Just Teach: Chapter 3, Honey Moon Over

In the first week of school there are no fights. Everyone comes to the carpet when I ask, pretends to listen during lessons, and attempts the activities. No one steals anything, or breaks anything on purpose. Maybe I metamorphosed into a master teacher over the summer. This is my fifth year in the classroom, after all. It’s about time I hit my stride.

The school calendar lets us accelerate slowly like a standard engine. After three days of playing at school, we are rewarded with Labor Day Weekend. We all return to our homes and our summer selves for one last hurrah. I spend Saturday and Sunday swimming at the pool, finishing up projects around the house, and soaking up the last of my children before I basically sign out as a parent for the rest of the year. I spend most of Monday planning my lessons for the week while Mark takes the kids to the splash park with some friends. By the time we stoke up the grill for a backyard barbecue, I am ready to upshift to a four day work week.

When my students return to school on Tuesday they have awoken from their hibernation.

Tyson is the first in line at my door this morning, smelling like a fashion magazine. “This is Ariana Grande’s perfume,” he tells me, one hand holding an invisible martini glass, head cocked. Even though it is already 80 degrees outside, he wears a winter scarf like an ascot. “I got the last bottle.” Tyson does not walk through the door, he struts. I watch as he pulls off a tight chassé on his way to the cubbies. I doubt he has had a ballet class in his life, but this child can dance. A nine-year-old boy has never been more in tune with his hips, wrists, and elbows.Tyson’s braggadocio delights the adults, but I worry that his peers may have less patience.

Bradley, especially, is not having it today. “You didn’t buy no Ariana Grande perfume. That’s Febreeze.” Bradley has straight, black hair that sticks up in the back and his dark eyebrows are constantly knit, looking for a fight. This morning he has found one.

Tyson bellies up, turning his full, plump body towards Bradley and squaring his hands on his hips. “Is not!” I send each child to his desk with threats of time on the wall at recess, hoping the mood will pass. They retreat without a truce.

The two are still huffing and making eyes at each other across the circle at Morning Meeting when Erica R. says, “Ms. Martin, Bradley called me a name!” Bradley makes no gesture of denial. She tiptoes dramatically over to me and whispers “pendejo” in my ear. Other girls come to her defense. “He calls me that, too!” “He say things when you are not looking, Ms. Martin!” “He pinches girls!” I motion for Bradley, who has taken the fifth, to sit next to me. I assure him, “We will chat at recess.” We make it through a tense morning meeting barely in time to start the literacy block at nine o’clock.

They are chatty today during the read-aloud of The Gardener. I might as well be reading a cookbook for all the attention they pay. Faith and Hope are suddenly best friends and whispering, and while I was wise enough to seat Harry and Julian as far apart as possible, now Julian is perfectly happy to entertain his new neighbor and best friend Adam. We went over rug expectations last week: Crisscross applesauce, eyes on the teacher, bodies calm, silently listening. The third time I am interrupted, I remind them of this, pointing to the chart I prepared with a picture of a child sitting still, legs crossed with his mouth shut and a smile on his face. Still the looks and the whispers and the wiggles.

I give up and try a movement break. We all stand and I show them how to shake down from ten with each hand and leg, but then Adam and Julian start body slamming, and Mark slaps Cynthia in the face by accident.

“Alright, stop. STOP!” I command. “Sit down, all of you!” Only the fourth day of school and I am already raising my voice. They sit like puppies, briefly, and then return to the wiggles and whispers. I send Cynthia to the nurse with Alice, and take my place on my reading chair. “Okay, that’s enough of a movement break. Let’s take three calming belly breaths everyone.” The breaths are as much for me as for them. My blood pressure is rising. Bradley is directly next to my left knee, any closer he would be sitting on my lap, but he still manages to say something to Angela in a decibel that can only be detected by another child. “Just you try it, Bradley…” she replies. He smiles and pretends to breathe with his eyes closed. I give Angela a look. She keeps her eyes on Bradley.

