Dave's Teach For America Chronicles / Chapter Five: Second Quarter
For second quarter, I kept 704 (Sierra's class), dropped 604 and 608, and added 705 and 706. Planning with two different curriculums daily had been difficult, so I was relieved to stick with just the 7th grade. 704, my homeroom class, was still manageable but had a few new students added in after the schedule change. 705 was the most well-behaved class I had encountered over the entire year; 706 was the absolute worst-behaved class I had encountered over the entire year. Go figure. The good news was that I got to move to the vacant open-space class adjacent to me, which meant I had more room, board space and better desks. I took all my palm fronds and vines down and moved them to the new location.
I basically got to start over again with 705 and 706, which was great. I could be strict with consequences up front and start a new tone. It worked with 705, but not 706. I called most of their parents on the very first day. These guys were off the hook much more than my 6th graders had been. Now, instead of students just talking while I was trying to teach, 706 students liked to get out of their seats, play "trashketball", hit each other and complain that they got hit. Daryl in 706 became the bane of my existence. He was always in hyper-crazy-go-insane-swearing mode. My first-year mentor came into my class and helped me with some of the behavior problems, sometimes taking five or six of the troublemakers into a different room to complete assignments alone. Usually, though, I dreaded that last period 706 class. I never seemed to leave school on a good note.
The after school drawing club was losing its initial appeal, so I decided to start something new: a reading club. My parents gave me boxes of my old books, and I created a class library. I added a few incentives to stay after, like free point tickets or snacks and soda. It sold well, and I had about a dozen kids stay after during the first day, including some of my old 6th graders, and some kids who weren't even in my classes. And again, the "bad kids" liked to stay after with me. This is where I met the infamous Prince, a name I had heard teachers yell all over the school. Prince started to come visit me in the mornings too and borrowed some of my old Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books.
The school as a whole was getting more and more out of control. Now I was faced with an extra challenge: as the only 7th grade teacher in the 6th grade wing, I was on a different schedule than the surrounding classes. This meant for half of 705 and all of 706, I was the only teacher in the 6th grade wing. So all hall wanderers, all lightswitch flickers, and all friends in other classes knew that they wouldn't get caught in the 6th grade wing during those times. Almost every day things were thrown over my dividers when students entered the vacant classroom next door. Textbooks, paper, eggs, pencils and pens, trashcans, carrots, chairs - I saw them all airborne at some point, all hovering in what seemed like slow-motion over my students. The school was changing from just being out of control to dangerous. Even the well-behaved 705 class started to deteriorate after dodging projectiles from students hiding behind dividers. After one particularly bad incident where my student got clocked with a textbook, I had the students write about the lack of safety in the 6th grade hall and turned in the responses to the principal. Jordan, an absolutely brilliant student and just all-around good kid, wrote "I was scared today. I hid under my desk because I was afraid of getting hit by books." Regardless of our cry for help, the throwing continued.
Winter break could not have come at a better time. I needed a week to relax and think everything over, and then finish up the remaining month in the second quarter when I came back in January. On the day before break, Daryl from 706 came into my 705 class, saying that he had been kicked out of math. Not wanting him wandering around the halls, I sat him down in a corner and gave him paper and a pencil to draw with. As I was lining the students up for their next period, Daryl joined a group of my 705 students who weren't getting up just yet. They were playing paper-rock-scissors. I asked them to line up twice but they were too caught up in the game. Soon Daryl had added a new element to the game: hit the person on the back of the head who loses. Everyone laughed and thought that this was a great idea. By this time, I went over to the table and asked each student individually to line up. No one responded; it was like I wasn't even there. I turned around and decided to start taking the rest of 705 to their next class and hoped the paper-rock-scissors crew would quickly get up. I had made my way to the front of the room when I heard yelling, and I turned around to see the crowd of kids all getting their punches in for the loser of the game - a kid named Darnell.
And then I saw Daryl grab Darnell's head and slam it into the edge of the desk. The laughs turned into shock, the rest of 705 and the now-approaching 706 raced to the scene. "Get help now" I whispered to the nearest student, who ran downstairs. Blood covered Darnell's face and more blood on the desk was dripping onto the chair and carpet. I stood in absolute disbelief, unable to move or even process what had just happened - how Daryl could have been so cruel and violent as to intentionally do what he did. A teacher later criticized me for not immediately rushing to Darnell's aid. Another teacher criticized me for not breaking up the flurry of fists dished out to Darnell. I can't explain why I stood frozen there. I felt more powerless than ever in a place that I didn't want to be in. Darnell got stitches that afternoon.
