Bop

What should be the first chapter of the Schooled novel…

1

Everyone told me one thing:  be mean.

“Bop ‘em that first day” my father instructed.  His mental capacities damaged by years of teaching high school, nonsensical syllables became verbs in his middle age. “Bop” was favorite; “planted tomatoes today and, boy, did I bop ‘em with some mulch” and “I’m going to bop to the grocery store; need anything?” an example of the word’s many usages.

His advice reemerged in new permutations. A woman, now a nameless and faint memory, grabbed me in the dim hallway the first workday.

“I’m not staying here.  I put in my two weeks notice, so I’ll only be here ten days,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting mine with a crazed look, “but you seem nice, so I had to tell you.  Don’t smile.  They will think it’s a sign of weakness.”  She locked her eyes onto mine, making sure I understood.  “Don’t smile,” she repeated, even more adamantly. “Remember that.”

I nodded my head in affirmation, avoiding a smile, and darted to my empty classroom.  So that’s why this school is underperforming, I thought, it’s staffed with unsmiling, escaped mental asylum patients.  I resolved to do the opposite of her recommendation.  I am going to kill those kids with kindness, I promised myself. I did not endure years of painful orthodontia for these pearly whites to be hidden.

The mean theme persisted.  Another colleague, Ms. Clardy, who initially seemed the type to revel in car sing-along sessions, broke from character one afternoon.

“This is what I always tell first-year teachers,” she said while pulling me aside in the cafeteria.  “I wait for one of the students to screw up that first day, and then, bam, I really let them have it.  When I see they are scared, like really, really, really scared, I continue on for a couple more minutes.”  She paused to let this sink in.  Her face now angelic, she continued.  “Then everything’s fine for the rest of the year.”  Like the woman before her, Ms. Clardy seemed undeniably deranged, a ticking time bomb of violence waiting to explode.

These pieces of advice are a test, I determined, remnants of old school teaching, the very practices I am here to correct.  I rejected the notion that one can only rule through fear, thinking back to the teachers who had oppressed my own education with cantankerous words, curmudgeon eyes and pointing fingers.  I am not going to be those antiquated educators, I reminded myself, but something far greater, far better, far…nicer.  They deserve better.

“They” were 28 Special Education students in Charlotte, North Carolina to be exact.  28 names I struggled to pronounce.  First Block was dominated by T’s:  Tequanda, Terrion, Trondell and Tre’von.  Third Block was the Shauns:  O’Scheon, D’Shaun and Tyshawn.  Fourth Block was Quanishia and Jhniya.  These were names that confounded standard conventions and punctuation, yet rolled off my Central-white-Virginia rural tongue with inventiveness and energy.

I practiced these names at home at night, struggling to make them commonplace, picturing their faces.  I created back stories for the students, previous lives. I was most consumed, though, with the thoughts of their lives after our class together.  I had visions of our parting moments, the North Carolina sun casting a saintly glow on my face and catching in my blond hair, the children clinging around me like the Pied Piper, their bus drivers impatiently honking the bus’ horns.

“But, I don’t want to leave you for the summer, Mr. Freeman!  I wish you were my brother, or my dad, or my uncle,” one particularly emotional student – perhaps Terrion – might say, “something so I could see you at family reunions.” I would shrug and solemnly smile, as if to express, “You’re not alone, young Terrion, many before you have and many after you will wish to be related to my greatness.”

Other students, unable to express their devastation in words, would surely try to hug me, grab me even, as the bus drivers threatened to leave.  I would recoil from their bodies, encouraging them to be strong and remember what Mr. Freeman told them:  never let go of your dreams, you shining star.

2

I didn’t grow up wanting to be a teacher; I figured I’d be a dolphin trainer or Crayon-color-namer.  But, when college graduation became unavoidable, reality hit.  Hard.  My plan to become famous had not materialized.  Efforts to secure a private benefactor had also failed.  My psychology and studio art degrees left me superbly qualified to psychoanalyze art but few job optoins.  Someone, a more qualified someone, could tend to Flipper or distinguish between goldenrod and yellowed-sun.  Thus, I came to the decision thousands of other lost, over-educated and under-experienced individuals come to each year:  I would be a teacher.  I anticipated my parents, teachers themselves, would be overjoyed.

