Tag: NYC Public Schools

   

                          
                 If anyone seemed to invite confrontation, that loud back-in-your-face
                 behaviour so common in classroom, it was Dr. Balleret.  Yet here in the
                 library the students were thrown back on their heels, conceding her right
                 to be brash, to rap their knuckles, smack them on the side of her head 
                 with her well-spoken words. Not a whimper of protest slipped from
                 their lips.

                 "They're basically nice decent kids, notwithstanding the terrible 
                 circumstances they live in," she was saying to Radix, her eyes darting
                 from table to table. "I had these three kids…I'll always remember
                 this…these three kids were kicking up a squall in the hallway one 
                 morning…you could hear them through the library doors. I stuck my head
                 out and looked at them. They sort of froze, waiting to see what I'd do
                 next. I invited them to come inside. One of them ran off. The others
                 looked at me as if I were crazy. Come, come inside, I want to talk to
                 you, I said." 

                 She took a deep breath, and adjusted her clothes.

                 "So they came in, and I sat them down at a table and I said, Okay, I want
                 to talk to you, one by one in my office. Naturally they were mystified.
                 What do you want to talk about?  So I said, Well, why don't you come 
                 into my office. One by one, and find out? And they came…one by one 
                 they came into my office. I sat them down and gave them the lecture." 

                 "The lecture?"  Radix shifted his feet and looked sufficiently curious.

                 "I call it "The Seven Pillars of Achievement and Success". I explained to
                 them what "responsibility" means, why it's important to get things done,
                 especially things they regard as boring."

                 "They hear a lot of that in the classroom," Radix said, more than a little
                 irritated now by her air of self-importance.

                 "You see, I've discovered what is sadly lacking in these kids. Lessons in 
                  moral standards, appropriate behaviour. Nobody talks to them about
                  these things."

                 "They get that from their parents, and when they go to church on 
                  Sundays."

                  "No, I don't mean all that motivating…I am somebody!…stuff. They're 
                  tired of hearing that. They get bullied every day with that. No, I mean
                  mean ideas for successful living… your basic bootstrap ideas… that 
                  would lift them out of the awful situations they find themselves in. 
                  And I'll tell you this: those kids sat and listened to me as if they were 
                  hearing everything I said for the first time. And the following day one of 
                  them came up to me and said, "I've come for my lecture." Your lecture, 
                  I said. "Yes, my lecture. The other kids got theirs; I wasn't there; so I 
                  want my lecture." She laughed in a curt, amused way. "That's how much 
                  it meant to them."

                  That day Radix left the library thinking: how pontifical, how ancient this
                  woman is, for all her sensitivity to student issues.

                  And for awhile he couldn't get rid of her. She'd come over to where he
                  sat with the New York Times. She'd smile, remove her glasses and say,
                  Good morning, Michael…and how are we today? She'd look into his eyes
                  with what seemed an offer, a promise of eternal friendship. He'd stop
                  reading, lift his head and listen as she relayed in a voice just above a
                  whisper something of human interest she'd observed; something amusing
                  or sad.

                  He remembered only words and phrases he'd heard no one else in the
                  building deliver with unfailing civility and dedication  ̶  Michael, I kid
                  you not; and Notwithstanding.

                  (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

 

  

                      
               In those last gloomy days, as the school cruised towards final exams, the
               prom, graduation exercises and other farewell routines that still had to be
               organized and gone through, Radix found a place of sanctuary, so to speak,
               in the school library; in the east wing on the third floor. 

               He'd drifted in there one morning and found it empty and quiet. It was the
               7th period, his "prep" period, so he decided to return the next day and the
               day after. There was the New York Times on its polished sticks. A few
               students, heads bowed, were reading and working with purpose. And there
               was Dr. Valery Balleret, the librarian, who ran the library like a castle of
               of discipline and enlightenment. 

