Why I’m Called Dr. Miss
The story of a school’s culture
I teach at a high school on the south side of Chicago where our student population is a mix of low-income Black, Latino, and Caucasian. Many of our Latino students’ families are Mexican immigrants who do not speak English.
When I first started working there, I was struck by how many of my students — really, all of them — called me Miss. I initially thought that it was because my last name at the time, Szeszycki, was difficult to pronounce, but I soon realized that there wasn’t even an effort to address me as Miss S.
I was always Miss. So were my female co-workers.
During cafeteria supervision one day, I asked my friend Anne about it and she explained, “Oh, the Latino kids were taught by their parents that they should show respect to a woman by calling her Señora or Seño. This is just the English version.”
“Okay, but why are all of the other kids calling us Miss as well?”
Anne laughed. “I don’t know, really. I guess it just caught on in the lower grades. When they come to us from the junior high, they all call us that, not just the Latinos.”
My classroom was on the ground floor and looked out on a little diner across the street. The kids would often comment on staff members who popped over there during their breaks to get take-out or a pop.
“Oh, there goes Mahoney again. It’s Friday so he’s going for his chili. Man, somebody needs to tell that guy his afternoon classes do not appreciate it.”
If a student came to class with a take-out box or cup with the diner’s signature logo, I always ignored it. Sure, they had probably snuck out of the building and dashed over to the diner, but I didn’t make that my business. A styrofoam box or cup was often the least of my concerns.
I had a student named Dariyonna who rotated wearing the same few sets of clothes all week. Her hair looked like it was relaxed at home and often smelled dirty. Her glasses were too small for her face. She was easily aggravated by her classmates and would lose her temper if any of them were “writing too loudly.”
I seated Dariyonna near my desk and made a point of checking in with her every day. She was smart and funny, but she seemed to be up against so much.
One day I noticed that Dariyonna had a new sparkle in her eye when she entered the classroom. She was wearing lipstick and had knotted her baggy t-shirt so that it fit snugly her waist. She even greeted me with, “Heeeeey!” and I laughed and responded, “Hey right back, Dari girl!”
As she passed me in the doorway, I noticed that she was carrying one of the diner’s styrofoam cups. It was filled with orange pop.
Time in a school becomes elastic sometimes. Fifteen minutes of instructional time can fly by and leave you doing a double-take at the clock. “Is it really almost that time already?” But a five minute passing period can last for ages. The teacher stands at the door, keeping an eye on the hallway and peeking over her shoulder at the classroom. The students chat together quietly while they’re skimming the bellringer. It’s a peaceful pause in the day.
Until you hear the crash of a table being overturned.
When I heard the noise, I pivoted away from the hallway and saw Dariyonna lunging over the upended table towards a quiet boy who was seated near her. I yelled, “Dari! No!” as she grabbed him by the hair and started punching his throat.
“You think you going to play me like that, boy? You think I’m not going to notice?!”
The boy gasped. “It wasn’t me! It was that other kid!”
I pushed the Security button and then cautiously approached them. “Dariyonna, please stop! No fighting in here! Honey, please stop!”
She ignored me and muttered, “Nobody is going to do me like this. Uh-uh.”
When the intercom buzzed, I said, “Yes, I need help in room 108, please. There’s a fight in my classroom.” I could feel my legs shaking underneath me, and I struggled to keep my voice steady.
The rest of the students had backed away and a few were laughing. Several had their phones out and were filming the fight. I turned my back on the melee and addressed them, “All right, we’re out of here. Come on, out to the hallway. Come on, let’s go. We’re not giving them an audience.”
A few of them looked like they wanted to say something, but remained silent. One of the students, Dante, mockingly said, “Yeah, that’s right! You tell ’em, Miss! Kids, we need to get away from that bad boy and girl right now!”
As they slowly started shuffling out of the classroom, I saw Dante pick up a styrofoam cup from underneath his table and quickly tuck it under his hoodie.
I stopped him at the door before he could go into the hallway. “Hold up, Dante. What do you have there?”
Before he could answer, two security guards burst into the room and jostled him. He dropped the cup and orange pop splattered across the floor.
I waved my hand at the upended furniture, at Dariyonna kicking the security guards as they tried to restrain her, at the attacked student holding his neck.
“Really?! This was you?”
He smirked. “It was just a joke! I didn’t know she was going to lose it like that. Hey, it was funny.”
I shook my head as the nurse ran in and knelt next to the injured student on the floor. “I think you and I have different ideas about what’s funny.”
I told the security guards that Dante had been involved in the incident and had them take him upstairs with Dariyonna. One of the maintenance guys came in and started mopping the floor and walls. I looked at the rest of the students, some shaken and wide-eyed, some still laughing and looking at their phones, and said, “Okay, enough of this mess. Let’s have class outside today.”