I march my way through the book, continuing to put out fires as they arise. I don’t even pause to have them discuss, worried that once I let them start talking, they will never stop.

“Alright, so in the book Lydia Grace writes to her family about her life in the city. She tells them her hopes and her dreams, as well as her fears, and all about her daily life. Today you are going to pick a person in your family. You are going to write a letter and tell them about your hopes and your dreams for third grade, and about what you daily life has been like so far.”

Bradley is sniggering. His thin body jostles while he tries to control his laughter, then he gives up, guffaws and dramatically slaps his knee.

“Bradley, what’s so funny?” I ask him stupidly. He is successfully hijacking this lesson.

“Hope!” he shrieks, pointing at Hope. “She’s my Hope and Dream!” Hope hangs her head. A tear falls from behind her hair into her lap.

“That’s enough, Bradley!” I have raised my voice for the second time in four days. I tell him to go sit at his desk. He complies easily. His work is done here. While Faith and the two Ericas comfort Hope, I explain, “Many parents name their babies Hope because it is one of the most wonderful and powerful emotions. Hope. Esperanza. What does it mean?”

Tyson answers, puffing out his chest and scowling at Bradley, “It means that anything is possible!”

“That’s right. And not much good in the world happens without hope.”

“We need Hope to get it done!” Tyson rallies. “We can’t do it without Hope! That should be our class motto, Ms. Martin.” Hope has raised her head and permits a smile. Her friends have their arms around her and everyone is in agreement. Faith offers to make the sign. I point out, “We’ll need some Faith, too. Don’t forget to add your name to the sign.”

I quickly show them how to write a friendly letter and write about their Hopes and Dreams for the year, and to illustrate a picture to go with it. Tyson leads a small team in sign making. Then I put on quiet music and for a few glorious minutes they lose themselves in writing and drawing about their ambitions.

Ana wants to learn English. Faith wants to learn multiplication. Charles wants to learn how to make airplanes (real ones, not paper). Veronica draws a picture of a family with four adults, six children and a dog. When I ask her what her hope is for the new year, she says, “A ver mi familia.” To see my family. Bradley wants a new Xbox, but when I tell him he has to think of something he will do in school he writes one word in the corner of his paper in tiny letters, “read,” then erases it until the paper tears. Robert wants to learn cursive. Tami fills the frame with Sponge Bob squares and Squidward ovals and a girl with pigtails and big eyes. She writes, “I wunt to git gud grads.”

Erica R. works diligently on a detailed drawing of herself holding up her left arm that extends all the way to a hand with five long fingers. The arm is emitting rays of light or electricity and the girl is smiling. “I want a new arm,” she tells me. “My papa says I am going to get one. The doctor said.”

I am not sure how to respond. I say, “Well, I like the arm you have now, but cool drawing! Anything you want to learn in school?” She says she wants to write a long story about a girl who gets a new arm.

Adam draws a picture of himself. “I want to get good grades in school.” Then I watch as he adds two stick people to the drawing. I ask, “Who’s that?”

“My parents. They are looking at my good grades.” Adam moved in with a new foster family over the summer. Ms. Lazarus told me last week that his mother is in jail awaiting trial on a drug charge, and his father will be in federal prison until Adam collects social security. I compliment his picture and prompt him to write a letter to his parents and tell them about his good grades.

Finally, it is time for specials. I take them to music. I spend the period preparing for math and copying homework pages. When I pick them up they are stone silent and sullen in line. “Whoa, what happened?” I ask.

“NOT a good class,” Mr. Marshall sighs. “What did you feed these children today? I had to separate Tyson and Bradley twice.”

In math we use counting cubes to make equal groups. I tell them that the cubes are only to be used for counting, and I show them how to move them into neat rows, but still Robert and Walter launch the little plastic blocks across the room at one another when they think I am not looking. I threaten to take the blocks away so they stop and switch to building towers which silently inspires everyone else to do the same. I raise my voice twelve more times before eleven o’clock.

