The commute to John Wayne Cotter H.S in the Bronx depended on where you lived.
It could be smooth and uninteresting, or filled with nerve-wracking tension. Students
zoned to the school lived in or around the neighbourhood; they invariably used the
buses or the subway. The teaching staff drove in from outside the borough; it was a
half-hour, sometimes one hour, drive, with bridges to cross, tolls to pay and often
long traffic delays.
Because teachers were required to clock in – a bone of contention between the
Board of Education and the Teachers Union; time clocks were considered demeaning
"to teachers as professionals" – there was the added pressure to be in the building on
time; to be at your classroom door on time.
If asked to comment on these pressures most teachers at John Wayne Cotter would
laugh dismissively and, speaking in the tone of overworked, unappreciated profess-
ionals, they might retort that, well, this is the job they do; a poorly paid job; with
diminished satisfactions each passing year.
"Actually, I have no problem getting in." (Mrs. Richter, Music) "Where do I live…?
Jersey…yes, all the way out there….Yes, I cross the George Washington every
morning, but you see, there's very little traffic on the road when I start out which is
about six in the morning. Oh, I'm up at five in the morning…that early! And I usually
get here on time."
"I'm not going to kill myself getting here." (Ms Sinak, Social Studies)
"Well, I'll tell you, sometimes I'm late, but that's rare." (Mrs. Helmsclaw, English,
leaning forward on elbows, and twitching her bottom). "I drive in from Long Island.
I take the Throgs Neck Bridge. My problem is, I tend to linger…I'd step outside,
ready to leave, then I kind of get distracted by the condition of the lawn. I'd walk
around and inspect the flowers, check the sprinkler head, pull up a few weeds…Yes,
tending the garden while the car is warming up, can you imagine?…Actually, it's my
husband who's the garden buff. He spends hours pruning and pottering…no, I can't
explain it. I just have this desire to touch the plants and flowers as I'm leaving in the
morning…must be something fatalistic in me…like it's the last time I'll see them…
Sounds crazy, I know."
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 