“Oh, honey.  Are you sure?” my mother asked after my announcement, setting down her wine glass.  “I’ve heard grad school is fun,” she continued, her voice rising over the holiday music.

“Mom, I don’t know what I want to study in grad school,” I countered.  “Plus, I really want to make a difference.”  I loved how these words felt as they leapt from my mouth:

I really want

to make

a difference.

“Well, buddy…” my dad chimed in, looking up from The New Yorker, “just know that your first year of teaching is really one of the most difficult things you can ever do.”  He sighed.  “But, jeesh, if you really want to, I say whoopy-de-do.”

“Yes, Dad, I really want to,” I said, emphatically, annoyed at their doubt concerning my noble calling.  Who are these people to doubt my decision? My father had spent the past two decades calling me “Jalex,” a combination of John, my younger brother’s name, and my own.  Yeah Dad, I bet your first year of teaching was hard, I assured myself, you don’t even know your own sons’ names.  But me, I’m amazing.  I have a college degree!  Two majors in fact.  The worlds needs me.  “I don’t know why you guys are so hesitant about this.  You’re both teachers!”

Silence.

“Well, yes, but when I was growing up that’s what women did, Alex,” my mom said, breaking the silence. “They became secretaries or teachers.  If I could do it all over again, I would go into science.”  Science?  News to me as my mother had, in all seriousness, recently required an explanation of how hens could lay egg sans the presence of roosters.  She’s a teacher and she loves it.  I dismissed my mother’s claim.  Is she being menopausal?

“I wouldn’t say that.  I would choose to teach again,” my dad offered.  “I’m just saying…that first year is really, you know, bam.”

3

In the workdays before school began for the year, I did not focus on how to “bop” my 28 students.  Instead, I focused on decorating my classroom.  I labored with zeal foreign to my 22 years, drawing inspiration from the home-decorating shows I watched on lazy Sunday afternoons.

I started with “curb appeal,” pasting a sheet of blue construction paper on the front door.  “Room 402 – Mr. Freeman’s Scholars” it stated in purple letters.  I continued this color scheme inside.  A unified palatte makes a space larger, I thought while covering the unsightly black metal of my desk with bright blue paper and matching bulletin borders.

I stapled a sign reading Shoutouts! (the exclamation point slanted and hopeful) on one of the bulletin boards.  Here, I imagined, the class would post encouragement.  Things like:  “Shoutout to Tequanda for writing a thrilling essay on the differences between the written and movie versions of A Christmas Carol” or “Shoutout to Mr. Freeman for being the only teacher who ever cared.  I might have offed myself were it not for you.”

The other bulletin board showcased the “Champion Road,” alluding to the school’s motto, “Ransom Raises Champions.”  I found this motto vague, unsure how champions were raised, or what kind of champion we sought.  All designers must make concessions to their client, I reminded myself.

The Champion Road was a behavioral system.  Each day, the class could collectively earn points for arriving on time, completing work and respecting each other.  Dependent upon how many points they earned, the class could move forward on the “road.”  10 points moved the class forward one space; 20 points, two spaces.  Spots on the road signified rewards:  cookies, homework passes, music, and at the road’s end, a party.  I suppose we’ll be having a lot of parties, I forecasted, these kids are just going to l-o-v-e this.

Above the bulletin boards I placed my “signature piece” – the classroom rules and consequences.  High above the bulletin boards, they looked important and foreboding, though my eyes squinted to accurately read them:  respect yourself; respect others; respect property; respect learning time.  Aretha would be proud.

