Little Things Mean a Lot

I've been on a veritable crusade to introduce soap into the trailer bathrooms (I know it's asking a lot, but that's the kind of guy I turned out to be). I've gotten some assistance from a cooperative assistant principal who bullied the custodians into repairing the iron pipes that hung precariously from the railings. They even fixed my door, which now closes and locks, and it took them a mere 8 months.

The soap thing, though, has been a real uphill battle. One day, two bars of soap magically appeared. The next, one of my students asked me to take a look. Inside the bathroom, on the stainless steel sink, which is never, ever cleaned, there was what appeared to be rust. On closer inspection, it was an odd brownish substance which seemed to be growing out of the sink surface. The kids showed me the soap, which had a few millimeter's worth of the substance growing out of it.

I picked it up with a paper towel (which I found in the teacher desk, there being none in the bathroom), and brought it to the AP. But when I got to the office, there was a meeting going on, involving several people wearing suits. When I looked in, a secretary asked if there was an emergency. As I was almost late for hall patrol, I picked up the thing, showed it, and said, "Look what my kids are supposed to wash their hands with. Would you let your children touch a thing like this?"

The helpful AP made a note, gave a sympathetic nod, and expressed disappointment they didn't get liquid soap. I tossed the foul thing away and marched out to keep the halls safe for democracy.

Later, in the lunchroom, the secretary reproached me. "I was very embarrassed by what you did in there. I asked if it was an emergency. No one was bleeding, and it was my fault you interrupted that meeting."

"I don't think it reflects on you," I said. "I was the one who thought it was important."

While she's right it wasn't life or death, I'm quite curious what they were meeting about. What were they talking about that was so much more important than the health and hygiene of the kids I teach?

The Grand Hall

I'm ever-vigilantly standing in my hall patrol, in front of the department office, and a kid approaches me. As a hall patrol, I wear many hats (Actually I don't wear any, as the school dress code explicitly prohibits them). But as usual, there's no one in the office, and I'm the only adult around.

Since I'm wearing a tie, the young man figures I must be in charge.

"Ms. Laconic kicked me out."

"Why?"

"She crazy! She just kick me out for no reason!"

"Okay. Teachers do that all the time. But they always say some reason, even if it doesn't make any sense. So why did Ms. Laconic say she kicked you out?"

The kid understands. He smiles. "She say it's because I'm late."

"Well, were you late?"

"Yeah I was late, but she don't have to go kicking me out!"

"Was it the first time you were late?"

"No."

"How often are you late?"

"Hey, you know I can't be making it to her class on time. It's too early, yo."

I know how it is. It's tough to get anywhere by 10:30 in the AM.

"Why are you late so often?"

"I have to work, yo."

Now we're getting somewhere. All too often employers abuse kids, make them work all sorts of hours, don't give a damn that they have to go to school. I'd better check that out.

"When do you work, exactly?"

"Three to six on Saturdays, in my uncle's store."

"So you're late every day to Ms. Laconic's class because you have to work three hours on Saturday? You're still tired from that on Wednesday?"

"I have to play soccer, too."

"When?"

"3-5 after school."

"That should give you plenty of time to make it to Ms. Laconic's class. You could even do homework..."

"Yo, I have to unwind. I have to go out after with my peeps, yo."

"How long does that take?"

"I might get home about midnight."

"You could still get to Ms. Laconic's class on time."

"That's wack." Now he's mad. "I got things to do."

At this point, a supervisor entered the office. I left her to work out a solution to this perplexing dilemma. After all, as a lowly teacher, I'm not qualified to judge all the fine points of situations like this.

And there are halls to patrol.

The College Office

My colleague Phil, for his building assignment, works in the college office. Now teachers write recommendations for their students all the time. I write dozens of them, and I believe I've declined only two kids in 22 years. But what happens to the kids teachers decline? They still need recommendations.

Well, Phil writes 'em:

I've never actually met Susan, but I'm fairly certain she has some very good qualities. I can see from her photo that she's very well-dressed, at least down to her shoulders. Also, her hair is immaculately combed. She appears to have all of her teeth, though I can't actually be sure from the photograph. I think, though, that you can count on Susan for good hygeine. There's not a stain on her, at least from the shoulders up.

Susan's transcript clearly states she got a 75 in gym last spring. That's ten more points than are required to pass. Now, Susan didn't have to work that hard, but she took it upon herself, and chose not to accept the minimum.

This says to me that Susan is the kind of person who strives for something better. Clearly she could have settled for 65. She may have even settled for 70. But, no, she went for 75.

I think when Susan gets her GED, college will be just around the corner. This will be even more likely if she ever learns to speak English. And make no mistake, she's trying hard. She's taken level one English as a second language not four, not five, but six times.

Sure, she hasn't actually reported to any of those English classes, but Susan is nothing if not determined. Why next time, it's entirely possible she may show up. If so, she may access that gumption she displayed in gym last spring, and....