               His first encounter with her back in the Fall was unsettling. He'd been
               asked by his supervisor to cover a class that normally met in the computer
               room; but since the supervisor wasn't prepared to let a bunch of kids sit
               idle in the computer, it was off to the library with Radix in charge.

               He had a difficult time marshalling everyone up to the third floor. Some
               students straggled; some sneaked off and were stopped in the hallway and
               asked to explain their unattended behavior, prompting the security officer
               to look at Radix as if he ought to be doing a better job controlling his
               class.

               When he got to the library Dr. Balleret refused to let them in. She asked
               Radix if he worked here  ̶  was he a substitute teacher? She insisted that
               everyone line up quietly and take out their identity cards.

               This had been her routine over the years: waiting at the door as library
               visitors came tumbling up the stairs; her hands folded, her chin raised in
               proprietary displeasure as everyone got their cards out for inspection. 

               To Radix that morning, his patience already tested and frayed, this was a
               silly time-wasting procedure.

               He stood aside, stiff and unhelpful, an offended look on his brow.  
               Eventually she let them in, told them where to sit; then she got on the 
               phone to enquire what this was all about since no one had told her about a
               class coming to the library.

               She spoke in a cultivated English accent he came to associate with
               librarians, and people whose lives and work seem connected with
               literature and the Arts.                                      

               Then as if to make amends for the offhand way she'd treated him, she 
               sidled over to Radix, introduced herself and  ̶  with arms folded, her eyes
               narrowed and steeled in case of trouble  ̶  she struck up friendly conver- 
               sation during which they appeared to be jointly watching over their
               charges. 

               She wanted to know where he came from. She quickly announced how
               pleasing his accent was. Part of the problem here at John Wayne Cotter,
               she whispered with some urgency, was the failure of communication
               between teachers and students whose origins were oceans apart. Radix
               felt some discomfort with this opinion, and wished she would wander back
               to her library duties.

               A student came in. Dr. Balleret stopped him in his tracks and asked what 
               he wanted. He seemed surprised anyone would want to stop him from
               using the school library. He explained he simply wanted to stay here.
               She asked if he had a room pass; he didn't have one. "Well, in that case
               you can't stay here."  Not willing to challenge her he walked away, looking
               back, puzzled and resentful.

               Only then did it strike Radix how unusually compliant the kids were in this
               part of the building; how controlled and responsive to request. Was it the
               library with its library rules? Was it the stern overarching presence of Dr.
               Balleret? There was more than a hint of uncompromising will in her narrow
               white face, her straight arrow posture.
 
               Above all, she told Radix, she was concerned with "setting a good example
               for these kids"; establishing "a positive tone in the school"; encouraging
               "civility in the way we conduct ourselves."

               And as if to demonstrate what she meant, she walked over to a table
               where the decibel level had risen to unacceptable levels. She spoke to the
               miscreants in her slow refined way (which seconds ago had Radix wishing
               she'd hurry and get to the end of the sentence, or finish the thought.) It 
               compelled the students to listen, to follow syllable after syllable her
               admonitions. Then she returned to Radix's side, shaking her head sadly,
               eager to pick up the thread of their conversation.

 

                       (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" by N.D.Williams, 2001)

   

 

 

 

   

                  
              All of a sudden, like a circus caravan that had arrived and was setting up
              camp overnight, spring came into the city. Radix stepped outside one
              morning and noticed early bodies of leaves on the trees, as if they weren't
              there when last he looked. The fullness of green was everywhere, and just
              as overnight snow fall blankets and hides everything, the tree branches
              masked the ugliness of the walls and gave apartment dwellers a sense of
              occupying a pleasant new habitat.

              Blossoms and pollen fell and blew about; allergies rose and spread. There
              was much to complain about but in a palpably different way, and with 
              fresh launchings of hope from every shut in heart.

              The street-cleaning vehicle rumbled through leaving a visible brush trail
              around cars, and for one day at least the street kerbs were free of litter.

              Driving home one afternoon he missed his turn off corner, so slow were his
              reflexes to his markers, the trees in bloom. Still he was glad for the
              warming temperatures. 