My students would appreciate these rules as they were fair and simple.  Further, they were different from the insulting rules I saw other teachers posting.  Silly things like “don’t eat,” “sit down and stay down!” and even “don’t get up until the bell rings, ever.”  In my classroom, I thought, we will eat freely (as long as we share) and we will get up freely (as long as it is for an important reason). I would have little use for consequences, but I posted them anyway:

1.  Verbal warning

2.  Written warning

3.  Reflection table

4.  Call home

5.  Removal from class

I was most proud of the Reflection Table.  The name was a misnomer; the Reflection Table resembled more a “Shoddy Desk with Three Legs in the Corner,” however, this name was far too lengthy to fit on my blue paper.  “Reflection Table” it was; an area where a disgruntled student could cool off, calming down before rejoining the class.  Perhaps a student will get too wound up by the social injustice I am highlighting during my lecture, I noted, and will simply need a moment to reflect.  Or, perhaps my rigorous grading will distress a particularly well-intentioned student, warranting a moment of solace.

Behind the Reflection Table were large windows which provided a view of the courtyard.  Like the Reflection Table, “courtyard” was a generous term to describe this space; an expanse of tall grass that harbored a vibrant and visible bee population.

Beside the window, obscured by the blinding light, was “Scholar Speak.”  Five purple terms on blue paper placed over an elongated cracked mirror:

Six-inch voices

Raising hands

Silence

Mr. Freeman Only

Talking stick

Using double stick tape, I rested a yellow arrow on the space for “talking stick.”  The yellow of the arrow provided visual contrast, accenting the blue behind it and serving as the room’s sole warm colored item. It’s like the throw pillow, I noted.  The vividness of the arrow belied its importance.  “Scholar Speak” was my way of demonstrating how we would speak at any given moment.

I found the terms self-explanatory:  “Six-inch voices” for group work when the students could talk amongst themselves, though controlling their volume so as to only be heard by someone six inches way; “Raising hands” for when students were to speak only when they raised their hands; “Silence” for when there was to be absolutely no talking under any circumstances, such as the frequent tests and quizzes I had planned; “Mr. Freeman Only” for when only I was to be speaking, with absolutely no interruptions whatsoever; “Talking Stick’ for when students were to talk only if they were in possession of a literal stick.  I had not yet created said talking stick.  Probably won’t need that one for awhile.

My classroom was striking.  Several teachers, upon review of the room, noted a lack of quotes or kitten posters.  I dismissed their suggestions.  These kids needed fashion, for crying out loud!  In a classroom as well decorated as mine, I would have little need for kitten posters or quotes, little need to be mean.  It was time.  I was ready for the culmination of all decorating shows – the open house – or, in my case, the first day of school.

4

I stood outside the door as the sun streamed in chunks through the hallway.  I smiled, of course.  A cautious smile but a smile nonetheless.  I rocked in my dress shoes, eagerly awaiting my first student, that first lucky soul whose life I would change forever.  Children buzzed through the hallway, hugging each other, screaming at the top of the lungs.  “I missed you all summer!”  “Boo, I ‘bout died without you.”  Their reunions were a forced ebullient.  Few were concerned to get to class.

“Is this Room 402?” A student’s voice crept through commotion. He was a large boy, tall for a seventh grader, round.  His eyes were cast to the floor.  His skin was dark, almost blue.  He wore a t-shirt that dwarfed his shoulders, falling smoothly down his torso and ending at his knees.  It would fit a person – a giant, perhaps – twice his size.  He looked ridiculous, hardly a fitting component of the modern sleek minimalism of the classroom awaiting him inside.

“Well, yes, this is Room 402.  Home of the Freeman Scholars.  I’m Mr. Freeman,” I said, extending my hand, “and you would be?”

The boy looked at me, slightly amused but mostly horrified.  “Anthony,” he mumbled.

“Well Anthony, I’m glad to have you here, it’s going to be a great year.”  He shook my hand tentatively and moped inside.

A procession of eight other children filtered in after Anthony.  In this odd procession, they all seemed to have a similar reaction to me:  amused, then disturbed.  Their handshakes were slight and weak.  They didn’t smile.  They walked quickly into the room, finding their assigned seats, their names dutifully noted in blue construction paper atop the desks.  As I waited outside, I overhead their comments.

“Dang this room is really blue!” Tequanda said, stretching the word “dang” into several dramatic syllables.

“How we scholars?” Dominique asked.

“Talking stick?  What the eff?”

