Team neglected to contract any parents.
Yvonne wins Tammie’s class. She says she is up for the challenge. I try to have a discussion with her regarding what lies ahead, but she says fewer than ten words, her facial expressions say less and I quickly tire of hearing my own voice. Will Noreen and Neeley ignore her or share their anger and negativity over the loss of Ernie and Tammie? How long will Yvonne last?
I get home late and check my email before going to bed. Midge, my elementary teacher, sends a short note about this evening’s open house.
“I thought the open house was fairly successful. All of my parents and students attended! There were two strange events, the novel I’ve been reading to the class, The Yearling, was stolen from my desk. I don’t know whether to be happy someone wanted a book that much, or dismayed one of my students (or their parents) would steal from me. Also when Trey’s family showed up – man, woman, three little kids; the man (Dad?) had a pacifier in his mouth and spent most of the evening sucking away. It might belong to the baby, but I know this is a sign of a crack addict. For so many weeks now we’ve been struggling to deal with Trey’s disruptive behavior, this is our first window into his family. I wonder whether Trey is a crack baby…. Enough for now. Goodnight. Midge”
What lessons have I learned from the Tammie and Ernie debacles? I get in bed feeling upset at myself for not making better choices with Tammie, for not developing her to be a better teacher and for not cutting my losses sooner when she was clearly beyond saving. Tammie lasted almost two months. And what has the Ernie mess taught me to do differently in the future? And what did I learn about getting support or help from The Boss? I start to fall asleep and suddenly remember it’s my brother’s birthday. It‘s too late to call him. He works nights and is asleep now. My work is all consuming and causing me to neglect the people I love. Despite my efforts to be efficient and organized, the many competing priorities leave me with a long, unfinished “to do” list every night. Is it the nature of the job or is it the nature of me? Have I lost sight of the line that separates “responsible, hardworking and dedicated” from “obsessive, consumed and compulsive”? I comfort myself knowing I don’t do any work on the weekends when my husband and I are together, unless, of course, my cell phone rings….
The last thing I do before succumbing to sleep is to check my alarm. Never again will I set the alarm to the radio option, instead it is set to a loud annoying buzzer, a noise that makes my spine spasm when it blasts at 4:00 am.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Chapter Sixteen: Enlightened by DCF
Chapter 16: Enlightened by DCF (Department of Children and Families)
It is Friday night and raining hard. I am drenched. My yellow suit with the white embroidery drips rain water and looks gray-tinged in the flickering, dim light of the DCF office. I shiver and my stomach growls. My husband is flying in for the three day Labor Day weekend. I planned to get back to my apartment in time to grab dinner before heading to the Orlando airport, but that is clearly not going to happen. Shasta, my transportation coordinator, Roxanne, one of my students and I are in the lobby of the DCF office waiting to talk with a caseworker.
Roxanne is a thirteen-year-old slim, blond, white girl. She was reported as a run away about two weeks ago. She just returned to school today. At lunch, Roxanne talks to Ernie about her problems and tells him she ran away because her stepfather hits her. She is afraid to be at home for the long weekend and if we make her go, she will run away again. Since Roxanne has chosen Ernie as her confidante, he is mandated to report this to DCF. Ernie brings Roxanne to my office and tells me he doesn’t know what to do. I explain he should call DCF and give him the phone number. He tells me he can’t and that I must handle this. Then he abruptly departs leaving me and Roxanne in my office.
I can run after him and insist he handle this, or I can do it myself. I look at Roxanne’s face. I phone DCF. They want a great deal of detailed information and I finally hand the phone to Roxanne. They ask her how many marks or bruises she has. They seem to be trying to determine whether she is fabricating the abuse. After the interrogation I take the phone again and the DCF worker tells me they will come pick up Roxanne at school, but they have a “four hour rule” so they will be here anytime between now and 5:15. I express my concern since the students depart at 4:00, less than three hours from now. I am put on hold, then I am told a case worker will be at the school by 3:30 to get Roxanne. I provide directions. Roxanne and I talk about the likely outcome from this phone call. She understands she may end up at the Cressler House for the weekend, (Cressler House is a residential shelter for children who are homeless, runaways, in between or awaiting foster care assignments) and this could make things worse at home. Roxanne is willing to accept this consequence and repeats her earlier statement: “if you make me go home I’ll just run away again.”
No one comes from DCF at 3:30. At 3:45 I phone them again. I am quoted the four-hour rule. Whoever told me otherwise was mistaken. I have the name of who told me otherwise but that does not help. I have been calling an 800 DCF number, now I try a local number. I am transferred to the 800 number. I am not pleased. The students depart on the busses in the rain. Busses leave, staff leaves, everyone leaves except Shasta, Roxanne and me. I am in my office calling DCF. I finally get a local supervisor who tells me the four-hour window promise was wrong. Due to the rain they can’t pick up Roxanne at all today. I ask for a supervisor. Same response. I go nuts. I remind the DCF supervisor the media has been having a field day with children DCF has lost and how will this incident appear to the media? The supervisor tells me I am not being fair and she can’t leave the office but she allows I can bring Roxanne to them.