              Feeling the need to do something spring-like he renewed his Sunday
              morning rides around the city.

              Cycling at an early morning hour turned out to be more dangerous than 
              he'd imagined. Released from winter caution motorists seemed to move 
              faster; they often swished past him very close, uncomfortable close. He'd
              pass a dead squirrel that didn't scamper fast enough from the wheels
              of cars. It lay just off the middle of the road, its coiled innards squashed
              and exposed.

              Sometimes on deserted littered streets he'd pedal fast past two cars, a
              police cruiser, its flashers going, the white officer scribbling the ticket;
              while in the other car the black driver sat stiff, looking patient or bored.

              At John Wayne Cotter, spring season behavior, as far as such a thing
              existed, heated up with the understanding the school was in its last
              days, its death throes. 

              Memos from Phil Quackenbush, the Chapter chairman, were strident but
              not very encouraging. The Board was making arrangements to interview
              teachers who wished to remain and work at John Wayne Cotter under the
              new dispensation. Everyone else would be transferred to schools else-
              where. Not to schools of their choice. It was a straight case of take it or
              leave it. 

              This caused howls of anxiety and outrage that threw Quackenbush on the
              defensive. Yes, It seemed the Board was treating teachers like garbage, but
              he was protesting the situation in the strongest terms. In the meantime, he
              wanted everyone to inform him of their reassignments, their new schools,
              just in case things worked out in the union's favour and he needed to get in
              touch with them. 

              Come what may, however farflung their eventual dispersal, the John
              Wayne Cotter family would remain united in spirit.   

              As the temperature warmed up, student absenteeism rose. Everyone
              agreed these were good days for truancy at the beach. On hot days
              students threw the windows open and teachers fought to have them pulled
              down to one-inch slits "as per Board of Education regulations".

              On one particularly bad day a substitute teacher got his finger caught in a
              door. Someone shut the door with such severe force it made a clean slice
              of the finger. His howl of pain was heard on the third and first floors, a
              long drawn out, heart-chilling unnatural sound, then a whimpering of
              disbelief. Someone picked up the severed finger and both were rushed by
              ambulance to the hospital. 

              Jack Barquist came back. He'd been away for two years, "languishing in 
              the Superintendent's office," he said, "along with all the alleged perverts 
              …racial slurrists ..and child fondlers."

              He strolled into the cafeteria during the fifth period, his briefcase slung
              from his shoulder, as if he'd just left a classroom. Someone looked up and 
              said, "Look who's here!" There was a ripple of surprise, heads turning,
              and an eruption of cheers  ̶  "Jack! Welcome back, Jack. There's a brand 
              new tire round your middle "  ̶  everyone smiling except Radix who didn't
              know Jack. He watched as this burly, bearish-looking man with bottle-
              bottom glasses smiled back, and let himself be drenched in a shower
              of goodwill.

              Two years back he'd been removed from the classroom for grabbing a
              student by his jacket collar, shaking him and screaming, "You rotten punk!
              You scumbag!" He claimed the kid had keyed the side of his car. The kid 
              waited outside for him to leave the building, joking around with his
              friends; waiting to witness the shock and horror on Jack's face; pretending
              not to notice as Jack approached, gasped when he saw the wriggly scratch
              line on the car's paintwork, from front to rear. 

              Jack didn't have to ask; he knew who'd done it. He walked right back to the
              group and grabbed the kid. The next day the Superintendent's office
              received a complaint from a parent about "a teacher assaulting my son".
              This was considered a serious offence. 

              So what happened? "Nothing. They told me they couldn't conclude the
              investigation. Apparently the kid moved to Florida… so here I am. Back 
              with all you masochists." 

              And wasn't that just like the Board of Ed?  Two years of investigation, two
              years spent sitting in the Superintendent's office; reporting every day, 
              reading the New York Times, doing the crossword puzzle  ̶  "I'm really
              good at it now!" he said, smiling his lovable bear smile. 