“Is this a class for retards or something?”

When the bell rang, I quickly moved from my post at the door to front of the class.  I took a deep breath.  Looking out at the sea of expectant faces, I was overcome by confusion and apprehension.  I drowned in this moment, now aware that before me were my actual, real, live, students; their education, their lives, their future now entrusted in my hands.  I suddenly regretted not planning more for this moment:  my first words as a teacher.  Shit, fuck, what am I going to say?  Shit, fuck.  Why are they all staring at me?

“Welcome, my name is Mr. Freeman and this is your Language Arts class,” I began, noticing a slight hesitation in my voice.  “We are going to do two things today.”  I pointed to the agenda written on the board.  “First, we are going to go over the rules.  Then, I have some sheets for you to fill out so I can get to know you and we can have an excellent year.”  I paused.  Silence.  Did I not make sense?  Do they hate me? “Um…before we begin, do you have any questions?”

Tequanda raised her hand.  “Why this room so blue?”  I had anticipated a more germane question concerning the curriculum or expectations of the class, but appreciated her aesthetic concern.

I struggled for an answer.  “Well, Tequanda, I’m glad you asked.  This room is so blue because I went to the University of North Carolina.  Blue is their school color.”  This was a lie – blue was the only color left when I got to the supply room – but I was pleased with my quickness and was similarly excited to already be talking about college.

“Is that off Beatties Ford Road?” Dominique interjected.

“Well, no.  It’s in Chapel Hill.”  Their faces showed confusion.  Though Chapel Hill was only located two hours north of our classroom in Charlotte, their expressions informed me they knew nothing about this town.  I knew one thing they were sure to know.  “It’s where Michael Jordan went to school.”

“He ain’t no Le’Bron.” Tre’von said caustically.

“Ah come on man, that nigga is sick,” Justin retorted.

I winced.  As a white, green-eyed blond from a middle-class family, I had always found this “n word” – even when altered to end with “a” rather than “er” – uncomfortable.  I had decided this infamous word would not be allowed in my classroom.  I hesitated. We’ll have this conversation later.  There are more important things to talk about. “Scholar Speak” for example.  Yes, I’ll talk about Scholar Speak. Brilliant, Alex!  Oh, they will just love that.  I bet Tequanda notices that the arrow is yellow, she’s so into colors. To my surprise, by the time I broke out of my inner thoughts, the class had erupted into a cacophony of disagreement concerning basketball.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I’m not done.”  Nothing changed.  Their conversation grew more heated, growing, steamrolling, leaving me behind.  “Excuse me,” I repeated, sure that this time, they would grant me the respect I deserved.

They continued on.

Unsure of what to do, I darted to the Scholar Speak corner, dramatically grabbing the yellow arrow off “Raising Hands” and aggressively placing it on “Mr. Freeman Only.”  My desperate actions caught their attention and a majority of the class granted me their attention.

“As you can see,” I started, my voice now whiny and unrecognizable, “we have a way of speaking around here.”  As I spoke, Tre’von continued to speak to Anthony concerning the merits of Le’Bron James.  “This is called the Scholar Speak and, frankly, I hadn’t planned on talking about it today, but…”  I couldn’t focus with Tre’von so noticeably disregarding my moment.  Who is this kid? I seered my eyes into him.

“As I was saying, Tre’von, we have a way of speaking around here so we can be sure to learn as much as possible.”  With the word “learn” a noticeable sigh echoed throughout the room.  “This arrow lets you know how to speak and when to speak.”  I pointed to the arrow.  “As you can see, the arrow is currently on ‘Mr. Freeman Only’ which means that I am the only one whom can speak.”  I paused, letting this fact silence the room

“How come you the only one who can speak?” Tequanda asked, indignant.

I placed a finger over my mouth – the universal symbol for hush.  “Tequanda, while I appreciate your question, I really do, the thing about ‘Mr. Freeman Only’ is that I am, truly, the only person who can speak.  So, while your question was good…”

“I said, how come you the only one who can speak?” Tequanda repeated, as if I hadn’t understood the question initially.

