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Monthly Archives: December 2009
“Amazon doesn’t always get their recommendations right. Just because I bought a book on Shaker architecture doesn’t mean I want, like, Amish horse buggy lubricant.”
“You lost me at lubricant.”
“That’s what’s in your Christmas stocking, by the way.”
The new girl approaches my classroom, skittish, walking sideways.
“Hey!” I bellow, grinning. “Where were you?” Her answer is inaudible. I try again.
“You missed my class! I didn’t see you yesterday! Or the day before!” Lucia shakes her head and explains that the principal kept changing her schedule. I wave her in, feeling expansive.
After my brief instructions, the rest of the class pulls out the rough drafts of their essays and gets to work. Lucia sits there, looking very much like she wants to disappear. I wander to her desk, trying not to make a beeline. Continue reading
This kid Rudy was careening through the halls, avoiding his chorus class, which he loves. The principal had elected me to police the halls that period because he was in a meeting. The third time I saw him whip past, I was like, “Rudy. You’re kidding me, right?”
“I can’t…” he starts up, grinning, laughing, pleading with his arms. “It’s my aura. It’s telling me where to go!”
Later that afternoon, in another class, the same kid offers his thesis on the theme of “A Black Man Talks of Reaping,” a poem by Arna Bontemps.
“It’s about struggle,” he says, and I’m like, go on…
“The line where he says, ‘my children glean from fields,’ it’s, like…”
I can hear everyone’s eyes roll. They all know the exact moment when Rudy shifts to bullshit mode.
“It’s, like…I picture a man in a field, and he’s workin’, and we’re lookin’ at him, and he’s workin’ hard…and he’s struggling. Yeah,” he says, having hit upon the word “struggle” again. I scratch my chin thoughtfully and knit my eyebrows.
“I’m not convinced. Tell me what about that line invokes struggle for you.”
“THANK YOU,” exhales DeMario. “Nobody ever calls him on it and make him explain hisself.”
Our juniors got their PSAT scores last week. They were atrocious – out of 800 on each section, our students had scores in the 300s. Alvin, our college counselor, a 32-year veteran of the Board of Ed, broke the news to his fourth period class. I lingered in the room we share, hand-drawing a gigantic display for a bulletin board.
At first, the task seemed to be communicating the gravity of the situation. Clearly, they did not all understand what the numbers meant. Ronald, a gregarious boy who covers for his insecurity with outrageous cockiness, raised his hand.
“So I got a, a 360 on the verbal, which is good, right?” All smiles.
“That ain’t high,” snapped Naima. Continue reading
Naima came to school today.
She often doesn’t, and when she does, she kind of stalks the hallways with a don’t-start-with-me force field around herself, tall and stork-legged, pretty but unkempt, her hair stashed under a hood, a hat, a scarf. Continue reading
What would LeQwan eat for breakfast? I was working on a scene in a story. I have this problem all the time: what are the details, the minutiae of life outside this three-story public school? For years, I’ve noticed that my students eat different food than I do, different food than I did when I was their age, but I don’t know why, I don’t know what. The imagery of their lives when they leave the building eludes me. How would I know those things if I don’t ask? Continue reading