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 "Teacher" From Don't Stare at the Kid with the Lazy Eye: My Life as a Teacher by pete nicely I didn't know what to say. But I decided I better act like I did. "I'm Mr. Nicely." I said. I could feel each of the students sizing me up in my stiff starched shirt and crisp slacks. Unlike me, they were experts. A veteran teacher told me that by the time a kid is in high school they have the equivalent of a Ph.D. in manipulation. I, on the other hand, didn't even have a teaching credential. While I spoke, I made eye contact with all the students. One by one they all turned away, out of respect, I assumed, for my authority. Every student broke eye contact with me except one- whom I would come to know as Ricardo. He never looked away but I did, every time. I don't know what scared me about him so much except that he looked older than I felt. And I definitely didn't scare him. Eventually the bell rang. The day rolled on with the whole scene repeating itself five more times with five different classes leaving me at the end of my first day with a hundred faces blurred in my mind and one clear one, Ricardo's. I had no idea how I had done. My students and I were alone all day long. They seemed to listen... they seemed respectful. But was that because I was doing a good job, or because these kids were just shocked by the sudden death of their teacher last week and my sudden appearance as her replacement? This was my first real job. I was twenty-two, had graduated from college only three months ago and more than anything I wanted to be good. And if I couldnšt be good, I definitely wanted to be good enough to not be fired or to not ruin the lives of any children. The odds seemed against me. The next day I was even more nervous. "Today," I said, "you will get a new seat and we will do our first lesson together." I could feel Ricardo's eyes beating on me as I moved every student and then handed out a short article. I was almost amazed at how the students were following my directions and were sitting ready to go in their new seats. Just as I began to read the first line, the Principal walked into my classroom. My voice cracked. I kept reading with a sideways smile until I finished the paragraph. I called on a student to continue and looked at the Principal. She gave me a smile that washed relief over me. But when I turned back to the class and met Ricardo's eyes they were as stoic and judging as ever. Two days latter I was sitting in my classroom alone when Ricardo walked in. I was almost certain that he was going to kick my butt. He moved slowly towards me and looked right into my eyes. "You need to talk slower," he said. If it was a threat, it was the strangest threat I had ever heard. "I do?" I said, wondering how to call security. "Yeah. Not everyone in here speaks English as well as you." Was that a compliment? A put down? "If you would speak a little slower, I think we could all learn a lot." Then he walked out. It definitely wasn't a threat. It was just advice so simple and obvious, that I would never have figured it out. The rest of that day got worse. I sent a boy and a girl to the Dean of Discipline because I couldn't figure out any other way to get them quiet. After school in the Dean's office, I got a pretty stern talking to instead of the support I was hoping for "Mr. Nicely," the Dean told me, "Sandra and George are seniors. In four years at the school, they have never been in trouble before. They told me they were trying to help some students who didn't understand your assignment. They are very sorry but I wouldn't be if I were them." I nodded and walked out. I tried to imagine some other job that I could be good at. Dazed, I spent that afternoon hanging out in the main office hoping that someone would be willing to impart sudden inspirations to make this impossible job doable. Their advice confused me more: "The kids need a teacher, not a friend;" The less you talk, the more they learn;" "Don't turn your back on them." I was in the middle of a panic attack the next morning when I saw Ricardo sitting on a bench staring at me as I went to clock in. A feeling overwhelmed me: either I would have to face my fear, or I would fail both my students and myself. "You are here early," I said. "Always," he said. "I have to take my mom to work at five." That was a responsibility that would never have been expected of my friends or me when I was in high school. I wondered how many other overwhelming responsibilities my students had that I could never imagine. "Do me a favor, please. Just stay here for a second. I need your help, Ricardo," I said it as slowly as I possibly could. He nodded. I went and got him some hot chocolate and some coffee for myself. "I prefer coffee." I nodded, begrudgingly handed him the coffee and briefly told him the lessons I had planned for that day. He listened. Then I asked him to explain it back to me. He understood about half of what I was saying. It was a start. Almost every morning after that Ricardo would come to my classroom. I would bring him some coffee and preview my lessons to him. Daily he understood more and more. So did the rest of my students. I also learned about his life. I learned that he had a daughter, a result of a one-night stand. Her mother didn't want to keep her, so Ricardo took full responsibility. He had a good job lined up if he graduated. He also needed glassesthat's why he stared. Slowly, the morning meetings became less about my lessons and more about Ricardo's desire to pass the WRITE test, his last obstacle before graduation. He had only been speaking English for four years (three years less than experts suggest a student needs to be fluent). His writing was just not good enough, yet. So every day he wrote business letters and essays and I showed him how to do better. Eventually more students who were in Ricardo's same predicament began to show up. The day before their last chance to pass the WRITE test, fifteen students were in my room preparing. The results weren't due until two days before the end of school. Ricardo went to the graduation rehearsals knowing that he could be pulled out if he failed his test. On the day the scores arrived, I couldn't face the idea that he had failed. Or maybe I couldn't face what that would say about me. I just sat in my classroom in a silent kind of prayer as the last rehearsal for their big goodbye to high school progressed down the hall. My stomach sank into my now-worn slacks when I saw I saw Ricardo at the door. "No. No. Don't tell me," I said. He must have failed. He smiled. He had passed. "I just wanted to give you this." He walked over to me and placed in my hand a little porcelain figure. It was a desk. And on it were an apple and a nameplate that said, "Teacher." |
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