The break was a reflective time. I thought about the year so far; what I had done wrong coupled with what kind of a world I was teaching in. I began to think about everything from quitting to moving to a different school to leaving after finishing the school year. I had never felt this unhappy before. When school started back up again, things seemed to be even worse. The ever-present hall wanderers were having races down my hallway. The water fountains were cut off because a study showed the pipes contained high traces of lead. Bathrooms had to be locked up because students were using the walls instead of the toilets (and yes, for #1 and #2). And then something unexpected happened in my personal life, and I suddenly felt alone at the most challenging point of my year. I spent my lunch periods locked up in the 6th grade planning room with my head down and my eyes closed while I listened to the yelling in the hallway outside. I would open a cabinet door slightly to block me so it would give me enough time to pretend I was eating if someone walked in the door. As a thin person who couldn't afford to lose much weight, I lost ten pounds.
The teacher next door to me was a woman originally from Trindad named Ms. Jacob. She had a thick accent that caused the kids to call her "Miss Cleo," but even they knew that she was an excellent teacher. She was only in her third year of teaching, but she was always someone that I could talk to for a direct, honest answer. She came up to me one morning, sensing something was even more wrong than usual, and asked me about it. I was writing an objective on the board, chalk in one hand, clipboard in the other, and just started crying. The kids began to walk in, and she took me to the 6th grade planning room and closed the door. We talked until the announcements were over and I composed myself again, but when I walked back into the classroom, I wished I was anywhere else but there. There was no such thing as a "good day" at Northeast. The days got progressively worse.
I know very little about the clinical nature of depression, but the days dragged on and I had no idea how I was going to survive two more quarters of this. I had exhausted myself on discipline, phone calls, making worksheets and instruction, but worst of all, I felt like I wasn't teaching these students anything. My save-the-world dreams of teaching had been reduced to a battle to survive. Second quarter was ending and few things made me happy. I had received a Nintendo Gamecube video game system for Christmas, and it frequently became an afterschool outlet, as did writing music and drawing. I met with Camika, my Teach For America program director, for a one-on-one midyear meeting. She had heard about the daily challenges from the other Northeast teachers, since everyone was having an extremely difficult time with the administration and our environment. I basically talked for 45 minutes, answering a list of questions about my year, and Camika gave me some ideas, strategies, and phone numbers to call.
With the help of an assistant principal, I was finally able to get in touch with Daryl's mother. We sat down with Daryl in the 6th grade office and talked for a half hour. It was visible that Daryl's mom was trying hard with him, but now she seemed helpless. "I don't know what else to do anymore," she said several times during our conversation. "I even took Christmas away from him." The kid inside me slumped as I looked at Daryl's gaze at the wall. His mother and I left the meeting with more questions than answers. During one particularly difficult day at school, I dropped 706 off but asked Daryl to come with me. We sat down in the 6th grade office and just talked. We talked like two kids, especially about video games. And Daryl pretty much told me his life story. He sometimes saw his Dad, and his older brother worked at the BWI Airport. He had to go to court once a month because he had told a teacher he wanted to kill her. This was after she ripped up his drawing of Pikachu that he had worked hard on. So I asked Daryl if he wanted to stay after school on Wednesdays for a couple of hours to do extra work so he could pick up his grade, but also to play Game Boy Advance video games. He agreed and asked me to call his mom for permission. I did, and she thanked me.
Second quarter ended with the same things being thrown and the same battles being fought, but connecting with Daryl was the first bright point of teaching that I had seen in a long time. The first day he stayed after, we read an textbook story about Jackie Robinson together and played Bomberman Tournament by linking our systems together. Again, what was it with me and this attraction to the so-called bad kids? I always chalked it up to my inexperience and thought they liked me just because they could get away with anything while I was around. But Daryl was starting to change my mind.
(Dave's TFA Chronicles are eight short stories about Dave's job as a Language Arts teacher in Baltimore City Public Schools from 2002 to 2003. Read the other chapters: one two three four five six seven eight)
Sunday, June 22 at 5:06 PM
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