I don't know whose idea it was to make Phil (or others) do this job. It appears someone determined that with Phil writing their recommendations, these kids would have it made. Somehow, though, I'm left wondering whether there should have been more serious intervention before the matter reached his desk.

Protection

Security guards are not what they used to be. In our school, we had an entire group of them at one time. Everyone knew them and they knew everyone, kids included. One day someone decided to disband our little force and send them all over the city.

Now, they come, they go, and no one knows from one day to the next who they actually are. Worse, no one is sure what they actually do.

Kids walk up and down the halls wearing hats, talking on their cells, and listening to their ipods. Security guards watch passively. They don't ask why they're in the hall, and they don't ask why they're violating school rules. At a recent meeting, I heard an administrator say, "It's like we have a dozen extra kids wandering the halls."

A few weeks ago, while on my hall patrol, I saw three security guards standing in a corner, while a chronic truant huddled with them discussing God only knows what. I approached the kid and sent her to class while the guards continued their chat.

Why do they watch? Well, I'm told it's because they want to avoid confrontations. If they were to say, "Hey, kid, take off the hat, put the phone away, take those things out of your ears, and go to class," the kid might have a bad reaction. As we all know, bad reactions are bad.

It's different for teachers, apparently. I would not hesitate to say any or all of those things to each and every kid in my class. And the fact is, such remarks may indeed cause confrontations.

But by avoiding them in the hall, they're letting the kids know rules don't matter. And frankly, support like that is worse than no support at all.

The Uniform

During my endless hall patrol, when boredom threatens to jump out of the air and strangle me to death, one of our Chinese teachers often takes pity and speaks to me, thus diverting me from the pointless mind-numbing task UFT President Randi Weingarten has condemned me to perform forever.

Yesterday, she told me that she had to wear a school uniform from first through twelfth grade. When she was selected for college, she was thrilled and had her mother buy her a pair of jeans. She'd wanted one for years and though it cost 25 Chinese dollars (a lot for them at the time), her mom obliged. But when she got to college, a dour-looking matron informed her jeans were prohibited even there.

One of the things she loves about America is the frequency with which she can wear jeans. Another is the fact that, as far as she can tell, it doesn't bother anyone at all.

"Boy," I told her, "I never had to wear a uniform. I'm glad we don't wear uniforms."

"But of course you do," she said.

Just then, four kids walked down the hall. Three of them were wearing black North Face Jackets. One was not.

"Where's your North Face jacket?" she asked the fourth kid.

"I left it in class," she replied.

I recently bought my daughter a full-length down coat at Macy's. I remember marveling that the North Face jacket in her size came only to the waist and cost $200 more.

Anyway, she's right. Our kids do wear uniforms.

And expensive ones too.

On the Job 2

It's fairly tedious standing around in a corridor for 45 minutes a day. After a conversation with a dean, I decided to stop every single kid walking down the hall who didn't carry a pass.

I learned that most of the kids walking down the hall claimed to be going to lunch, but that a good half of them were walking the wrong way. I started sending them the right way. This did not sit well with the dean near the lunchroom, who put up a gate and made every kid walk around the entire school to get to the lunchroom. This tended to waste quite a bit of my time.

Meanwhile, I pursued the kids who refused to stop and caught every one of them, writing them up and dragging them to the dean's office. I got a letter in my file saying what a great job I was doing, and due to the new contract I couldn't even grieve it.

Once, I chased a kid all over the building, and a dean, who knew her name, sent her to lunch rather than to the dean's office. He explained that if she didn't get lunch it would be "another issue." The special ed. dean said they would not pursue this, as there was a "much more important" case pending against the young woman.

A colleague told me his approach was to challenge only kids who were not moving. "If they're moving, they're going somewhere," he said. I decided to adopt this policy.

The other day, a kid stood outside a nearby door. He said he was going to lunch. I told him to go then. He refused. I asked for his ID and he finally started to move. The AP of security was at the end of the hall, and I asked him to stop the kid. He gave the kid a lecture on what a great job I was doing, then allowed him to go to lunch. He told me to write it up on the hall patrol rather than in the office so that I wouldn't miss anything.

I don't particularly understand why they want us to do jobs better suited for scarecrows. But I'm not wasting another minute enforcing rules for people too lazy to back me up.

On the Job

Last year I used to work a C6 assignment in the ESL office. When Spanish-speakers came in to enroll, I translated for them. But this year I've been assigned to a much more vital activity--hall patrol.

Yesterday was particularly challenging. A kid walked by. I asked him if he had a pass. He did.

Another kid walked by. He didn't have a pass, but was headed to lunch. Several more kids walked by, heading for lunch.

In a crucial moment, a few kids walked by, claiming to be on the way to lunch. But my eagle eye detected they were headed away from the cafeteria! I checked their programs, and set them straight. Or made them walk the other way, at least.

Thankfully, I'm no longer frittering my time away helping newcomers, let alone writing lesson plans or correcting essays.