              Everyone laughed. Another hug, another kiss on the cheek. Then Jack
              pulled out a chair and the excitement died down.

            (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

  

 

                   But a change was coming. Changes were on the way for John Wayne
                   Cotter H.S. Change had already begun with her good news. Dr.
                   Haliburton  wasn't going to let Anemona Snow spoil her day with a file
                   and this "whole village" thing.

 

 

                                                           ≈ ≈       

                                                                                                       Investigation
                                                                                                          Page 1a
                                                  Written Statement Form
                                                  John Wayne Cotter H.S.

                    Name Of Witness: Shanikqua Ledbetter

                    Location Of Incident: Homeroom

                    Student's Name: Milagros de los Angeles Cohuate

                    Description Of Incident:  

                    The homeroom teacher moved Milagros behind Marvin,
                    and Marvin said no, no. The Marvin pulled his pennis
                    out. Then he walked around and was telling people what
                    happened. The he came around and put his pennis in
                    her face. After that he put it back, he pulled her hair and
                    said, "I want to fuck you."

                                                                    Shanikqua Ledbetter
                                                                    (Author's Signature)

 

                   ≈  ≈                                

 

                                                                                                   Investigation
                                                                                                   Page 1a
                                               Written statement Form
                                              John Wayne Cotter H.S.

 

                   Name Of Witness:

                   Location Of Incident: 115H

                   Student's Name: Milagros de los Angeles Cohuate

                   Description Of Incident:

                   This teacher ask me to sit behind Marvin and Marvin was
                   like he aint want me to sit behind him so I was like I
                   aint want to sit behind you either, and he grab my hair,
                   and he was like how he want me to suck his dick and
                   I said hell no niger and he told me he's gonna whip out
                   his dick and I covered my face and I don't know when
                   he went around the back and I heard someone talking
                   behind me and when I turned around Marvin was
                   there and he stained me with his dick and I felt stupid
                   cause everyone was laughing and teasing me and Marvin
                   was like it's big! I said shut up – and that was when the
                   bell rung.

                                                   Milagros de los Angeles Cohuate
                                                          (Author's Signature)

 

                   Mrs. Haliburton's racing heart felt driven. Anemona Snow was at her 
                   ears cracking a whip; meaning to get her all upset over…this unsavory
                   business… horse manure, as her husband would say. But not to
                   worry. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh. 

                   Superfluous people! Come next September, they'll all be gone. In the
                   meantime, there was this… mess…that required attention and
                   paperwork.

                   Maybe she should send the whole file untouched right back to Guidance.
                   This was a matter for the Dean of Discipline. Let Snow and company
                   direct the file to Guidance. She had a nerve sending it here in the first
                   place. But that was Guidance for you. They were supposed to be
                   guiding, but it was more like the blind leading the blind down there on
                   the first floor. 

                   The audacity of Anemona Snow…letting her goats roam free in every-
                   body's garden…chomping and wandering and leaving goat droppings
                   everywhere. Which was exactly what this was all about… goat
                   droppings …in her flower beds, on her spring dew; spoiling her good
                   news, "Dr. Viola Haliburton". Not this time… hair sprayed old Snow
                   crone, not in my garden!

                   She reached for the phone. She had to get in touch with Darlene. She
                   had to tell her the good news. She couldn't let anyone in this building
                   ruin her day. 

                   The phone rang and rang. Where on earth was that good woman? A
                   feeling of plain happiness spread through her.

                   The wall posters in her office would go with her wherever she located
                   next. She'd need new leather chairs… though staying here in this room
                   with the street view would not be all that bad. The street view… after 
                   all these years fighting off the dogs of envy, could she give up the
                   street view?

                   No, success required change. It was time to front step up, move on. 

