N.D.Williams – Page 8 – FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN

NY SLIDE LIV: BILICKI RUNS AGAIN

When word swept around the building that Brendan Bilicki was thinking of making a second run for the Chapter Chair position the overwhelming response was, first, to gasp or snigger; then to wonder, what was wrong with him? Hadn't he learnt anything from the first attempt?
After all when you stopped to think about it, working at John Wayne Cotter H.S. was everyone's mortgage-paying job. For some, the younger ones just starting out, teaching still had something to do with always wanting to be a teacher. A few had drifted into the profession like vessels with broken rudders; but as the years went by many invariably found other compensatory activities, second jobs – as adjunct college faculty, or running a little business. A little moonlighting after school hours, everyone understood, helped pay the bills, with enough left for a car upgrade or a European summer vacation.
So what was it with Bilicki? He'd achieved the dubious honor of veteran teacher. He should be looking forward to getting out of the system, to happy retirement.
Mrs. Haliburton had her own theory. As she explained to Noreen, once you've put in as many years as Bilicki had, retirement begins to look like a form of death. It came to you bearing an envelope with details of your pension rights; it offered quick dispatch to nonentity land.
New York teachers were only human. They, too, wanted to be remembered, to leave a mark somewhere, the way the kids carved their names on the old school desk. "This company doesn't send you off with a gold watch," Mrs. Haliburton observed, and she and Noreen had a good laugh over that.
Still, after losing the first time he ran for office Bilicki was expected to fade back into the woodwork; continue his shenanigans if he had to, but leave the Union business in the capable hands of the incumbent, Steve Kite, who had held the post for many years.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE LIII: BULLDOG DRUMMOND

         "You would not believe what happened to me today," Lightbody announced to the carpool. "I got a visit from the new morals police chief, you know her?…Burton?"
     "Haliburton."
     "There you go. Well, she knocks on my door, this is five minutes before the bell, the lesson's over, I'm bubbling in my attendance sheets and the kids are doing what they usually do, throwing paper balls, goofing off…anyway…she knocks on my door and walks in, and she's looking none too pleased with what she sees…and I say to her, Yes, can I help you? …and she asks me if I know a Mrs. Drummond, who is a crossing guard, she's at the corner of Myrtle and 105th…"
     "I thought you parked at the gas station," Meier said.
     "Well, I used to but it's beginning to add up, how much I'm paying this guy. I figured if they're going to get to my car, they can hit it there just as easily, then with the snow and everything…anyway she asks me if I knew this Mrs. Drummond, and I said, I know who she is, I've never spoken to her, and she says one of the kids complained to her I had made offensive remarks about this lady."
     Everyone threw quick glances at Lightbody, listening for the slightest ripple of guilt and trouble in his voice.
   "I said, Madam, I've hardly exchanged two words with this lady. Truth be told, I did once, when she flagged me down. She came up to my car, knocked on the window with her knuckles, and told me she's going to report me the next time I ignore her and cross the zebra lines. And I said, Madam, what are you talking about? Apparently, the day before, I'd passed in front instead of waiting for the kids to cross the zebra…I mean, I didn't even see the woman signaling, and in any case I was running late that morning… anyway this Haliburton lady says she'd received a complaint that I'd referred to the Drummond lady as a dog."
     "You did what? Called the crossing guard a dog?" Brebnor said.
     "I did no such thing. Actually, that's what the kids call her, the bulldog. I'd asked the class if anyone knew who the crossing guard was, and someone, I think it might have been Ramos, said, You mean the bulldog? and I said, That's the one. Any of you come across this woman?"
     No one had. Everyone seemed amused.
     "I had no idea at the time the woman's name was Drummond, the crossing guard I mean, so when this Haliburton lady tells me I'd insulted this Mrs. Drummond I tried to lighten up the situation by asking her…I mean, the thought just popped into my head… I asked her if she'd ever heard of Bulldog Drummond, you know, the detective in those novels? I said, Did you ever read those Bulldog Drummond books when you were a kid?"
    The carpool thought they knew where Lightbody was going with the story and erupted in laughter.
     "She didn't know who I was talking about. She said she'd read many authors but she hadn't heard of any Bulldog Drummond, and in any case she didn't think it appropriate for me to characterize – now listen to this – it was inappropriate for someone like me to characterize anyone, and certainly not this Mrs. Drummond, who lived in the community, whose job was just as important as any teacher's job… to characterize her as some sort of animal. So I started to explain, Madam, I did no such thing, and she just walked off."
     For awhile they drove in silence. Then Brebnor, returning to Lightbody's attempt to lighten up the situation, muttered the words 'Bulldog Drumond'; unleasing a fresh outburst of laughter.
               (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE LII: WORLDS APART

