Schoolville: Chapter 32
“A good Texan doesn’t quote Marx or Mao.” –B.D.
Chapter Thirty-two
The year was nearly over, I had one more week of teaching before summer vacation started, and was looking forward to quietly leaving Wilson High School without any additional negative fanfare. My son was getting married in two days, and Sara Getty had sent a memo ordering me to arrange a substitute. Since I was not going to be there for my kids in their time of tribulation, she felt it was the least that I could do. She obviously wanted it to appear that this was her idea. I suspected that a copy was in my file, not that I would ever get a chance to see it.
The answers to the final exam had been erased off the board two days ago, after each class had an opportunity to copy them. An unexpected bonus had occurred when I noticed kids from the other classes, writing down the answers as well. That was wonderful. I didn’t bother to stop them either. If I had, my own kids would just have given them the answers anyway. Kind of like the school board, I ignored the whole mess. B.D. thought this comparison was very droll.
“Mr. Kyle, why don’t we ever see white people at Martin Luther King Day?” I looked over at Shalisa. She was one of those students to whom I taught both English and American History. Glancing over at my desk chair, I had a fleeting memory of Leslie Morita. She was just closing the roll book with a smile on her face. I broke off the thought and looked away.
We had just started a unit on the civil rights movement in the America. This particular class was probably seventy percent Black, so they were very interested in the whole topic. Since I represented White America to them, as well as the power structure, they were apparently interested to know what my thoughts on the matter would be. It was an important question.
“Shalisa, why do you think that is?”
She gave me that charming smile that I loved to see. “Mr. Kyle, you are dodging my question.” She remained smiling and waiting, as did I. She finally gave up and answered.
“I honestly don’t know, Mr. Kyle. Maybe you all are racists or something.”
“Do you think that is the answer?” She smiled again.
“Naw. I don’t think so at all, but it bothers me that I won’t ever see you at our march.”
“Shalisa, I wish that I could go, but I don’t think that I’d be welcome.”
“Well, in our history book here, it shows a picture of Dr. King marching and look at all of the white people in the picture! Why can’t you go?”
“Times have changed.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, Dr. King is dead. Many White people that I know feel they are no longer welcome.” My answer was blunt, but I had taught them long ago to challenge answers until they were satisfied that they were being told the truth.
“Why do you think you would be unwelcome, Mr. Kyle?” Cerita was genuinely puzzled by my reply and butted into the conversation without raising her hand. Cerita had the face of an angel. She worked hard sometimes, and she goofed off sometimes, but Cerita was always a pleasure to have in class. She had a way of making everyone feel like she was happy to see them.
“Have you ever listened to Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton from a White person’s point of view?” I asked.
Cerita shook her head.
Looking over at Noggin, she was sitting with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her blue eyes.
“Noggin, what are you thinking about?”
“Oh, just how Jesse sounds during elections. He is always talking about how racist White America is. If you listen, he never says that some White folk are racists he seems to be saying that we all are.”
“I agree.” I nodded. “If I went to a M.L.K. rally, wouldn’t I just be hearing myself labeled as a racist and probably a Klan member?” I looked back at Cerita, who looked down at her book frowning.
Thomas nodded. “Maybe that is what you would hear, Mr. Kyle, but aren’t King’s words worth listening to?”
“Oh, indeed they are. I just don’t want to hear the other stuff. It is unfortunate, but demagoguery keeps us apart.”
“What does that word mean, Mr. Kyle?” It was Shalisa. As I thought about the best way to define the word, I found myself feeling very happy. They were such good kids. I loved working with them. Even today, I still miss them sometimes. Although I have forgotten so many names, I can see their faces still when I walk down those corridors of memory and turn into my dingy little classroom.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted. I noticed several students pointing to the door of my classroom. “Mr. Kyle, you have a guest.” A guest in my class was always a noteworthy event. Every student of mine knew that he or she would be slathering himself or herself in good karma by treating a guest in my room politely. Not that all of them did treat guests respectfully, mind you, but they knew what I expected of them.
Surprised, I turned to the door and my heart skipped a beat. It was no guest; it was the English Department dean, Jessica Miller. From the look on her face, I knew that my good day had just ended.
”Mr. Kyle;” she crooked her finger in my direction, motioning me to approach. “May I speak with you in the hall for a moment please!” It wasn’t a request.
I didn’t have a choice. I could feel my blood pressure rapidly spiking upward. The room was slightly spinning as I steadied myself against the door before walking out into the hall. She had already disappeared into the hallway with a snarl on her face, definitely not a good sign. “Yes?” I asked her after the door closed.
“Tom, I was shocked to hear that you gave your students the answer to the English final exam.”
“I did what?”
“Gave your students the answers to the final exam!”
“Busted! B.D. laughed. “Someone has already ratted you out!”
It has taken me a long time to understand why I lied to her. It just took too much effort to tell the truth. Struggle as I might, I couldn’t find the words to explain how I wasn’t going to see my kids put at a disadvantage. She had failed to inform me of the curriculum. She had overlooked mentioning that someone had written my final exam twenty years before, and never told me what was going to be on it. I just couldn’t find a way to tell her that her incompetence, stupidity, or malignancy had not only set me up to fail, but my students as well. It was just too much effort, so I looked her in the eye and lied. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Jessica. I didn’t do anything of the sort.”
She pressed back. “So you’re telling me that you didn’t rehearse the answers to the test with your students?”