                   On the sidewalk at that moment, looking flustered and hurried – and
                   late again! – there was Miss Wiener.  From Special Ed. Dressed in beige
                   with some sort of maroon scarf tossed round her neck. Not exactly
                   spring colors. Our Jewish American princess. If she'd just straighten
                   those shoulders and put a little…funk… in that body, her prince might
                   one day come. Time was running out on her, too. In more ways than
                   one. 

                   The phone was still ringing. Pick up. Pick up the phone Darlene. Got to 
                   talk to you. Darleeeene, pick up!

 

                     (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel, by N.D. Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

   

                     
               Yep, spring was here, and not a day too soon; and just in time for Mrs.
               Haliburton to celebrate her good fortune, the fruits of hard labour over 
               many years. She was now Dr. Haliburton. A university in Florida had
               granted her a doctorate. 

               People were sure to ask, how long has this been going on? why had she
               kept it close to her bosom? a university in Florida? 

               For the moment her star was rising. Flowers were in bloom, leaves were 
               returning to the trees. She was ready to enjoy the days ahead when the
               city of New York would learn of her accomplishment, and would view her
               quite differently. As well they should. 

               She'd have to break the good news to the John Wayne Cotter family. She
               didn't think they'd be in the mood for this kind of good news but, hey, that
               was their problem. 

               Timing was of the essence. An announcement at the next faculty meeting
                would spare her the arduous task of informing individual staff members.
                Let the principal break the news! Let her wave a hand in her direction,
                make every head turn, everybody applauding. Even those who hated her
                would feel compelled, would feel swept up, to put their hands together
                and acknowledge her achievement. Timing was so important. 

                In fact, timing was on her mind right at that moment. She'd received a
                memo from Anemona Snow in the Guidance office. There had been an
                incident. A serious incident. Please see file enclosed. This calls for "the
                whole village" approach. 

                The more she thought about it, she was convinced Snow had slipped the
                "whole village" comment in there as a snide reference to the inspirational 
                poster on the wall outside her office. She'd overheard one of her Guidance
                cronies snickering, as they came off the elevator, and saying (seconds
                before they saw her): These are her people. This is her village. Let her 
                handle it. It didn't need a rocket scientist to figure out what that was all
                about. 

                As for the incident? Unsavoury business. Puberty fears, that's what it was.
                Girl accuses boy of sexual harassment. More precisely, Hispanic girl
                accuses black boy of sexual harassment. That was what they wanted her
                to handle. With "the whole village approach". Knowing full well it was the
                kind of incident most people in the village would want to hush before it
                got around. 

                No doubt about it, this "whole village" thing was a sly… no, this was a 
                sneaky attempt by that crinkly white bitch Anemona Snow to disrespect
                her. And ruin her good news day. 

                These old white women, heaven help us! with their hair spray and their
                peeling tenured bodies. Certified and paid to be "counselors" for poor
                black kids.

                Just the other day on the first floor there was Anemona Snow speaking to
                a dark-skinned chubby boy, the kind of baby-faced mischief maker who  
                liked fast food and rhyming with his boys in homeroom. She had him
                cornered, his back was to the wall, his head lowered; and as Mrs.
                Haliburton passed there was this silence  ̶  she might have been waiting
                for the boy to digest a piece of advice she'd just dispensed. Then she
                heard Anemona Snow whisper fiercely, How dare you speak to me that
                way?

                Something in that whisper, a hard fury, a deep personal resentment,
                made even Mrs. Haliburton wince. What had this poor boy done to deserve
                this… this knee to the groin, this attempt to snap his upstart will? 

                Mrs. Haliburton thought of turning back to spare him further humiliation.
                But the boy took the matter into his own hands, answering  in a fierce 
                whiny voice, thefuckyoutalkin'bout? And now he was really in trouble,
                speaking to her like that.

                It didn't matter. This boy knew what to do; knew what to say when these
                old white women who couldn't stand coarse words, loud behavior, loud
                anything from students, crossed a line and messed with his young
                manhood. 

                Good for you, young man! Time to hold your ground. Mrs. Haliburton kept
                walking.

