Stay Gold

“Favorite book?” Tre’von said, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape in exaggerated astonishment.  He looked as if I’d inquired if he’d ever played the “My Heart Will Go On” flute solo while sky diving.  “I don’t read books,” he answered, curling the left side of his mouth into a sneer.

“Maybe not for personal pleasure, Tre’von, but how ‘bout for school?  A favorite book you’ve read in school?” I followed.  It was late September; I was still naïve.  Surely Tre’von had read one enjoyable book in seven years of schooling.

“Never read a book,” Tre’von responded.  He lied a great deal, most notably regarding his whereabouts the first ten minutes of class and relation to Michael Vick, but I instinctually knew Tre’von was not lying at this moment.

The next day,  I asked Ah-Lonzo, the brightest, the same question after he completed a quiz (aced as usual) minutes before the rest.

“I don’t know.  I don’t remember none,” he flippantly answered.

As each student completed their quiz, I repeated the question.  Each student had a similar answer:  they didn’t have a favorite book and had never read one in school save for those of the “See Spot Run” variety.

In coming to Ransom, I expected dramatic educational ineptness, but this fact still stunned me.  That night, lamenting their quizzes over a glass of wine, I determined my students would read – cover to cover – a bonafide book:  chapters, character development, three-plus syllable words.  This goal, surprisingly, went against the county’s curriculum, which required I teach exclusively from a textbook featuring only outdated short stories.  Fortunately, my administration operated on a hear-no-see-no- speak-no-evil policy, entering my classroom only to collect the attendance sheet once each morning. Were I to stray from the curriculum and incorporate, of all things, an honest-to-God book, only I (and my students) would be the wiser.

After some internet research, I chose The Outsiders.  Authored by 16-year-old S.E. Hinton, the novel chronicles two rival groups, the poor Greasers and the rich Socials, in 1960s Tulsa.  The story begins with an aborted knifing and continues with a church fire, a gun exchange, and a gang fight, ultimately climaxing with a (spoiler alert) killing at the hands of the police.  Any book we read would have to compete with my students’ reality for their attention; The Outsiders had a fighting chance.

“Today we are going to start reading a novel.  It’s called The Outsiders,” I began one morning the next week, holding the school library’s sole copy of the book in my hands.  There was an audible groan from the class.  “Oh, groan now, fine, but you’re going to love it,” I continued. “Today, all you have to do is listen while I read out loud.  You just pay attention.”  The class perked up; they were fine with this reading thing as long as it didn’t involve actual reading on their part.

Knowing their opinion of the book would be determined within the first thirty seconds of reading, I skipped the book’s opening paragraphs (scene setting be damned) and started with the knifing:

“I could feel my palms getting clammy and the perspiration running down my back.  I get like that when I’m real scared.  I glanced around for a soda bottle or a stick or something, but instead, I stood there like a bump on a log while they surrounded me.” Serendipitously surprised by my read-aloud skills, I paused to look up and was shocked to find each student’s gaze squarely on my mouth.  Self-conscious but intoxicated by their attention, I continued. “They walked around me, slowly, silently, smiling.”

“This cat ‘bout to get jumped!” Tre’von joyfully shouted.  I let his comment go unconsequated (the Talking Stick designated as “Mr. Freeman Only”), amazed his shouting was, for once, germane to my instruction.

I raced through the rest of the chapter, detailing the rift between the Greasers and the Socials, and finished with two minutes left in class.  I was astonished how reading about fighting could transfix my students so profoundly as to effectively prevent actual fighting in the classroom.  They were quiet and calm, even genuinely disappointed when I dramatically closed the book and announced, “That’s all for the day.”

This (me reading, them listening) worked for one week as we breezed through the first three chapters.  They showed considerable comprehension skills when the material was present orally.  When the main character, Ponyboy, a Greaser, was rescued by his brothers from the Socials’ knifing, Dominique shared that, he too, had once had his brothers intervene during a fight with some neighborhood kids.  The result?  Dominique had then “beaten them up real good;” them being his brothers, not the neighborhood kids.  When, Darry, an elder Greaser, lent Ponyboy his gun, Tre’von showed real compassion, hoping “it was at least a semi-automatic.”  When Ponyboy’s sidekick, Johnny, went into a burning church to save stranded children, Tequanda suggested he “grab the wine too.”

My kids weren’t as behind as their test scores showed.  Their insights demonstrated an nuanced understanding of the story, but these insights could only be attained when they heard – not read – the book.  Just as I’ll never be able to identify the main idea of a story written in Chinese characters unless I hear the story read aloud (in English, please), my students would never be able to demonstrate comprehension of text written above their decoding skills.

I was seriously tempted to simply continue in this manner – my reading the book aloud, the children offering their two cents – but knew this method would ultimately be of little educational benefit.  The students needed to read the book themselves; we desperately had to increase their decoding abilities so they could demonstrate their comprehension.  Problem was, I held the only copy.

