Educating Esmé (4 page)

Right about then, the mom started wonking Twanette over the head with a rolled-up magazine she was holding. She assured me that she would whip Twanette with a belt at home, adding apologetically that she usually whips Twanette every six months, but she's been behind schedule.

When I suggested that perhaps a belt would not be effective in changing Twanette's attitude, the mom assured me, “Twanette's attitude's gone change after this, believe you me, you won't have
no
more problems with
this
girl!”

Twanette was hysterical and denying everything. Mom called her a “big dork” and other things. It was very depressing, and I felt responsible. I acted very calm, but when they left I dry-heaved into the waste-basket. I felt like hell.

I hope Twanette doesn't shoot me tomorrow for telling on her.

Twanette didn't shoot me today. She wrote me a thank you note for saying something good about her to
her mom. We also had the alphabet museum. Three kindergarten classes came through. It was a big success.

The kids keep journals. They can write in them during Free Reading if they choose. If they don't want me to read something, they put an E with a circle and a line through it at the top of the page, a symbol for “No Esmés allowed.” I read them anyway, but I don't tell. I find out interesting things. For instance, Ash-worth was upset all day because I wore pants, and I never wear pants. He thought his real teacher must have been abducted by aliens.

Terrible thing. Somebody stole the Columbus comic book. I said, “Whoever did it, just put it back,” but nobody did. So after school I took the whole library down and shoved it in the closet and locked it. The kids noticed right away the next morning.

“I told you if you stole from me, I'd take it all back. I'm not a liar.”

“That's not fair,” one girl complained. “We didn't
all
steal the book!”

“No, I'll tell you what's not fair. My working Saturdays so that you can read real literature and then having the books stolen from under my nose. That's
really
not fair. I only share with
friends
. I'm not going to leave my personal possessions out when I can't trust the people I'm with. Would you?”

Nobody answered. I passed out the reading textbooks. The children complained noisily. “You're getting what the rest of the school gets,” I reminded them. “I don't see what's the problem.”

The mood was grim for the rest of the day. I thought,
They have good taste. They know this is boring.

But I'm worried. What if I never get the book back? Am I going to have to teach reading like this all year? I have to be consistent with my threat, or they will never believe me again. I'll have no discipline. I won't be able to teach anything.

GOD, KID! GIVE ME BACK THE STUPID BOOK AND LET ME TEACH YOU THE BEST WAY I KNOW HOW!

I'm so disappointed. It was a struggle not to cry in front of them.

Still no Columbus comic. I wore an ugly blue polyester suit, very cold and businesslike. We worked from textbooks all day. If they want a typical classroom experience, they're going to get one!

After school, Valerie's mom came to see me in the office. “Valerie's been depressed since you took the books down,” she said. “I'm going to insist you put them back up.”

“I'm sorry she's depressed,” I said. “Frankly, I'm pretty depressed myself. But you are not in a position to insist I put the books back. The books belong to me, not the school, and I'm not going to put them up until I feel the children can be trusted.”

“Are you saying you don't trust the children?” Her eyebrows raised.

Her eyebrows really raised when I answered, “Absolutely not! They are ten years old! They are still learning right from wrong.”

“Why haven't you taught them right from wrong?” she asked angrily.

“I've imparted as much morality as I feel I have the
authority to impart, but seeing as it's only been a month, I doubt if anyone's ready to receive the Nobel Peace Prize.”

“I take them to church. My baby doesn't steal.”

“I'm sure that's wonderful,” I said. “I certainly don't mean to imply that Valerie took the comic book, Mrs. Jackson. Please don't take this personally. I'm delighted that Valerie has enjoyed the library, and nobody would be happier than I to return it. But it is my prerogative. If you would like to work every Saturday to create a library that may or may not disappear, piece by piece, I welcome you to do so. I choose not to. Until I am given a reason to change my mind, Valerie will get what the school has entitled her to, what all the other fifth graders get, and if you wish to supplement it, go to the public library.” I felt cold, but I was truly very angry. She insists that I put the books back! God, these parents don't have a clue!

Surprisingly, Valerie's mom softened. “As long as you don't think
she
took it.”

“I can tell you really care about your daughter,” I remarked. “If everybody cared about their kids this way, maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation.” I was
placating her, but I didn't want to fight anymore. Go away, feel better, and leave me to this problem.

I walked into the classroom. The comic book was sitting in the middle of my desk.

Returned.

THANK YOU, GOD!!!

Good news! Connie Porter, author of the “Addy” books in the American Girls children's historical fiction series, is coming to our school on her national tour. Ours is the only Chicago public school she will visit! I arranged it through the children's bookstore where I used to work, since she was going to do a book-signing there. The publisher was very agreeable, especially since our school is almost all black and Addy is a black character, “determined to be free in the midst of the Civil War” (that's what it says on the back of the book). They are going to send us an Addy doll
worth nearly a hundred dollars to give away and are sending several Addy books so teachers can prepare their classes for the visit. Mr. Turner says we can have an assembly just so long as I take care of everything and he doesn't have to think about it.

I'm excited! I am going to start an American Girls club after school. Maybe other teachers will want to start them with their classes, too.

I planned to take some students over to a university science fair for children, where we would display our burglar alarm for school backpacks. The field trip was in the evening. I took Kyle and Samantha home with me between school and the trip, because their parents couldn't accompany them but they wanted to go. We baked a cake and had a nice little tea party. “Not too much sugar, please,” Kyle wagged a finger. “Gotta watch my figure.”