I was flustered.  In my preparation of the classroom, I had failed to consider students would actually question the rules, consequences and procedures.  They were mine to make and theirs to follow.  If we were to achieve my ambitious goals of content mastery and subsequent world peace, it was imperative that this natural order was in place.  What was Tequanda’s question again?

“Yeah, how come you the only who can speak?  I’mma speak when I wanna,” Tre’von reminded me.

“Well, Tre’von – and Tequanda – the reason I’m the only person who can speak when this arrow is on ‘Mr. Freeman Only’ is so that we can learn.  There might be times I want to give instructions and not have any questions until the end.  There might be times I need to speak for a long time and don’t want to be interrupted.  It’ll help us all learn.”

“It’s just an arrow,” Tequanda chided, unimpressed, an obvious aggression in her voice.  She knew how to be mean – did I?

“Where’s the talking stick?” Tre’von asked.

There was no talking stick.  I grabbed a dry erase marker.

“This, um, marker, is going to be the talking stick today.”  I moved the arrow to “Talking Stick.”  “So, whoever has this marker, they are the ones who can speak.”  Their expressions were vacant.  Unimpressed.  “Let’s try.”

I placed the marker on Anthony’s desk.  His large dark eyes looked up at me, confused.  I mouthed the words “you can talk.”  More confusion.  I pointed to him and mouthed “you can talk,” again, slower this time.  Nothing.

“Why you acting like a mime?” Tequanda asked.  Ever inquisitive.

I grabbed the marker off Anthony’s desk.  “Tequanda.  You didn’t have the talking stick.”  I paused and gave her my best glare.  I took a deep breath.  I tried to smile.  I wanted them to like me but, I could tell they already didn’t.  “Because I didn’t have the talking stick either, I was trying to silently tell Anthony here that I wanted him – and only him –  to talk because he was the one with the talking stick.”

“So, you was trying to get me to talk?  I couldn’t tell what you were trying to say.”  Anthony, once silent, now spoke.

“Anthony – you don’t have the stick!  Wait until you have the stick!”  I plunked the marker on his desk.  He remained silent.  I grabbed the stick off his desk.  I’m supposed to teach this kid reading comprehension and he can’t figure out how to master the talking stick? “Ok, let’s practice this.”  I scanned the room.  Tre’von was rifling through his backpack, searching for something.  “Tre’von, you can help me practice.”  I walked over to him as he pulled out a cell phone.  “First off, put that phone back.  It’s not time for that now.”  He obliged.  A small victory.  “Now, when I hand you the stick – and only when I hand you the stick – say something.  Anything.”  Not the n word, preferably.

I handed him the stick.

“This ain’t no stick.  It’s a marker.”  He stared right at me.

“He right.”  Tequanda chimed in.

“Shut up!  I’ve got the stick.  You can’t talk, trick.” Tre’von squiggled in his chair to face Tequanda.  His expression was pure rage:  his brow was furrowed, his lower lip jutted out, his eyes were possessed by an intensity that belied his age.

“I will talk when I want, son.” Tequanda spit back, her body threatening to vault from the chair into Tre’von’s direction.  All eyes were on Tequanda now.  The class was ecstatic, a palpable energy coursed through the room.  Shit, shit, shit.  Who the hell are these kids?

I raced to the Scholar Speak board.  Frantically, I placed the arrow on “Silent.”

Miraculously, the classroom was silent for a moment, though the floor decidedly decidedly Tre’von and Tequanda’s.  The silence had less to do with my actions and more to do with the captive audience focused on Tequanda and Tre’von’s tift.  Time slowed as they growled in their chairs.

I looked around the classroom, noting the perfectly coordinated blue accents, the lines of desks aligned to the floor’s tiles, the pencils culled into a coffee mug on my desk.  As long as I averted my eyes from my students, the classroom appeared charming, inspirational even.  In this moment, I realized the error of my ways:  in my meticulous planning of the things of the classroom, I had failed to plan for the actual students of the classroom.  Harkening back to my decorating shows, I had a beautiful home, but an ugly family.

They were ready to bop each other.