The honeymoon is over.

I take them out for recess a few minutes early thinking the extra break will do us all good. This is a mistake.

It is nearly 90 degrees and the pavement is radiating heat. The fifth graders are still on the playground, mostly huddling in the shade. My class makes a beeline for the swings, but Bradley, Harry and Julian head straight for a group of fifth-grade boys by the monkey bars. I watch from the shadow of the building as Bradley says something and the fifth-graders react, puffing up like birds.

The tallest of the fifth graders lurches forward. His buddies grab him to hold him back. Then Bradley lunges and it’s Harry and Julian’s turn to restrain their friend. Unable to throw punches, they lodge spit at one another. The fifth-grader pries his hand away long enough to get in a decent slap across Bradley’s face.

It takes me less than three seconds to clear the blacktop and reach the boys, but by then they are a mess of fists, limbs, and dirt rolling on the ground. The students are faster than me and I have to break through a ring of bodies shouting “Fight! Fight!”

I step into the melee to get my legs in between them, which gives their buddies enough chance to pull them apart. Ms. Lawrence, the fifth-grade teacher, calls the office on the walkie-talkie. I shout to Charles, “Go get Mr. Wright!” He’s got the longest legs. “Boys! Get on the wall!” I roar. They comply.

By now, fifth-grade recess is over and the third graders are pouring out of the side door. The fifth grade teachers, half of whom are new to the school, scramble to line up their students in all the excitement. Mr. Lawrence, the math teacher, shoots me a look that reminds me how little patience he had for me last year. I bet he’s the one who asked Dr. Moore to move be back to third. He scolds, “Your recess block starts at 11:30, Ms. Martin. In the future, please stick to the schedule.” Bottom slapped, I just say, “Sorry.” And then, Mr. Wright nowhere to be seen, I march the culprits to the office myself.

I describe the problem to Mrs. O’Malley, who says, “Mr. Wright is out of the building and she’s in a meeting. Just wait there. She should be done in a minute.” I sit the boys in the Chairs of Shame outside Principal Moore’s door and ask, “Do you two know each other?”

“He’s my cousin,” Bradley says.

“I’m your uncle, dummy,” the fifth-grader clarifies. He almost looks old enough to be an uncle. Too old for fifth grade, at least. Shadow of a mustache on his upper lip.

“Ok, all the more reason you should not be fighting. This will be an in-school suspension and phone calls home. What happened?”

“He called my mother a bitch,” Bradley says, staring at his knees. I glance at the clock, two minutes until recess is over. Principal Moore’s door is still closed. I kneel next to the boys.

“You’re his mother’s brother?” I ask the fifth grader. He shrugs, then nods. “What’s your name?”

“Antonio,” he offers willingly.

“Look Antonio, I know sisters can be annoying, but you can’t call anyone’s mother a name for any reason. Mothers are sacred. I happen to be one. And if you’re Bradley’s uncle, you need to take care of him, not beat him up. I am sure your mom would tell you that.”

“She died.”

My breath stops for an instant while I grasp for a thought. “Well, she is still here in spirit, and she is looking out for both of you, and she wants you to take care of your nephew. She doesn’t want to see family fighting. I mean ANYONE fighting. Look, there is no fighting at school, ok? I mean, or anywhere for that matter. We’re going to practice using our words.”

Recess is over. I have no idea what is happening with my class. I text Mr. Lee and ask him to bring my class upstairs. “Sure!” he replies, with a winking, smiling emoji. “NP.”

Mrs. O’Malley is on the phone. “You can go in. She says leave the boys out here.”

I crack open the door. Principal Moore is sitting at her desk, partially hidden by her computer monitor. She seems to be in the middle of an email or something and does not look up.