The next weekend, I typed the entirety of The Outsiders on my laptop.  I worked in two hour shifts, pausing to sip on glass after glass of white wine.  The task took nearly twelve hours and several cycles through Ace of Base’s complete catalogue despite my advanced typing skills.  My new Teach for America friends called incessantly.  Would I like to join them at the pool?  For a shopping excursion?  For an evening spent bar hopping in Charlotte’s Downtown?  Each time I declined, for once acting instead of playing the part of the responsible educator I aspired to be.  Albeit, sans the binge drinking.

Fueled by my wine buzz, I took some liberties with Hinton’s dated text.  Knowing the difficulty of sustaining my audience’s attention, I transported Ponyboy and crew to the present (no longer obsessed with Paul Newman, but, instead, Will Smith).  I changed new characters’ names to miraculously correspond with the names of my students:  Ponyboy had a cousin named Anthony and a track teammate named Dominique; the most-evil Social was surprisingly named the very un-1960s-Tulsa-like Tre’von.

Once I had transcribed and heavily edited the entirety of the text, I broke the story down into smaller passages.  Under each passage, I constructed multiple choice questions with question-stems similar to the all important state mandated End-of-Grade test[1].

The following Monday morning, I felt like an actual teacher as I placed a copy of the day’s passage on the students’ desks.  I’d determined that each day in class, we would read two passages, the students taking turns to read aloud as the others read along with their own copy, before independently completing the multiple choice questions.

When the bell rang and the students begrudgingly filed in, each met the presence of the copy on their desks with predictably differing reactions.

“What’s this?” Tre’von asked, holding the paper up in contempt and looking as if it was an eviction notice.  “We gotta look at the book now?” he snarled.

Ah-Lonzo, my overachiever, sat down and immediately began reading the passage, going so far as to circle (correctly, natch) his answers for the multiple choice questions before class got started.

Anthony, the lowest in terms of decoding ability, sat silently and looked at the paper.  “What is this about, Mr. Freeman,” he asked, his sleepy eyes pleading.  I realized he couldn’t even recognize “Ponyboy” or “Darry.”  He truly had no idea what the paper said.

Once everyone settled down, I explained the new procedure.  They groaned when I said that everyone (and that truly meant everyone) had to read aloud each (and that meant each) day.  I explained that I’d ask for volunteers to start us off, and that I’d let each student know when they’d read enough.  “Sometimes, you might just have to read a couple words,” I said reassuringly, looking at Anthony’s horrified face.  “And, I’ll always be here to help you when you get tripped up.”

“Me!  Me!  I want to start,” Ah-Lonzo said, raising his hand eagerly, bouncing up and down in his seat with exhilaration.  He reminded me of myself at a younger age; I’d always loved to show off my intellect in class.  I now realized how annoying I must have been.

“Ok, great, thank you, Ah—“

Before I could finish, Ah-Lonzo was off, reading the passage with ease and enthusiasm.  His reading lacked the inflection I would have been able to add, but his decoding was spot on.  He raced through the text.

I had to interrupt him.  “Ok, thank you Ah-Lonzo.  Who would like to read for us next?”  My question was met with blank stares.  Bueller?  Bueller?  Bueller? More blank stares.

“Tequanda, how ‘bout you?”  Her eyes shot darts.  Heaving loudly, she set into the text.  She labored, spitting out each word as if it drew her once step closer to her own grave.  Ponyboy’s touching recollection of his deceased mother took on a sinister tone with Tequanda’s dramatic flourishes.  After two sentences, I relieved the class of her vitriol and asked Justin to read.  He struggled through several sentences, but gave an honest effort.

Thus we progressed, each student laboring over the text.  As each read aloud, some of the others looked at their copies, genuinely trying to connect the words being spoken aloud with the shapes on their page.  Others – most noticeably Tre’von – scanned the room and looked out the window longingly.

At the last passage’s last paragraph, only Anthony had not read.

“Anthony, how ‘bout you give a couple sentences a try.”  Out of the corner of my vision, I saw Tre’von’s eyes considerably roll.

Anthony took a breath.  “P…Po…”

“Ponyboy, it’s Ponyboy, Ant,” Ah-Lonzo said, trying to help but again, annoyingly so.

“Ah-Lonzo, let’s let Anthony read,” I said.

Anthony started again “Ponyboy, I…” he paused again.  I moved closer to Anthony.  He froze.  His eyes, so ddark and large and now slightly misty met mine.

“Ok, great, good job Anthony,” I said, uncomfortable for him.  Uncomfortable for all of us.  “You can read more tomorrow, Ant, I’ll finish up.”  I quickly dove into the text, reading the last few sentences with an exaggerated voice that I hoped would distract from Anthony’s failure.  How could this boy get to seventh grade and not be able to read hardly a word, I asked myself.  And how can I ask him to prove this fact each day to his peers in class?

