Schoolville: Chapter 31
“Changes in society are due chiefly to the development of the internal contradictions in society…the contradiction between classes and the contradiction between the old and the new; it is the development of these contradictions that pushes society forward and gives the impetus for the supercession of the old society by the new.”
- Chairman Mao Tse Tung.
Chapter Thirty-one
I sit quietly in the back of the English Department meeting. They are there in all their glory. Margaret Atwood, who sits in the front row with her insipidly superior smile, sits bolt upright, with her hands neatly folded on her desk. Next to her sits her favorite acolyte Vanessa Reagan, who is jabbering on about something or other, and waving her hands and speaking so fast that I can’t make it out, even if I wanted to try. I am being frostily ignored by the entire faculty except for Bill Crane, oddly enough. He could’ve sat up front. But Bill, who is so territorial about his desks, is sitting in the desk next to mine. He’s quiet, is Bill. I would like one friend in the department, in case Beth Minor suddenly drops dead, so I politely encourage him to speak. He doesn’t speak, but he does smile at me, and at least he is sitting in the back with me. I don’t have to endure this dog and pony show alone and friendless in the rear of the classroom.
B.D. and I play the “Seder meal game”, patterned after the questions during the Passover meal that are asked of the rabbi.
“Why is this meeting different from all other meetings rabbi?” I ask B.D.
“Because you have company today, you schlemiel.” B.D. intones knowledgeably.
We both look over at Bill and then B.D. offers a more helpful explanation. “Perhaps he sits in the back row all of the time.”
“Thanks B.D.” I reply. “And here I thought that you were going to say something nice. Silly me!”
Jessica smiles toothily at the front half of her classroom, where the meeting is being held. These are her blessed ones. We, of the unwashed peasantry, sit in the back to be ignored. We are there to form a backdrop to the pageantry unfolding before us in the front of the room.
“Ok girls. Let’s get this over with.”
There is a rustling as they all sit up straight and tall, just as they used to do when they sat in desks as students decades ago. B.D. is both disgusted and disheartened. “That is why they act like they do. They think education is about sitting up straight and tall. They teach as they saw teaching done in the sixties.” He shakes his head and looks out the window next to us. Jessica Miller has a palace. She has windows, new desks, linoleum that is all there. Her room actually has tables in it for students to sit around, in addition to the thirty desks; the big new desks mind you, not the cramped little wooden desks like I have. The rows are spacious enough that you can walk down the rows instead of having to scoot sideways, while your butt knocks someone’s books into their lap. There is an area in the front of the room for people to congregate. She has a screen across a third of her room. She appears to use that as a storage space, but it is mostly empty. B.D. and I enviously eye this extravagant waste of classroom space.
“I think she does this just to remind us that we are peasants.” B.D. surmises. I nod in agreement as I tune Jessica back in.
Jessica begins. “First of all, we have great news!” She smiles over at Janey, who smiles in return. “The school board has decided to renew Janey’s contract for next year!” There is a polite applause, as Janey smiles back.
“They have no shame.” B.D. sneers, as he looks over at Bill Crane, who is politely clapping along with the rest.
“No.” Horton replies. “It’s just that they can’t find anyone else to finish the year. What probably happened is that Janey offered to finish the year if they renewed her contract.”
“I was glad to hear the good news Janey.” Jessica folds her hands and beams. Then she picks up a pile of papers. She isn’t going to speak of this again. The sisterhood has been preserved; the trash is under the carpet.
She begins handing out copies of a thick document. “Here is your final exam for English IV, for those of you who have seniors. Margaret will be handing out copies of the English III final exam for the juniors.”
B.D. and I exchange surprised glances. “Did you know anything about this?” He asks.
“Of course not!” I snap.
“This certainly doesn’t bode well.” He surmised correctly.
Margaret stands up with unnaturally stiff posture and walks around the room bestowing her gift on each of the English III teachers as though they were golden tiaras. She overlooks me, probably on purpose.