As we started to leave the room, my intercom buzzed again. “Dr. Szeszycki? Ms. Ramirez has someone on their way to cover your class. We need you to come up and make a statement.” I sighed and headed upstairs.
As I entered the foyer of the attendance office, I saw Dante seated in the waiting area. I nodded to him and the secretary and headed down the narrow, carpeted hallway towards the dean’s offices. As I approached Ms. Ramirez’s door, I heard Dariyonna shouting, “I told you nobody gonna do me like that! Nobody!”
When I entered, I found the security guards and Ms. Ramirez seated at a small rectangular table. Dariyonna was at the head, glaring and wiping at the tears and lipstick smeared across her face. I smiled tentatively at her and sat down.
Ms. Ramirez said, “Dariyonna, I wanted to wait until Dr. Szeszycki got here so that we could get a full account of what happened.”
Dariyonna nodded and began, “When I came into class, I set my stuff down and turned around and started to talk to the kids at the table behind me. When I looked back, my cup was gone.”
Her lips tightened bitterly. “And I know that it was that boring boy at my table who took it. I don’t even know his name, but he always judging me and giving me rude looks.” I looked down at my lap and closed my eyes for a moment.
One of the security guards, Terese, started peppering her with questions, “How did you know it was him? Did you ask him if he had taken your cup? Had he done something like this before? Did he know someone had bought it for you?”
I glanced up. The lipstick. Of course.
Terese continued, “I think you know the school’s policy on fighting. Was it worth it? I hope so because now you’re going to be suspended for ten days!”
Ms. Ramirez jumped in, “Dariyonna, this is not the first time you’ve been involved in fights. I’m looking at changing your placement and moving you to the district’s alternative school. Is that what you want? You want to leave all of your friends here because you can’t stop messing with other kids?”
Dariyonna clenched and unclenched her fists. Tears ran down her cheeks
I leaned forward and said, “If I may, I think there is more to the story here.”
Ms. Ramirez raised her palm in my direction. “Dariyonna, is this how it’s going to be? You flip tables and punch people when you think they deserve it? Since when? That’s not allowed here.”
Terese added, “You are fifteen years old and you still don’t know that fighting isn’t allowed in school? My mama didn’t raise me like that and I bet yours didn’t either.”
Dariyonna mumbled, “You don’t get to talk about my mama. You keep her name out of your mouth.”
I cleared my throat and said, “If I may…”
Dariyonna continued, “None of you care about what really happened. None of you were there. Dr. Miss here, she was the only one close by and she didn’t even see it.”
I cocked my head. Dr. Miss?
Terese said sarcastically, “There wouldn’t be anything to see if you weren’t flipping tables in her classroom.”
Dariyonna leaned back and crossed her arms.
I leaned forward and extended my hands across the table towards Dariyonna. “Sweetheart, I’m not mad at you and I’m not here to scold you. I really wish that none of this had happened, yes, but it was someone else who played that trick on you.” I paused. “Dari, it was Dante. He had your cup under his table the whole time.”
Dariyonna’s shoulders slumped and she shook her head. “Man, I’m blew. Dante, huh? I can’t even with this shit. Gimme the paper for the statement. I’m not talking about this no more. Go ahead and call my mama. I don’t care.”
I returned to my classroom to write out my own statement. Ms. Ramirez appeared in the doorway as I was finishing up.
“Well, Dr. Szeszycki, I guess you have a new name now. Dariyonna referred to you as ‘Dr. Miss’ throughout her statement.” She handed me the paper.
I read through it and my eyes filled with tears at the last two sentences, “All I know is that Dr. Miss didn’t judge me like none of those other bitches in the office. I’m not sorry for fighting, but I am sorry that I messed up her room.”
Dariyonna was transferred to another class when she returned from her suspension, but she always greeted me with a loud “Hey, Dr. Miss!” when we saw each other in the hallway.
If she heard another student simply address me as “Miss,” she would yell, “You show that lady some respect! She’s our DOCTOR Miss! Now say it! Say it!!”
And so it spread and that is who I am now.
When you’re teaching children who have grown up in poverty, you learn that being poor is much more than financial insecurity. Poverty can mean limited access to healthcare. It can manifest itself in the form of trauma, either as those who inflict it or those who survive it. But, most of all, poverty is a loss of power.
If this were a Hallmark-esque teaching story, I would end by telling you about how Dariyonna and I stayed in touch. That I helped her complete her college applications and then mentored her from afar until she graduated from an HBCU. But that isn’t this story and, quite frankly, those stories are harder to find for young adults growing up in poverty.
The real story is how, even across the chasm between privilege and poverty, a traumatized student gave me a sweet nickname that I still treasure. But I would never presume to think that I left something equally meaningful in her life. I simply hope that Dariyonna was able to find her power, that she was able to develop the skills to rise above her circumstances.
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