Indeed, reading The Outsiders aloud in class proved difficult and each day was a slight permutation of the first:  Ah-Lonzo almost always got us started; Tequanda always acted as if it was a personal attack when I asked her to read; Anthony struggled with even the most basic of words.  Further, despite the persistent drama of the book, the class veered toward dysfunction at times.  Ponyboy got in fights; so did Don’terrio and Tre’von.  Ponyboy smoked cigarettes; Dominique preached his belief that smoking marijuana helped him in track.  But, as difficult as the act of reading was, at the end of the day, each student not only read, but also critically thought about, a real live book.

Tre’von lingered at his desk long after the bell rang the class period our novel reached its bullet-filled conclusion.  Is he waiting until I go into the hallway so he can steal something, I pondered.

“Can I help you, Tre’von?” I inquired, putting the typed copies of The Outsiders onto the desks in preparation for the next class.

“I just need a minute,” he replied, looking out the window.  “I never though Darry would die like that,” he continued, referencing Darry’s dramatic killing at the hands of the police.  “I mean, that shit just wasn’t right.”

Now I was the one who needed a minute; did Tre’von have actual feelings?  Let alone feelings for a fictitious character in a book? I debated how to respond.  Should I offer a comment to drive home the whole “don’t-run-from-the-police-with-gun-in-hand” lesson the book so eloquently demonstrated?  Perhaps it was time to remind Tre’von, he of the “I don’t read books” statement, that he had read a book and actually enjoyed it?  Perhaps I could capitalize on his emotional vulnerability and somehow grow closer to him by offering my comfort?  I was confused by these divergent possibilities and my conflicting intentions.

Tre’von interrupted my pause.  “I bet those cops were white.  Fucking assholes.”

The next morning, I surprised the class by pressing play on the outdated VCR in our classroom.  I had procured a videocassette copy of The Outsiders through Ebay; its viewing was to be a reward for our diligent work.  In truth, I hadn’t pre-viewed the movie and was just as excited as the students were to see Francis Ford Coppola’s 1980’s interpretation of our beloved novel.

“Hold on, Mr. Freeman,” Dominique loudly cut in as the first scene began, “you never said they was white.”

“Yeah, I thought Ponyboy was black,” Anthony said, yet a look of confusion spreading over his face.  I was shocked; I figured the descriptions of the Greasers’ long, straight and sometimes red hair and placement in Oklahoma were clues enough concerning their racial identity.

“What do you mean by that, Anthony?” I asked, talking over the movie.

“Mr. Freeman, those kids liked to smoke, they be in gangs and they get in fights.  They had to be black,” Tre’von interrupted.  “Plus, that nig…” I furrowed my eyebrows, showing my contempt for this word before Tre’von could complete it.  “Plus, his name,” Tre’von began again, for once adhering to my rules, “is Ponyboy.  I mean, come on, what white dude is named Ponyboy?”

As I had been overwhelmed so many times before, a litany of possible responses raced through my mind.  Ultimately, the English teacher in me won; they could independently make their own conclusions concerning their assumptions.

“That’s why I always say you have to read every word carefully, guys.  You could miss something very important and well, you might end up…”

“Thinking these crackers was black?” Tequanda completed my thought.

I nodded.  “Yes, you might make a mistake like that.”

After this initial shock, we settled into the movie.   Despite their egregious error concerning the characters’ race, I was pleased how well they remembered the finer details of the book: they pointed out obvious chronology differences and subtle characterization distinctions between the book and the movie.  I was also pleased by the amount of time the characters spent cavorting around shirtless, but kept this detail to myself.

Most of all though, they enjoyed the fight scene, and as the credits rolled, the students demanded I rewind the movie so as to rewatch it in all its glory.  We spent the next twenty minutes and the first fifteen minutes at the beginning of the next day’s class doing just thus:  me laboriously rewinding and stopping the video, its mouse-like squeak filling the room during which their bodies twitched at the edge of their seats in anticipation; finally, all of us watching in silence with peeled eyes to indisputably determine who landed the first punch.

Tre’von provided sound effects – onomatopoeia, I reminded them – and Anthony and Don’terrio even renacted the whole scene one pause during rewinding.  For all their hard work – reading aloud in front of their peers, answering multiple-choice questions each day, let alone reading a somewhat arcane novel about white kids in Oklahom in the 1960s – I was happy to let them have these moments.

They deserved it.

We deserved it.

Hell, I deserved it.

As I ejected the cassette from the VCR, another action met with groans, I shouted at them to return to their seats, knowing full well that I would never gain full control over the class for the rest of the period.

“So, see guys, can’t reading a book be fun?” I asked, indulging myself, hoping for the kind of moment I had envisioned when I set out to become a teacher.

“Oh, yeah, I loved The Outsiders,” Justin said, catapulting his small body into the seat.

“One of the best movies I ever seen,” Anthony added, his once misty eyes now wide and confident.

“The Outsiders was ai’ght, Mr. Freeman.  I mean, those nigs – “ Tre’von started.  I again furrowed my brow.  He paused, collecting himself, smiling.  “I mean, those crackers sure can fight.”

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[1] Throughout this book, I have – and will continue to – describe my futility as an educator.  Let us pause to celebrate this small feat of competence.