“Does everyone have a copy?” Jessica asks.
I raise my hand. She looks at me and nudges Margaret, who grudgingly passes it back. “These are the final exams that we have used for the last twenty two years.” Jessica explains to me as the test is passed back.
I look at the test. The very first question looks completely unfamiliar.
In the novel, Great Expectations, the theme is:
a. Love conquers all
b. Death is inevitable
c. Love is destructive
d. Choices lead to consequences.
I hold up my hand. Jessica looks at me with irritation.
“You are here to be seen and not heard. Is this too complicated for you to grasp, or something?” B.D. nudges me as he whispers.
I choose to ignore him and keep my hand raised. Jessica finally realizes that I’m going to keep it raised like a constant irritant, so she nods in my direction.
“Yes Tom?”
“I seem to have been handed the wrong final exam. This one has questions on it about Great Expectations.”
Margaret Atwood spins around. “No, that is the right test!” She doesn’t say it, but her whole expression adds additional thoughts for my edification. “…you moron!”
Stupidly, I rise to the bait. “So we are testing novels that we haven’t read now?” I have an edge of sarcasm in my voice.
Margaret sneers at me. “Don’t tell me that this is news to you. You’ve known about it all semester!”
“I’m sure you’re right Margaret. Please refresh my memory. Just when was I told about it?”
Margaret can’t answer. She sits speechlessly looking at me over her funky fashion-designer reading glasses. Fury is clearly clouding her face as Rose Ann exhales loudly in disgust. “Everyone knows about this!”
“Oh, I see…” I slump down in my desk and irreverently toss the test on the desk next to me. I close my eyes, but I can feel everyone looking at me. I have become J.T.
Jessica knows I wasn’t told about the exam. She softens far too quickly. “In all fairness to Tom, he did keep asking me for a copy of the second semester curriculum. Did I ever get you a copy, Tom?”
I shake my head in the negative. “The first semester curriculum almost cost me my life, as I recall.”
“Well, who the hell’s fault is that!” Crazy Janey is suddenly becoming agitated. I ignore her.
Margaret’s voice cuts through. “Then why didn’t you come ask me?”
“Why the hell would I ask you, Margaret? Who the hell are you, the eleventh grade dean or something?” I sneer back, laying the derision on thick. “You are the one who is in charge, isn’t it your job to let me know what you want?”
There is a collective intake of breath as the other women realize that I have crossed over the cosmic line of death. I have crossed a ranking member of the sorority in public. It doesn’t matter; they have closed ranks against outsiders years ago. Not for the first time since my rude reception at Wilson High, am I beginning to feel lonely, overwhelmed, and afraid. I think of those minority boys again. I remind myself that the only reason that I am here at all is that state law requires them to have a certified ESL teacher or risk a lawsuit. I was the only one stupid enough not to take one look at this dump and drive away.
Horton and I exchange glances. They are wondering what I am going to do about it. Neither Beth nor I had anticipated the ‘final exam trap’.
I realize that I am acting just like Mark, Travis, J.T. and all of the other boys that I teach. I am acting rude and exhibiting passive-aggressive behavior toward the teachers, just as the boys do. They have to put up with this demeaning shit from these sad sadistic bitches. The circle is complete. I suddenly feel as though I am back in high school myself.
“Some things never change.” B.D. laughs as he looks back around the classroom. The darkened sky outside no longer has anything to hold his interest.
Jessica changes the subject. “We will now break into grade level meetings and go over the final exam. Twelfth grade will meet here; eleventh grade will meet down in Margaret’s room. OK?” There is a rustle as people begin to stand and move down the aisles. I pick up my copy of the exam and head for the door. I have no intention of going to Margaret’s room. I’m sure that this won’t bother her either.
As I walk back to my room, I can hear the advice an old sergeant once gave me. “Lieutenant;” he instructed; “You can’t win, you can’t break even, and you can’t quit the game.” Those words never seemed truer then when applied to the present situation.