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“No, I didn’t.”
“Then why are your students going around telling everyone that you gave them the answers to the final exam?” She shrugged. “I know you’re lying.”
She plainly didn’t believe me, and suddenly I didn’t care if she did or not. I was glad to have the truth in the open.
“Well, I did write the answers on the blackboard and leave them up for the better part of a week!”
She looked at me incredulously. “Why would you do such a thing?” Her face was showing no toothy smile of satisfaction now. She really couldn’t understand why I would not have wanted to implement her exam. “What you’ve done is to compromise the test for the entire eleventh grade by your actions. You’ve invalidated the whole thing.”
“Oh, is that what I did? Well, in that case, GOOD!”
“But now this exam is no longer an authentic assessment!” She snarled.
“Oh, if that’s what is troubling you, it was already inauthentic before I ever saw it. At least it was for my kids. I guess now you know how I feel. It sucks to get screwed over by a colleague, doesn’t it? You thought you were finally going to get me by pulling this exam out at the last minute, didn’t you? Well, surprise. . .surprise Gomer! It looks as though your little game blew up in your face!”
I turned and walked back into the classroom and closed the door. As an afterthought, I pushed the button and locked the door. I wanted to get back to Shalisa’s much more important question about demagoguery and race relations in the United States. I was certain that in my absence she had already looked it up, explained its meaning to Cerita, and had an example of White demagoguery too. This was going to be a great discussion! Since I wasn’t likely to see them again after a just a few more days, each moment was precious to me. I had no more time to waste on Jessica Miller. Besides, I was pretty sure that she was already headed for the principal’s office.
“So what?” Horton mumbled. “They set you up to fail, and you did. Congratulations! You finally lived down to their expectations.”
B.D. piped up. “Like I said, you’re never gonna be ‘Teacher of the Year’ the way you’re going.”
Reentering the room, I saw Thomas suddenly start hissing. Brandon Jones was sitting at my desk, working on my computer. Looking closer, I saw that he was trying to open the computer program, which I used for my grade book. He was so engrossed in trying to guess my password that he didn’t hear the hissing and the commotion behind him. It was obvious that Brandon was trying to change his, or someone else’s grade. I allowed him to continue working, while I quietly reached for an office referral slip. I filled it out with infractions for “not following classroom procedures”, “academic dishonesty”, “honor code violation”, and started to fold it.
“If you want to stretch things, you could include the charge of “theft”. B.D. adds.
“What is he stealing?”
“His rightfully earned grade?” B.D. smiled with raised eyebrows.
“It’s worth a try.” I checked that box too.
“Cerita?”
“Yes, Mr. Kyle?”
“Would you please take this down to the principal’s office for me?”
“Sure.” She rose and walked forward.
At the first word that I spoke aloud, Brandon leapt up. For the first time, he was suddenly aware that I had returned, and had been watching him for some time. He whipped around and glared at me.
I looked at him with a smirk on my face. “Get anywhere with the password, Brandon?”
Brandon’s face clouded over in fury. Because Brandon was six feet, four inches tall, and the starting linebacker for the football team, he wasn’t used to little pipsqueaks like me challenging his actions. He was furious that everyone was suddenly laughing at him. I was angry, so I pressed him a bit more.
“That wasn’t your most gifted move, you know? You’ll need to gather up your books and head on down for a friendly visit with the assistant principal.”
He suddenly started yelling. “You think you’re really smart! Well I’ll tell you something Mr. Kyle; you don’t know shit about working with kids! You don’t know shit!”
I stepped out of Brandon’s way as he truculently stalked over to his desk. “Thank you for your valuable opinion Brandon. Have a nice day. Bye-bye now!” I slathered the derision on thickly, and everyone started laughing at him even louder.
He glared around, then back at me. He wanted to offer a threat, but stopped himself in time. Striding over to the door, he wrenched it open, and slammed it as hard as he could on his way out.
Looking around, I saw Shalisa’s hand raised.
“Yes Shalisa?”
“What do you think they’ll do to Brandon, Mr. Kyle?”
“He’s a football starter. I don’t expect them to do anything to him. Besides, I think I’m on the principal’s shit list. She won’t do anything.”
“So he just gets away with it?” She asked incredulously.
“What do you think?” I replied. “But don’t worry. Brandon still has me to deal with.”
That seemed to satisfy Shalisa because she let the matter drop. I don’t remember the rest of the class about Martin Luther King, but I do remember that we did have a great deal of fun discussing and disrespecting both political parties for the way that they manipulate race relations to support their own particular agenda.
To my knowledge, Brandon was never disciplined. It may have been that the coaches gave him some lame-assed punishment like running laps, but he never apologized for his words or his behavior. I didn’t care too much. I have no doubt that he paid for his stupidity in college, after he repeated a semester of American History in summer school, instead of graduating with his buddies. He probably went on to become a paragon of virtue in the NFL.
I never heard from Sara Getty about the final exam either. In fact, I never heard another word about it from anyone. It was all swept under the rug, as though it had never happened. I couldn’t figure out why I was never called on the carpet, until B.D. pointed out the obvious. “If they bring it to Sara Getty’s attention, then they will have to write a new exam. They aren’t interested in that!”
“They don’t want to have to change after all these years, do they?” I asked.
“They’ll just rearrange the order of questions next year anyway.” He smirked.