     All the signs indicated that Amarelle was moving away. After the first weekend absence, when she met her sister in Manhattan, there was the evening she phoned to say she would be spending two weeks at her sister's place. The reason? Sammy D. had flown back to his island on vacation. Aschelle was all alone in the house.
She arranged to come to the Bronx for one evening. She cooked a pot of food and a tray of chicken cutlets which was stored in the refrigerator; all he had to do was heat it up in the evening, make sure he bought fresh vegetables; and he'd be fine.
She stayed that night with him, fussing, asking questions about the neighborhood as if she'd been away for months: did they catch the crazy man with the gun? you mean, he's still out there waiting to shoot at people in their doorways? And the Spanish people – still hanging out on the stoop at night? In bed her hips hinted at readiness; then the following morning she was off to work; and that evening she was back at her sister's in Peekskill; leaving him his books and his silence; not understanding why anyone, give a chance, would prefer to spend more days and nights in the Bronx.
   Radix didn't complain. He'd been self-sufficient ever since his college days.
   Living with him in the Bronx was at first a daring modern move for a girl from the islands. Back home her parents were telling islanders their daughters were having the time of their lives. One lived in a nice house in upstate New York; the other had chosen to live with someone in rather dangerous circumstances in Harlem. ("Daddy thinks you've moved in with someone in Harlem," Aschelle announced, delighted at the stir the sisters were creating back home.)
One Saturday afternoon, unusually bright and mild for mid-October, Radix went into a store and bought a bicycle. It was a slender-bodied American bike with multiple gears and bright colours. The store owner gave him a reasonable price since summer biking was over, and the young man spent some time inspecting the frame as if it were a horse. He tried to persuade Radix to purchase trimmings and accessories. Radix settled for a helmet. He rode out the store into streaming traffic which to his delight treated him fairly as another road user.
    The following morning he stepped out his building; fellows on the stoop made room for him to pass. They commented on the bike and watched him, curious and respectful.
    He thought they'd be less traffic to contend with so early in the morning as the city still slept. He crossed a bridge and rode all the way into Manhattan.
           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE LI: WAYS IN THE WORLD

     Amarelle was on the line, speaking loudly, for apparently she was using a pay phone. He kept asking her to repeat what she'd said, so obtrusive was the background noise. She kept saying, "Can you hear me?" She seemed to be listening for signs in his voice that he was annoyed or worried she had not come home.
  She explained she'd met her sister Amarelle in Manhattan; they'd had a girls' night out
doing the town; she didn't think it made sense to come back to the streets of the Bronx at that late hour; instead they would go to Aschelle's place in Peekskill; she'd spend the weekend there.
Radix let her gush through the background noise which transmitted a sense of the great churning fun she was having right then; which, she seemed to imply, he was sadly missing.
This was what they ought to be doing – getting out more often, especially on Friday nights; away from their wretched neighborhood; amidst the neon and headlight flow, the traffic and sidewalk strollers, clubs and restaurants.
   "I have to go, they're waiting for me in the car. We're parked near a fire hydrant."
   She didn't say where off Fifth Avenue they were, who "they" were; but he imagined her hanging up the phone and stepping back into the world she'd found; wanting that now more than she wanted him.
    And as if to confirm what world it was he had elected to live in, the dog at the back of the house next door started barking. Ark ark ark. Then a seven-second silence, then more arks. The dog could be hungry or angry or bored with its chained status, he couldn't tell. Only its owner understood its language.
    He heard another sound, someone bouncing a basketball on the sidewalk outside his front windows. Bounce bounce bounce, some conversation, then bounce bounce.
    He peered through the blinds. The streets had the usual derelict look. The baskeball bouncer, tall and narrow-faced, apparently returning from team practice, a duffel bag slung on his shoulders, had stopped to talk to his homeboys. Carlos and the crew were camped out on the stoop; they passed around a marijuana joint and a large bottle of beer in a brown paper bag. They talked in their fierce crotch-reaching way, shifting from foot too foot, walking away to dramatize a point; struggling to make sense of their world.
    A full moon was out in the clear night sky. He hadn't seen the moon in a long time. The upper regions of the universe seemed to vanish as night fell, leaving him to contend with indifferent street lights, obscuring brick buildings.
   This life in the streets – its underground runnings, the corner businessmen - had a way of absorbing the unexpected and carrying on. A man is shot in a hallway; stains on the walls get washed away, the body goes off in a black zippered bag; grime and debris swept up. The roadway clear again, everything prepares to forge ahead.
   Radix turned back to his bedroom. He had a long weekend in front of him, and no one to bounce his thoughts off like a human backboard. But like the barking dog next door he'd find a way and language to engage the world.
              (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE L: CAUTION// MEN AFTER WORK