“To begin with, Sara Getty sets you up to fail.” Horton comments.
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“She had Jessica Miller to help me along that golden road to failure.” I answer. “Just like those minority boys.”
“Now Margaret Atwood completes the trifecta.” B.D. added.
“And they get to blame you when the students fail. They did it so well.” Horton shakes her beehive-hairdo covered head. “You should have known”. She instructs
“Up yours Horton”. B.D. quips back but she ignores him and continues.
“Now they get to use you as the whipping boy. Their students are going to pass, because they got the proper instruction, which my kids never got. I can’t help but wonder if this is how they keep control from one miserable mediocre year to the next. They make the newcomers look so stupid, that they look good by comparison. They find some hapless idiot, cause his or her students to do worse then their students do, and then compare their poor results to the new teacher’s abysmal results, using a test from twenty-two years ago.”
B.D. strolls along with his hands in his pockets. “I believe that this is how they keep new teachers out of the school. This way they get to keep their jobs.”
…And the power. I think to myself
“What do you mean?” Horton asks.
“As bad as they are, this way, the new teachers will always do worse.” B.D. pontificated.
I am saddened — but not surprised — that Sara, Jessica and the rest of them could be this vindictive to my kids though. After all, my kids were the ones who put up those posters during the first semester. Jessica and the others hadn’t much enjoyed finding out how the rest of the world viewed them.
“That’s why you never got a copy of the curriculum and were never told about the common assessment, I guess.” Horton is beginning to catch on.
Yeah, Beth warned me that there were other dirty tricks they had up their sleeves. She warned me that they weren’t done with me.
Then my thoughts go back over the year. “If the vice-principal of my school is setting me up to fail, and she is Ok with that, what chance did my students really ever have?” The question lingers like a beggar at the door. It won’t go away unsatisfied. What is most sickening is that I already know the answer, much as I may wish otherwise.
Just a year ago, I had been so proud of my achievement of becoming a teacher. I had achieved a lifetime dream. Now I feel deceived. I no longer want to teach.
“The rest of them knew this was coming. Did you notice that no one was surprised that you had never received the second semester curriculum? Did you notice how Jessica just changed the subject? They knew this was coming.” B.D. expounded.
“They planned it as revenge for the posters, and the lynching you missed.” Horton pointed out.
“We seem to have very different agendas, don’t we Horton?”
“They want to see you crawl, Tom.” Horton commented.
“Well…” I mumbled. “They don’t know about my interview during spring break with Heights district. Heights district couldn’t tell me what my new assignment would be, but they did hire me for one of the English classes over at the new middle school. I signed the contract and mailed it back just two days ago.”
As I round the corner, and see Sara Getty approaching from the other direction. I feel my stomach tightening.
“What the hell does she want?”
“I was just coming to see you Mr. Kyle.” She smiles her ferrety smile that is supposed to put me at ease, but only makes me more suspicious. This bitch doesn’t gratuitously bestow smiles. That would be an unnatural act for her.
I stand and look at her with what I hope is an expressionless look on my face. I don’t know what she wants, but it sure as hell won’t be good.
Sara smiled an ingratiating smile. “I was going through the contracts for next year. I noticed that yours wasn’t signed. Did you not see the memo about it?”
“Yes, I saw the memo. Weren’t those contracts made available to sign over two months ago?” I ask her.
She ignores my question. “Well, I brought your contract with me so that we can get it taken care of now. The school board meets next Tuesday, and they will need to approve it then.”
I don’t answer. She suddenly seems nervous. “If they don’t approve it then, you could lose your job for next year.” She smiles nervously as it seems to dawn on her that I actually might not want to return for another year of this shit sandwich. Suddenly she blurts out.
“Look, I know that you have too many preps. I’ve decided that next year, you’ll just be teaching ESL and History!” She smiles magnanimously as if she is really bestowing a gift on me.
I can’t help it. “You’re lying.” I say. I no longer give a shit what she thinks.