At the school that evening, we got on a school bus to ride to the fair. The bus was converged upon by gang members, who were throwing rocks at the windows.
I watched the windows tremble, the loud cracking, right next to the children's heads (some of them were only four years old, accompanying older siblings). It was terrifying, there were so many around the bus. They looked old, even my age. Whether they would start shooting at us crossed my mind. It seemed illogical, but I felt afraid. I recognized one eighth-grade boy from our school in the rabble as he threw a rock. I felt angry. The bus pulled away. I felt very, very angry.

Mr. Turner was there, watching the whole thing from his office window, but he didn't do anything.

So the next day, with teacher permission, I confronted Perry, the one boy I recognized. “I know nothing's going to happen to you for what you did last night,” I said, “but I want you to know that I saw what you did, and I didn't like what I saw.”

“What?”

“You tell me what.”

“You mean the bus? I didn't . . . it was . . .” Denial.

I spoke softly. “Perry, it was you. Your rocks smashed next to the heads of small children. You did an evil thing.”

“It wasn't me! It was . . .”

“When you've got the guts to face what you did and talk about it, I've got the time to talk to you. But I don't have time to waste talking to a cowardly little boy.” I didn't say it mean, just matter-of-factly.

He turned back to his classroom, picked up a desk, and threw it. He looked at me, his chest heaving, his eyes wet. I just shook my head, shrugged, and walked away.

The school counselor said later that Perry was crying half the day, begging to be let out of class to see me. He told her he had to apologize for something. I wonder?

Showed
The Miracle Worker.
The kids liked the part where Annie Sullivan and Helen are duking it out over the dinner table. I was jealous that Annie gets to smack her students and I have to be nice. I cried at the end. The kids thought that was funny. I am going to show classic movies after school every two weeks. I am building a marquee with my uncle. I got in trouble for having popcorn in class.

HOW TO FOLD A PAPER SNOWFLAKE
(For Brandi)

I can't seem to smile at Ricky

After what he said about my Mama being white

(Even if it was true)

And when Willie peed on the coats,

I just didn't want to eat lunch with him anymore

(Am I supposed to force myself?)

Vanessa's been telling me she'll kick my ass

For a week now

(Why doesn't she just
do
it?)

and now, Terry brought the gun,

Just for show, but still,

It gives me a shivery feeling to know it's there,

In his backpack, snoring,

Coughing small gray clouds of death as it dreams,

Dreams of me, perhaps.

“Are there any questions?”

My teacher is pleasant enough, smiling generously,

The cherubs of all the good advice she's embraced

Still tickling her beneath her armpits.

Is that all it would take:

To just say no, to just get along,

And I could be like her? Know everything

About the Colonies,

The way plants grow,

How to fold a paper snowflake?

Asha's mama came in to complain that I told the kids they should all have their own dictionaries. She said they are too expensive. I know Asha's dad is under in-house arrest for burglary from what Asha writes in her journal, but I didn't let on that I knew. I just said, “Couldn't Asha's father pick one up on his way home from work sometime?” I looked at her real hard, and she looked at me real hard.

Today Asha has a real nice hardcover
Webster's New World
dictionary. You can tell she feels good having it. Thank you to the donor.

Esther hasn't fist-fought anyone since she's been in my room, but she keeps putting voodoo spells on people. It was funny at first, but now it's making the kids a little spooked. I called in her father for a conference. He mostly speaks French, so he brought Esther's religious tutor to translate. The tutor wore a long brightly colored mu-mu and an elaborate headdress. He looked very striking, like a king.

I told him that I was pleased with the progress Esther was making academically, but socially she had to stop putting voodoo spells on people.

The tutor laughed disarmingly. “Oh, don't worry! She can't work the magic yet!”

I explained that regardless of whether the spells were actually taking effect, I felt it was inappropriate for her to be having religious practices in our secular setting. “This way, everyone is equal. Christians, Jews . . .”

“Jews! Ha-ha!
Jews!
” This was very funny, for some reason. They were still laughing as they left, and both shook my hand warmly. The tutor promised that Esther would not cast any more spells in class.

Esther really is doing very well. During Free Reading Time she pores over
Betsy~Tacy
and
Mysterious Marie Laveau, Voodoo Queen of the Mississippi
, a book I picked up in New Orleans. Esther is my secret favorite.

Ms. Tyler was the only other teacher interested in starting an after-school club. She's doing it with her third graders. I'm doing it with my fifth graders, and some fourth- and sixth-grade teachers are reading the Addy book aloud to their classes. My club is making necklaces like the one mentioned in the book. The publisher sent boxes of fun promotional junk, like buttons, balloons, magazines, paper dolls, and bookmarks. We are going to make an Addy goody bag for all of the four hundred-some kids who will attend the assembly. We are putting Addy posters all over the school. I am getting a teeny bit sick of Addy already.

Ms. Federman is being so helpful, cutting out paper doll decorations for the Commons Area. I said I wished we had a red carpet to roll out for the author, and Ms. Tyler
got a remnant from her friend in the carpet business! It's nice to have helping hands.

M
RS
. R
AE SAID
that she was talking about slavery in her fourth-grade classroom. She told us that when she said the Jews were once slaves in Egypt, a kid asked, “Are Jews white?”

“Some Jewish people are.”

“White people were slaves!” the boy cried, and the children rose to their feet in a standing ovation that, according to her, she could not subdue for five solid minutes. She said it gave her the total shivers.

Halloween was fun, though it snuck up quickly. During the past two weeks we read
The Bat-Poet
by Randall Jarrell and studied bats. We also read
The Devil and Mother Crump
and stories from
Raw Head, Bloody Bones: African American Tales of the Supernatural
. There are so many good ghosty stories, and the kids never seem to get their fill.