I made a rule for staff: never transport a student alone. Shasta offers to come with me to help me find the DCF office and to keep me from breaking my rule.
The caseworker finally calls me into her office. Her desk is covered with scented aromatherapy candles; all are lit. Strange. Safe? She is brusque. “They’re all liars,” she says. “Sometimes there’s an infant or small child, but the rest… Liars. This kid probably doesn’t want to get in trouble for running away. She needs a good whupping to teach her not to worry her parents. I’ll take her but I’m telling you now, you’re wasting my time.”
I wearily began to argue with the candle lady but soon realize I would have more luck convincing the flying cockroaches in my office to sing the blues. Shasta hugs Roxanne and gives Roxanne her home number and some advice: call before you run. Roxanne thanks us and heads into the candle lady’s office. I take Shasta back to school to get her truck and I drive directly to the airport, stomach grumbling and the heat blasting to dry my itchy wet suit.
It is Friday night and raining hard. I am drenched. My yellow suit with the white embroidery drips rain water and looks gray-tinged in the flickering, dim light of the DCF office. I shiver and my stomach growls. My husband is flying in for the three day Labor Day weekend. I planned to get back to my apartment in time to grab dinner before heading to the Orlando airport, but that is clearly not going to happen. Shasta, my transportation coordinator, Roxanne, one of my students and I are in the lobby of the DCF office waiting to talk with a caseworker.
Roxanne is a thirteen-year-old slim, blond, white girl. She was reported as a run away about two weeks ago. She just returned to school today. At lunch, Roxanne talks to Ernie about her problems and tells him she ran away because her stepfather hits her. She is afraid to be at home for the long weekend and if we make her go, she will run away again. Since Roxanne has chosen Ernie as her confidante, he is mandated to report this to DCF. Ernie brings Roxanne to my office and tells me he doesn’t know what to do. I explain he should call DCF and give him the phone number. He tells me he can’t and that I must handle this. Then he abruptly departs leaving me and Roxanne in my office.
I can run after him and insist he handle this, or I can do it myself. I look at Roxanne’s face. I phone DCF. They want a great deal of detailed information and I finally hand the phone to Roxanne. They ask her how many marks or bruises she has. They seem to be trying to determine whether she is fabricating the abuse. After the interrogation I take the phone again and the DCF worker tells me they will come pick up Roxanne at school, but they have a “four hour rule” so they will be here anytime between now and 5:15. I express my concern since the students depart at 4:00, less than three hours from now. I am put on hold, then I am told a case worker will be at the school by 3:30 to get Roxanne. I provide directions. Roxanne and I talk about the likely outcome from this phone call. She understands she may end up at the Cressler House for the weekend, (Cressler House is a residential shelter for children who are homeless, runaways, in between or awaiting foster care assignments) and this could make things worse at home. Roxanne is willing to accept this consequence and repeats her earlier statement: “if you make me go home I’ll just run away again.”
No one comes from DCF at 3:30. At 3:45 I phone them again. I am quoted the four-hour rule. Whoever told me otherwise was mistaken. I have the name of who told me otherwise but that does not help. I have been calling an 800 DCF number, now I try a local number. I am transferred to the 800 number. I am not pleased. The students depart on the busses in the rain. Busses leave, staff leaves, everyone leaves except Shasta, Roxanne and me. I am in my office calling DCF. I finally get a local supervisor who tells me the four-hour window promise was wrong. Due to the rain they can’t pick up Roxanne at all today. I ask for a supervisor. Same response. I go nuts. I remind the DCF supervisor the media has been having a field day with children DCF has lost and how will this incident appear to the media? The supervisor tells me I am not being fair and she can’t leave the office but she allows I can bring Roxanne to them.
I made a rule for staff: never transport a student alone. Shasta offers to come with me to help me find the DCF office and to keep me from breaking my rule.
The caseworker finally calls me into her office. Her desk is covered with scented aromatherapy candles; all are lit. Strange. Safe? She is brusque. “They’re all liars,” she says. “Sometimes there’s an infant or small child, but the rest… Liars. This kid probably doesn’t want to get in trouble for running away. She needs a good whupping to teach her not to worry her parents. I’ll take her but I’m telling you now, you’re wasting my time.”
I wearily began to argue with the candle lady but soon realize I would have more luck convincing the flying cockroaches in my office to sing the blues. Shasta hugs Roxanne and gives Roxanne her home number and some advice: call before you run. Roxanne thanks us and heads into the candle lady’s office. I take Shasta back to school to get her truck and I drive directly to the airport, stomach grumbling and the heat blasting to dry my itchy wet suit.
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