“Hi, I -”

“Why did you bring your class out to recess early, Ms. Martin?” she interrupts, unwilling to pause in her more important work.

“Pardon? Oh. Well, we were done with math and they needed to run around, so -”

“Third graders start recess at 11:30 for a reason. When we mix the grades, incidents happen.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know the schedule. In the past there was a ten-minute gap between-“

“The recess schedule is posted on the staff portal. Please check it next time and do not bring your students outside unless it is their designated time. Where are your students now?”

“With Mr. Lee, he said — “

“I think you should be getting back to them. Mr. Wright is out today. Leave the boys with me.” Her eyes have not left the computer screen this entire time. I am still just one step inside the door, my hand has not left the handle. “Right,” I say. And I leave the boys to their fate, and pursue my own, taking the stairs two at a time.

When I get upstairs to Mr. Lee’s classroom, recess is in full swing. He has forty children in a room designed for 25, and he has decided not to demand their attention. He looks relaxed enough, leaning against the door frame making sure no one escapes or commits murder, but I can see that he is sweating. Students are on the computers, talking at the desks, making paper airplanes on the rug. He is successfully keeping everyone alive and happy, and for this I am thankful.

“Thanks,” I say, and I call my class to line up. “Why you back, Ms. Martin?” Adam complains. “I thought you went home lie down cause you were so angry.” I want to explain the difference between wrath and anger, but I do not have time. We have work to do. I hustle them back to my room to a soundtrack of protest and complaints.

We are sharing our Hopes and Dreams on the rug when Bradley returns to the classroom, sauntering and smiling. So much for in-school suspension. He hands me a note: Mother called. No good phone number. Student to return directly to class. 12:33 pm. — Mrs. O.

I gesture for Bradley to take a seat at his desk. He will have in-school suspension with me then. I give him a piece of paper and ask him to draw what happened to make him upset, and what he will need to do before he returns to class. Bradley sulks with his blank page for the rest of the day.

At dismissal I stop Bradley from running off. “How about I walk home with you, so we can talk to your mom.” It is not a question.

His eyes flood with panic, followed quickly by silent tears. I don’t have another meeting until 3 pm. It’s hot, but I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs. Why not? “Let’s go see your mom. And see what she has to say about your behavior today.” He hesitates, looking for a way out, but this teacher is not taking no for an answer. I’m not completely sure that following a student back to his house is ethical or even legal, but I can’t back out now

Bradley gets his younger brother from the second-grade line. He is a smaller version of Bradley, same haircut and cowlick, but the eyebrows curve optimistically upward and his smile is brighter, lighter. He follows along like getting a teacher escort is the most normal thing in the world.

As we make our way across the blacktop, Bradley’s mood lifts. His tears dry. By the time we cross the street he is smiling proudly. “My teacher is coming to MY house!” he shouts to a friend, having apparently forgotten the motivation for my visit.

Bradley lives in University Village. The complex is so vast that last year two of my newcomers thought that University Village was the name of their town. As we wind our way through the labyrinth of identical brick buildings and concrete paths, I can understand how they could make this mistake. The grounds are busy with women cleaning the entryways, men painting trim and cutting grass, children coming and going with their parents.

Even though more than half of my students live here, this is my first time on the property. I am surprised by the uniformity and order. Such a serene backdrop for so much uncertainty.

When we find Bradley’s building, we climb the stairs to the third floor and knock on his apartment door. A young woman in a t-shirt and skirt opens cautiously. “My teacher’s here, Mamá,” Bradley announces proudly. “She speaks Spanish!” Bradley’s mother smooths her skirt and doesn’t hesitate to say, “Adelante.” Come in.