          Lightbody and the carpool were stuck in traffic on the New England highway, Ghansam at the wheel, crawling along on a day they wanted anything but clogged roads; just to get home. And since they'd had a jumpstart on heading-home traffic, leaving John Wayne Cotter H.S. at 2.30, it was reasonable to hope roadways would offer smooth uncluttered passage.
   But there was road work to contend with. The orange cones and road signs warned there would be over a mile of slow going in the weeks ahead. They should be prepared for at least twenty minutes of agony each afternoon.
     Brebnor was slouched in his corner of the car; he stared out the window and wished he could by some feat of kinesis lift the car he was in up and over all the obstructions ahead. He also wished he had not got out of bed.
     He'd got in the car that morning, saying, "I think I'm coming down with something", to which Lightbody had remarked sharply, "Why don't you stay home then?" Brebnor coughed a mucous-stirring cough, then blew his nose to show he didn't give a spit what Lightbody thought.
    Meier for his part was staring at the huge tires of an 18 wheeler running beside them. The truck shuddered whenever it moved forward, its vibrations giving off what felt like hegemonic roadway tendencies.
    He wished Ghansam would speed up. The man drove hunched forward, his hands gripping the wheel. If only he could be a little more aggressive, they'd be past the truck with its hissing airbrakes. Crawling beside the massive tires – he could reach out and touch them if he wanted – made him anxious. A lapse of concentration at the wheel, and before you know it the truck could veer into their lane, smash right into his side of the vehicle.
    "You know what's amazing?" Meier said.
    "What's amazing?" Lightbody said. They'd been traveling for awhile in silence.
    "On the side of the road, have you noticed…? bits and pieces of tire, curled up, lying there like they'd been bitten off or something…? and bolts and screws that must have fallen off vehicles. Makes you feel there are creatures on the road just waiting for slow traffic like this, so they could reach up and tear at the insides of passing vehicles."
     No one seemed moved by Meier's amazed observation.
     Driving cautiously, three car lengths away from the vehicle in front, Ghansam had not yet passed the 18 wheeler. Meier sighed and shifted in his seat.
     "Which reminds me," Lightbody said, "has anyone noticed the fluorescents in the hallway on the second floor? Some are broken. You feel you're in a dungeon somewhere
… all dark and depressing."
     "So why don't you report it to the custodial staff?" Meier snapped.
     "What makes you think I didn't?"
     "Where is the Custodian's office?"
     "It's on the first floor. You go in and there's this secretary lady who stops you and asks what is it you want, while the guy who's really in charge sits there in a blue suit and this weird polka dot tie – have any of you seen this guy? – like that's all he's paid to do, just sit there looking like the man in charge. And the secretary lady tells you to fill out a request form. So I asked her, why do we have to have to fill out forms? why can't they just send someone to fix it rightaway? And she says, Well, you aren't the only one with problems in the building… you'll have to fill out a request form. And I said to her, Madam, do you have any idea how much paperwork I have to deal with every day? And she says, If you want your hallway lights fixed. You have to fill out. The request form."
     Lightbody did a sneering high-pitched imitation of the lady's voice that was so good, it raised a laugh from Ghansam. He picked up a little speed and slipped past the 18-wheel truck.
      (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE XLIX: ANOTHER YEAR OVER AND OUT

     The D'Arizon matter was playing out just as Bilicki launched his campaign for the post of Chapter Chairman in the Teachers Union election. He decided to make it an issue. He pointed to "corruption nesting in high places" and the school's double standards; he spoke of the need to insist on high academic achievement for all students.
   When he dropped by to solicit Mrs. Haliburton's support they sat in her office after school and chatted for about an hour. The conversation was cordial, she told Noreen. Bilicki went on and on, outlining his philosophy; he told her his aim was "empowerment" for students and parents in the community.
     All in all she was convinced he was a decent man; she could see how his motives could be misconstrued, how determined he was at all costs to do the right thing. Still, she'd said it before and she'd say it again: though his heart was probably in the right place, in her heart of hearts – and given what she had heard about the D'Arizon affair – she could not give him her vote.
     The issue spurred rancorous debate in the teachers' cafeteria, dividing the faculty. Bilicki won considerable support from the Math department but lost the election. The tensions generated by the issue and the elections left a sour atmosphere that hung about right to the end of the school year.
     On the very last day before everyone took off for vacation the principal held back distribution of summer checks until every department had reported the satisfactory completion of grades and paperwork. It was an emotionally soggy day. Teachers milled around the hallways, the cafeteria; some had afternoon flights to catch out of the city; everyone felt exhausted and irritable: swearing that for the next eight weeks they wanted nothing to do with the Bronx, nor their mean-spirited principal and his fucking school; and the hopeless students they'd tried to educate all year.
             (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE XLVIII: PROMOTION ISSUES

