MaryJane Syphers (English) stopped by their table one morning with clicking heels, a scraping of the chair and a dramatic collapse. This was her manner of arriving anywhere in the building, always with a clatter and a crash, as if her body were a wooden cross she must drag each day through the hallways. In other classes the kids did a riotous imitation of Miss Syphers’ entrance – “Alright, settle down quickly everyone, let’s get this over with, painlessly and seriously.” – like rehearsals of grim resolve.
At their table, once settled, she searched her bag with squirrelly urgency for a cigarette, all the while speaking fiercely to Bilicki who was her intended target. She lit up, threw her head back, exhaled; and only then did she seem to acknowledge the presence of Radix and Mahmood.
Mahmood nodded and turned the pages of his Times. Radix looked at her, then looked away, a wave of resentment sweeping over him. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. What he resented was the way she’d barged in, how abruptly she’d cordoned off Bilicki for conversation. Strangers mere seconds ago, they contrived to ignore each other.
MaryJane talked to Bilicki about a “stupid” note she’d just received from Pete Plimpler about her “failure” to submit to him, as requested, the lesson outline for her classes. That she should be subjected to this level of humiliation, after all these years, was a sign of how terrible things had become in the department.
Bilicki listened and nodded in sympathy; he was growing a new beard. MaryJane shifted her behind around and pulled on her cigarette, as if wishing all her problems with the department chair, with the school, would quietly go up in smoke, leaving her lungs and her life in blissful contentment.
Radix couldn’t bear to look at her saucer-round eyes, the lines writhing on her skin; couldn’t bear the meanness in her voice. He turned in his chair and made a point of looking anywhere but at her. And MaryJane, who sensed how displeased he was by her intrusion but couldn’t care less, coolly exhaled and carried on.
“Did you get your guidelines for tomorrow’s Parent-Teachers conference?” at one point she asked Bilicki.
“What guidelines?”
“It’s in your mailbox. Memo from our beloved Supervisor. Reminding us how to conduct ourselves when we meet with the parents. You know, what to say to them, what not to say.”
Bilicki shook his head.
“They want us to focus on the positive. We must be careful not to cause injury to the self-esteem of the little darlings. Parents have enough problems of their own. They don’t come to our conferences to be told negative things.”
MaryJane flicked ash off her cigarette in Bilicki’s empty coffee cup; and then, deciding this was perhaps the moment to open portals of interest in Bilicki’s friends, she said, switching her glance between Bilicki and Radix:
“I think parents have a right to know what’s really going on in the classrooms. On a daily basis. I mean, what good does it do hiding the truth?” Then looking directly at Radix: “When you’ve been here as long as I have, you begin to see the bigger picture. We’re engaged in a never-ending war. Between order and chaos. And it seems to me that with every passing day we are losing that war.”
She stopped talking for a minute, her blanched face bristling with certainty. She appeared to be waiting for Radix to say something, assuming he had something interesting to say.
And Radix, clearing his throat, said, “Sometimes a little chaos is useful.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t…” MaryJane looked at him with quite frightening, staring eyes.
Radix raised his voice: “I said, sometimes a little chaos can go a long way. You know, shaking things up…turning old habits upside down. It’s like, things have a way of calcifying, if you see what I mean.” MaryJane sat back, her finger propping her chin, studying this man, wondering who he really was. “Some people get stuck in their habits and offices…and routines, so a little chaos might help start a revolution.”
“A revolution!” MaryJane gave a hoarse, incredulous laugh. “So that’s what this is all about.”
She’d heard what sounded like resentment in his voice. She stared, backing away, but only so she could measure his range, let him flounder about as he got the angry stuff off his chest. When she spoke again her voice was controlled and precise.
“Don’t get me wrong. There’s always enough blame to go around. Never enough money, the building’s in disrepair, the bureaucracy’s out of touch. And burnt-out teachers like me keep bitching at everybody.” She laughed and reached out to grasp Bilicki’s arm. “When you get right down to it,” she resumed, “we come here every day to teach. But these students, bless their poor hearts, come here with no readiness to learn. You’re constantly spoon-feeding them. Serving it up like Gerber baby food. And when you think they’ve got it, they walk out the door and…poof… it’s gone, all gone, turned to vapor.”
Gathering her books and papers, she prepared to drag herself off. She shook her head, so sad, the situation we're in, and confessed she was near the end of her tether. She was thinking the other day it was time to call it quits. Hand everything over to the younger folk.
“Like this young man here,” she said, tossing a smile like a bouquet at Radix.
(from “Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!” a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 