Her face freezes. “Wh…wh…what did you say?” Her breath is rising in her chest; her face is flushing. Her fingers are beginning to twitch.
“You lied to me last April when I came to interview. You’re lying to me now.”
She looks at me as her face begins to glow beet-red against her pallid skin. She doesn’t say a word. She is shocked into speechlessness.
“Do you really think I’m so stupid that I’d return for another year of your horse shit? I didn’t sign that contract because I’m not coming back. It’s been down there unsigned for better’n two months now. Don’t tell me you just realized that?”
Suddenly the whole pretense is gone. Her eyes are flashing and her voice is screeching. “You insubordinate little son-of-a-bitch! How dare you talk to me like that?”
I don’t even bother to reply. I just lazily stare into her eyes, then I switch to watching the center of her body. If she raises a hand, I’m going to deck her. Suddenly she backs off. She seems to realize that we are alone in an empty hallway. I am reminded of another time, several months ago, when the hounds were set on me in this same empty hallway. We aren’t in her office where she has all of the power. Right now, I can do anything I want. She stands there seething, snapping her fingers open and closed. Now she is frightened, and this outrages her even more.
“You are so disloyal! How can you say that, after all I’ve done for you?”
“And what has that been?” I ask, using a sickly sweet tone designed to enrage her.
She doesn’t say anything. She can’t say anything. She speechlessly glares at me. She and I both know that she has done nothing except make my first year of teaching one of the worst years of my life.
We stand there looking at each other for what seems like eternity. I meet her stare as she tries to stare me down. She breaks off first. She is really pissed-off now.
“I see that you put in for two days off next week during semester finals. I’m disapproving them!”
“You can’t. Mr. Gage has already approved it. He did that three months ago.”
“All requests go through me!”
“You weren’t here the day I turned it in.”
She looks at me for several moments, comprehension beginning to dawn. “You waited until I wasn’t here to submit your request?” She uses her accusatorial voice.
“You got it!” I speak up proudly.
“You went around me?” She is astounded that I would think to do this.
“Yep!” She is desperately looking for a way to get to me. She isn’t going to take this from a twerp like me.
“What do you need it for?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to go to my son’s wedding.”
“We don’t approve personal time off during finals week!” She is really smiling triumphantly now! She has me by the balls again, or so she thinks. Six months ago, this might’ve been true. Now her threats are meaningless.
“Mrs. Getty, I don’t know what planet you are from, but here on planet Earth, we go to our children’s weddings.” I let this piece of humiliation and disdain bite harder. I want it to hurt as much as possible. I want to enrage her. I recognize my rage also beginning to surface. I think about Mark Hammand in the same hallway just a few months ago. So I breathe and let it sink back down again. As pleasant as the thought is, I can’t hurt her and get away with it. I know it, but she doesn’t know that I know it. At least she can’t be certain. Suddenly it seems to dawn on her that the tables are turned from last semester. She begins to moderate her tone and glance toward the stairwell.
“We can do this one of two ways Sara.” She is shocked at my use of her first name. It is a clear breach of the boundaries that keep her in power.
“We can both manage this event and schedule a substitute teacher, which I can instruct, or I’ll just call in sick on those two days and create a crisis for you to handle. I don’t give a shit which one you decide to do, since I’m not coming back. If I get any bullshit from you about my leave, I’ll assume that you want to continue your usual crisis management. If I don’t, then I’ll arrange for a competent substitute and have her properly trained for proctoring the exam.”
I look at her for another moment, as she seethes with impotent rage. Then I walk over to my door, take out my key, let myself into my room, shut the door, and lock it, a move that has saved me before. I have ended the discussion. I control the agenda now, and I have nothing more to say.
I spend the next hour taking the final exam and writing down the correct answers on the blackboard for my kids to read. I don’t label what they are, but I’ll let my first period know. The word will go around quickly enough. I’ve had it with this bullshit. I’m not going to play their game any more. I make the decision that my students aren’t either.