In crossing the threshold, I am transported to Central America. There is a blue velour couch draped with synthetic crocheted doilies, upon which lies an ancient man with white hair. He is dressed in jeans, a button down shirt and house slippers. A Mexican daytime talk show blares on the television. The living room is small, tidy, and neatly crowded with furniture and keepsakes. A Crucifix hangs on either side of the television, and there is a Virgin Mary over each door. The two windows are covered with thick velour drapes, undulating as a window AC unit strains against the third-floor heat. Bradley and his brother disappear into a bedroom. “Sientense,” she says, gesturing to the kitchen table. I greet Abuelo with a “Buenas tardes.” He nods. I take a seat.

Bradley reappears dressed in khaki shorts and a Pokemon t-shirt, smiling broadly. He collapses into the easy chair with his back to us, all ears.

Mamá assembles a small plate of cookies and places it in front of me. I notice several German cockroaches casually commuting along the counter top. She pours me a glass of water, adds ice cubes from the freezer, and sits in the opposite chair. I regret I didn’t think to look up her name before coming over. I say, “Thank you, Señora Santiago.” Although I suspect she has a different surname than her son, she does not correct me.

“Como se porta, Bradley?” she asks. She wants to know about her son’s behavior. She knows teachers do not pay home visits just for fun.

I compose my basic Spanish vocabulary carefully. “He fought with Antonio today. And he has been bothering the other children.” Bradley swings his head around and his mother shoots him a look that speaks sentences. She is not happy. She is not surprised. He flinches and settles back into watching television.

“I am sorry, maestra. Bradley does not do well in school. He is giving me trouble at home. My brother came to live with us in April when my mother died. This does not help. He is … tremendous.” I know that by tremendous she means “a handful.” She nods to Abuelo. “This is my father-in-law. He has cancer. So you see, it is not easy.”

I wonder where Antonio is now, but decide not to bring it up. This conversation is about her son, not her brother. For Bradley’s ears, I explain how smart he is, how charismatic and helpful. He is old for the class, having repeated second grade, which means he is a leader. “The other children follow him. He could be a very good influence in class. And he says he wants to learn to read.” At this Bradley pops his head up again. The look from his mother sends a different message. He smiles and blushes.

“He is a good boy,” she admits. “He helps me with his little brother. His father works three jobs, teacher. I will speak with him. But he has a temper. You understand.” I do. Then she calls Bradley over to the table with a simple, “Ven.” He comes quickly, eyes trained on the linoleum floor.

I say, “Look, we both need you to behave, ok? If I am going to teach you to read, I need you to focus in class. No more pinching or calling names or fighting.”

“Escuchaste?” his mother asks. He nods. He heard me. “Entonces?” she adds. What does he have to say for himself?

Bradley’s face breaks and the tears return. His anguish is authentic. “But the kids, they do the same thing, too. They call me names. They hit me.” His nose joins the deluge. He is sobbing now. His mother does not reach out to comfort him, and neither can I. In this space, he is not my child.

“If you help me, we can teach them to be kind,” I offer. “You need to be the bigger, better boy.” Bradley’s brother peers at us from his bedroom doorway. Abuelo continues to stare at the television, unaware of the conversation.

“Will you help your teacher?” Mamá asks sternly. He nods his head and quiets. “Or do I need to tell your father?” He shakes his head. “Go to your room.” He goes.

“See you tomorrow, Bradley,” I call behind him. “Fresh start!” Before he closes the door I catch a glimpse of his little brother’s cherubic wide eyes peering from the doorway.

Despite the AC, my face flushes with perspiration. I drink my water while we talk. With my limited vocabulary, I strain to follow her story. She tells me she has been in this country for 13 years. I do not ask if she came or remains legally. She tells me she is looking for work, but she is pregnant, so it is hard. I tell her about the English classes at the school on Saturdays. We talk briefly about the need for Bradley to read and practice math facts every day at home. I promise to send home activities and books. Starting in October there will be an after school tutoring program. I ask if I can call her regularly to check-in. I put her new number into my phone, and give her mine. I thank her for her time and stand to leave. “Gracias, maestra,” she says. Then, in English, “ Bradley is a good boy. Thank you.”