      Anthony D'Arizon came to the school from Puerto Rico with enormous basketball talent. He seemed destined for the NBA, everyone said, and a scholarship was already waiting for him to pick up at Florida State U. The only problem was his low scholastic scores.
     It seemed a shame, his coach agreed, that such a promising athlete should be held back, a great career threatened by persistently low scores in Math and English. Something had to be worked out. For English he was placed in Mr. Bilicki's elective.
     One thing Bilicki would not compromise on was the school's habit of coddling and protecting basketball players. "We worry more about their ability to play ball and win trophies for the school, and less about their education," he protested. His position did not sit well with everyone, certainly not with the prinicipal who was a school basketball fan.
     In his final year, still early and months away from graduation and that scholarship at Florida State, D'Arizon seemed on track to fail Mr. Bilicki's English class. Asked to account for this Bilicki pointed to a pattern of absenteeism. Told by his supervisor that a student could not be "failed" solely on his attendance record, Bilicki held his ground.
     He was approached by Mrs. Angrisani (Guidance) who in the presence of a subdued D'Arizon – towering over his teachers in snazzy sweat suit and bright sneakers – argued passionately that Anthony's circumstances were rather special.
     Okay, he'd missed many classes, everyone knew that; but surely Bilicki could be sensitive to a student's need to put classes second to the interests of his family. The interests of his family? Yes, Anthony had a part-time job; he went to work before and after classes to bring money in for his mother and younger brother. It was something he didn't want made public. Some students had no choice but to work their way through high school. Bilicki refused to give in. Anthony D'Arizon was one day mysteriously yanked from his elective.
     Bilicki stormed into his supervisor's office demanding an explanation. Pete Plimpler, always ready with fluent answers, raised a matter he said had just come to his attention, concerning a "race issue" between teacher and student. Bilicki was apoplectic.
             (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE XLVII: INSTALLED

     For the announcement of her appointment by the Principal at the next faculty meeting Mrs. Haliburton wore a business-style jacket and skirt (not the pants outfit she favoured); and a tiny African hat and a kente cloth strip gracing her left shoulder. When she stood up, bowed, smiled and waved off the applause, the kente cloth and the hat caught everyone's eye.
     So much had happened so quickly - the changes, the rise to new responsibility involving colleagues they'd known and worked with all these years – most teachers hadn't time to make the required adjustments. Few even suspected Mrs. Haliburton carried inside her a quirky ethnic pride.
   Colleagues in her department were nevertheless determined to maintain the spirit of old connections. They came forward and touched the kente strip, "Lovely piece of material"; and they kissed Mrs. Haliburton on the cheek.
     Her office received some renovation. Mrs. Haliburton decided to make 'heroes' of students who'd fallen victim to street violence; she asked the computer department to print out a poster – Victims of Violence /Memorial Wall – which was displayed outside her room. Student friends of the injured were invited to submit poems and artwork to embellish the poster.
     The computer department was asked, next, to print out a colored banner – It Takes A Whole Village To Raise A Child: African Proverb. This was stretched above her office door. The problem of students loitering outside Rm. 217 she solved by insisting that students come to her office only when summoned.
     Bright new notices appeared around the building, posted with Mrs. Haliburton's
authorizing signature. They reminded everyone to bring to her attention any acts of bias or racial discrimination. These notices replaced the old ones which had faded over the years, and enough of which Mrs. Ossinoff had apparently not posted in conspicuous places during her tenure.
     As for her critics, the cynics – teachers who strolled into her office and saw no students, saw nothing happening; saw Mrs. Haliburton frowning as she leaned over papers on her desk, or spoke on the phone – and the teachers she felt sure resented her appointment after Mrs. Ossinoff, Mrs. Haliburton would shake her head, amused and saddened. "I mean, what else would you expect?" she'd say.
     She let it be known, however, that she was hard at work never mind how things looked. Much of her work was done outside the building: visiting the homes of truants, talking with mothers she bumped into at the local supermarket and on the streets of the community.
     She was not always forthcoming with information; in fact, she seemed distrustful, belligerent at times. Say what you like but make no mistake, Mrs. Haliburton was hard at work.
                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE XLVI: TURNING POINT

