I burst through the
double doors back at the top of the stairs. I mean to stop and open the door
for what will hopefully be the arrival of a merely late, not absent sub next
door to me, but I see a large, dark head in front of the classroom. His stylish
goatee, almost regal bearing, and dark blue uniform mark him as a man among the
boys even before I can see the actual word, security, stenciled across his
back. Ahead of him a group of tightly packed minor trouble makers whisper to
each other and walk quickly past me to get out of his line of sight. As if to
erase all trace of doubt about who is in charge, he booms out in a deep, manly
voice that cuts right through the hallway noise. “Let’s go,” he says. “Keep
moving. Put your things in your lockers and get to class. Put away those
hoodies and get going. The bell’s about to ring.” His name is Tydell and
all the kids have shortened Mr. Tydell into Mr. T. Even with the fairly recent
reboot movie, they and he too are all too young to connect that nickname to a
certain gold chain wearing, mohawk sporting muscleman, but I chuckle at the
irony. “Good morning Mr. E,” he says and shakes my hand in a traditional
handshake. I grasp his hand warmly
and echo back, “Good morning Mr. T.” Keys jangle, the door
opens, and kids are entering the still sub-less English teacher’s room as Mr. T
is already in fluid motion. The moment he turns the corner, as if they were
hiding behind the wall waiting for him to leave, a new group of miscreants
comes around the other corner pushing a frail looking sixth grader in front of
them. I fold my arms across my chest, make my face impassive, and take one,
then two, then three slow measured steps towards them. One of the pack is a
wild card, a new transfer student from the DR – we get a lot of these. He is
tall with a wild mane of black shiny hair swept up into a fauxhawk making him
seem even taller. He sneers as he steps forward in my direction, but I hear a
whispered murmur from a familiar face and the words, “karate teacher” and they
turn back the way they came leaving the skinny kid they were taunting to me. I sigh
at the reference as Karate is one of the few martial arts I have never studied,
but I since am built more like Mr. Miyagi from the original Karate Kid than
Bruce Lee, I accept the honorific. Besides, it gets the gang moving away from
me and my new little friend. The kid is a sixth
grader, a good student who is not in one of my math classes so I don’t know his
name. He is visibly shaking and making groaning noises that he doesn’t seem to
be aware of. I put my hand lightly on the kids’ shoulder. “Are you ok?” I ask,
concerned. “No,” he says with
equal parts relief and anger. I find it in me to laugh
gently and pat his shoulder gingerly, removing my hand quickly as he glares at
me. “I mean are you hurt? Do you need to go to the nurse?” Getting it now, he
rewards me with a half-smile. “No,” he repeats, “I’m fine.” But there is
something in his eyes that makes me keep talking to him. “You don’t have to take
that you know,” I say. “Nobody should have to come to school scared. We have
rules against bullying. You should talk to one of the guidance counselors. I
could come with you if you like.” “No,” he says again but
he seems to be thinking about it. He starts moving his head back and forth and
I can almost hear his inner dialogue as he weighs his desire for revenge
against the real or implied threat of being branded a snitch against whatever pseudo-mini-gang
those boys belong to. His mouth starts working and then stops and I know what
he’s going to say before he says it. “No,” he says with finality. Then, more
warmly, “Thank you Mr. E.” I may not know him but it seems he knows me. The
bell rings and he hurries off to class, not wanting to be marked tardy. “That’s the bell,” I
say in my loud, strict teacher voice to the far too many kids who could care
less about being marked tardy that are still in the hall. “Go to class.” I stop
in front of the dark grey door to my homeroom and an image of a huge maw, like
a whale comes unbidden to my brain. This place is eating at my soul. I can’t
even count how many of my former colleagues it has already taken from me and I
don’t know how long I can hold it off. The door seems cold and forbidding
before me like it will swallow me up if I enter, and I will lose myself forever
in the deepening quagmire that is our school. It is overwhelming me with so
many state tests to grade and prepare for, ever changing lesson plan formats,
504s, IEPs, and more and more until it feels like an ocean of quicksand from
which there is no escape. As I swallow my
feelings and step into my room I scan the faces for a trace of a smile to help
lift me up, but I do not find it. I feel lost and alone, but I try to mean it
as I loudly give voice to what’s left of my optimism, say “Good morning” to my
homeroom class, and steel myself for the rest of the day. |
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