34. You’re the Teacher

Nov. 12

Dear Ellen,

Just got home from Open School session—and I must talk to someone!

It was a fiasco, though I did everything I was told to do. I got fresh book jackets from the library to festoon the walls with and had my wardrobe cleaned out. (Why is it only one sneaker is always left on the closet floor? And the ubiquitous, tattered notebook? I found one belonging to one of my homeroom girls, Alice Blake, full of scribbles, doodles, and chaos.) I even made sure that the little flag stuck in the Calvin Coolidge Alma Mater ("Ye loyal sons and daughters"—a substitute for the unlawful hymns) was tilted at the correct angle. (The other day Admiral Ass found it drooping disrespectfully.)

I see 243 kids daily: 201 in English (after dropouts and new registers) and 42 in homeroom—but only a few parents showed up; a few wrote cards; and the rest ignored the whole thing. The ones I had particularly hoped to see never came.

I don't know why they hold Open School so soon after the beginning of the term, before we've had time to get to know all our students. The Delaney Book wasn't much help to me; it showed days absent, times late, and some checks, crosses and zeros —I'd forgotten for what. Unprepared homework? An insolent whistle? A four-letter word?

One father came, in work overalls, hands patiently

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clasped on the desk, out of some dim memory of his own school days. The mothers—patient, used to waiting, careworn, timid, bewildered or just curious—sat clutching their pocketbooks, waiting to plead, appease, complain or hear a kind word. A few were hostile and belligerent; they had come to avenge themselves on their own teachers of long ago, or demand special privileges, or ask the teacher to do the job they had failed to do.

And I—who was I to tell these grown-ups anything about their children? What did I know? A few clichés from the mimeographed directives: "Works to capacity, doesn't work to capacity, fine boy, fine girl." A few euphemisms: "Seems to enjoy school" (the guffawer); 'Is quite active" (the window-smasher) . . .

For a moment, the notion occurred to me to try to match the parent to the child; but they were strangers, looking at me with opaque eyes.

MOTHER: How's my boy doing?

I: What's his name?

MOTHER: Jim

I: Jim what?

MOTHER: Stobart

I: Oh, yes. (Now, which one was he?) Well, let's see now. (Open the Delaney Book with an air of authority: a quick glance—no help. Stobart? Was he the boy who kept drumming with a pencil on his desk? Or the short, rosy one who reclined in his tilted chair combing his hair all the time? Or the one who never removed his jacket? I couldn't find his Delaney card; perhaps his mother would give me a clue.)

MOTHER: About that F you gave him.

I: Oh, yes. Well, he's obviously not working to capacity. (He must be the boy who got an F on his composi-

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tion, on which he had written only one sentence: "I was too absent to do it".) He must work harder.

MOTHER: Pass him, and he won't do it again.

I: I'm afraid that's no solution. He simply isn't using his potential.

MOTHER: You mean he's dumb?

I: Oh, no!

MOTHER: He's afraid to open his mouth. Smack him, just smack him one.

I: He should volunteer more.

MOTHER: I tried my best. (Helplessness, shame in her voice—and were there tears in her eyes?) Do me a favor—pass him.

I: Why do you think he is doing so poorly?

MOTHER: You're the teacher!

I: He seems to be just coasting along.

MOTHER: He can't help it, he was born premature. He won't do it again.

I: Well, it's a good thing that we are both concerned; perhaps, with more encouragement at home? Can his father—

MOTHER: That son of a bitch bastard I hope he rots in hell I haven't seen him in six years (said in the same apologetic, soft pleading tone).

I: Well (five minutes are up, by my watch), it's been a pleasure to meet you. (But she doesn't go.) Is there something else?

MOTHER: (Those weren't tears; anger is filming her eyes.) What does it cost you to pass him? No skin off your hide!

I: I'm afraid his work doesn't warrant—

MOTHER: Do me a favor, at least keep him in after school. I can't take it no more.

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I: I'm afraid that's impossible; you see—

MOTHER: But you're the teacher! He’ll listen to a teacher!

I: We can both try to make him work harder, but he has so many absences—

MOTHER: Maybe if you made Physics more understandable to him he would come more.

I: Physics? I teach English!

MOTHER: How come?

I: What room were you supposed to be in?

MOTHER: 306. Mrs. Manheim.

I: I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. Mr. Manheim is the man you want to see. I'm Miss Barrett, Room 304.

MOTHER: Well, why didn't you say so?

Still, I learned a few things. I learned that the reason a student failed to bring his father's signature is that the father is in jail; that the Federal Lunch the kids are always griping about is often the only meal they have; that the boy who falls asleep in class works all night in a garage in order to buy a sports car; that the girl who had neglected to do her homework had no place to do it in.

I have a long way to go.

In the meantime, write, write soon. You too bring me a glimpse of "real life." One can get as ingrown as a toenail here.

Love,

Syl

P. S. Did you know that due to the "high mobility" of families unable to pay rent, some schools have a turnover of 100% between September and June?

S

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TO: ALL TEACHERS

NOVEMBER 13

YOU ARE TO BE CONGRATULATED AND COMMENDED ON THE COMPLETE AND UNQUALIFIED SUCCESS OF OPEN SCHOOL YESTERDAY. IT IS THROUGH PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCES SUCH AS THESE THAT CLOSER COMMUNICATION BETWEEN THE SCHOOL, AND THE HOME CAN BE EFFECTUATED AND ACHIEVED.

MAXWELL E. CLARKE,

Principal

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