    The turning point in her campaign for change came after an incident in the parking
lot near the school one day. A skinny Hispanic student on his way home was surrounded,
pushed and shoved and urged to fight by a chubby black student. Frightened, his head
lowered, he walked away; then he started running. He was chased into the parking lot where – to the delight of a swollen pack of onlookers, howling for action, and jumping on parked cars for a better view – he turned suddenly and fought back. With swift ferocity.
    Pulling a knife from his bag he went after his tormentor, plunging the knife within an
inch of the lungs.
    The incident raised a furor. The city tabloids, at the time running opinion pieces on the proposal to ask city employees to take up residency in the city, sent in reporters.
Television vans with channel numbers boldly identified parked around the school the
following morning. Reporters waited on the sidewalk to interview teachers hurrying in.
    Many teachers stopped long enough to express distress at the damage done to cars
when students jumped on them. Mrs. Viola Haliburton was stopped and she agreed to
give a lengthy interview before hand held microphones.
    On the evening news she was allowed only thirty seconds of exposure; she complained
bitterly about this to everyone who saw her on TV. She'd said much more, a lot more, than was actually shown; they'd edited out important words. Still, thirty seconds of edited
television exposure added up to thirty seconds of recorded fame.
    One reporter made mention of the racial imbalance at the school ("a staff overwhelm-
ingly white in a district predominantly black".) She observed that Mrs. Haliburton was one of few black teachers at the school "trying to make a difference".
    The interview, while raising her profile as a community spokesperson, incensed many
in the building whose cars had, or had not, suffered damage. (Mr. Lightbody was beside
himself with rage; he hadn't heard one spoken word about damaged teacher cars.) Many kept up their good-humoured relations with her, though privately they considered Mrs. Haliburton's television interview unfair and divisive.
    Days later, disturbed by the adverse publicity the school had received, the District
Superintendent paid a visit. She noticed students lounging outside Mrs. Ossinoff's office
on the second floor and demanded to know why they were not in classrooms receiving
instruction. The explanation she was given did not please her. Near the end of the
spring term Mrs. Ossinoff was suddenly relieved of her post.
    They didn't have to look very far for her replacement – someone with impressive credentials and status (a recent TV interviewee), who lived in the community and felt impelled to "give back" to the community. As the new program coordinator Mrs. Haliburton was considered just right for the job.
                             (from "Ah Mikhail O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE XLV: REVOLUTIONARY MOVES

    Nothing short of a revolution was needed at the school, so Mrs. Haliburton believed.
Serious with intent she armed herself with grim statistics to make her point: the violent
behaviour, the truancy and dropout rates, teenage pregnancy issues. Things were not
just bad, she meant to imply; they were unacceptable.
   Her first moveable target was Mrs. Ossinoff, a program coordinator, whose duties were
to provide counseling to students referred to her office: students with "problems" at home, in the classroom, with abusive boyfriends, drugs. Her office was usually crowded.
Students wanting to talk to Mrs. Ossinoff stayed away from classes; they loitered outside
her door; they played cards in her office as they waited their turn.
    Mrs. Ossinoff had been a student at Berkeley in the 60s. On Fridays, when teachers
dressed down and looked forward to a relaxed funfilled weekend, she wore flowers in her
hair and blue jeans and tie-dyed T shirts; her crinkly hair with its first strands of grey
hung down her rounded shoulders.
    Students loved her. They encouraged her to talk about the 60s when smoking
marijuana was a harmless if socially unacceptable indulgence; they claimed she understood their problems, spoke their language; she was "always there" when they needed help.
    There was, however, a loitering problem outside her office. Mrs. Haliburton made
this the first issue of her campaign for change.
    "You walk past Rm. 217…at any given time, on any given day…what do you see?
Students hanging out. Just hanging out. Nobody's in control," she observed, adding good-
naturedly in reference to Mrs. Ossinoff: "She's doing the best she can, I don't deny that,
but I don't think she's able to relate to these kids on a meaningful level."
    She began cutting out newspaper articles carrying the latest high school violence
statistics. John Wayne Cotter H.S. was usually high on the list. She made photocopies
of columns – the borders and capitals severe with printer ink – and she pinned them up
on the notice board in the main office.
                               (from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)