                                    (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

 

  

 

                    It turned out she'd parked on the same block on a narrow side street; 
                    close to black garbage bags piled up for the sanitation truck, and
                    pigeons pecking at scraps of food. Not many people about. Doors and
                    windows locked tight, though from an attic window nearby a face
                    peered down at them. 

                    Her car keys out, Judy Wiener stood frozen and unsure, staring at her
                    car. "Why does it look so different?" 

                    Radix looked at the car. He couldn't see anything odd about it, until
                    she drew his attention to the wheels. Where the silver hubcaps should
                    have been, there was just the rusted metal plates and the exposed lug
                    knots. Everything else looked intact. 

                    He threw a quick nervous glance up the road at his car.  From a 
                    distance it looked untouched but he couldn't be sure. 

                    "Well, I suppose I ought to be thankful they left the wheels. At least I
                    can drive home," Judy Wiener sighed. 

                    She didn't want to be angry at the Bronx, not at that moment. Lost
                    hubcaps were a small price to pay for trying to see Xavier. And in any
                    event she felt certain once he was well again, once he'd found out
                    what had happened to her car, one way or another he'd get her new
                    set of hubcaps, no problem. 

                    Still, a wariness crept over her face, knitting her brow. A white 
                    woman had casually parked her car on a Bronx street; and now this! 

                    Radix shook his head, sharing her irritation that this sort of thing
                    happened. Two blocks away, the main street was active: people
                    streaming on sidewalks, the subway stop, commerce and buses. He
                    could sense her distaste for this narrow street, with its dark hints 
                    anything could happen once your back was turned. 

                    The face at the attic window across the street looked down at them. 

                    "You sure you know your way out?" Radix asked. "The expressway is 
                    back that way?"  

                    She managed a game smile. "I'll probably take a left at the end of the 
                    block…and go back that way."

                    "Well, I'd better get going. See if the wheels are still on my car. Talk to
                    you later."

                    That night minutes after ten o'clock Judy Wiener called. How did she
                    get his number? "Don't you remember, we exchanged numbers last
                    semester…? the new Department procedure, just in case one of us
                    wasn't coming in?"  He didn't remember. "It's just that I've never used 
                    yours before."

                    In any event, she was calling because when she got home she'd 
                    discovered her licence plates had been stolen.  Stolen? "Well, removed,
                    along with the hubcaps." She paused. He waited, wondering, Why
                    couldn't this news wait until they saw each other the following day? "I
                    mean, why would anyone want to steal my license plates?" she went
                    on. "They took the back plate, they left the front plate; or maybe
                    they'd planned to take that one too, I don't understand. What could 
                    anyone do with just one licence plate?" 

                    What she wanted at that hour, it seemed, was someone in the Bronx to
                    understand what had happened to her; someone who could explain why
                    these things happened. There was too, Radix thought, just a hint of
                    accusation in her voice. It sounded far off, solitary, as if she was
                    standing in an empty room.

                    "It doesn't make sense," he'd say whenever she paused in her 
                     bewilderment.

                     The whole day was already unreal, as if the hands of the clock had
                     played with time, speeding things up, slowing things down. Soon he'd
                     go to bed.

                     Maybe the following day things would be rearranged; the licence plate
                     found, the neighbourhood thief arrested; and  ̶  who knows?  ̶  he might
                     have better luck, or no luck at all when he stepped outside, for that
                     was how time passed him in the Bronx these days.

                      (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

            

                    Xavier's mother appeared to be studying Radix for the first time  ̶
                    looking him up and down, immensely curious about his association with
                    this white woman. 

                    Radix shifted from one foot to the next. "So when will they let us see 
                    Xavier?" he asked. This was enough to snap him back into the 
                    conversation. Judy Wiener explained, seemingly just for his benefit,
                    that Xavier's condition needed round the clock observation. 

                    Xavier's mother looked at her watch. "O, my goodness!" she declared,
                    still ladylike in manner; she had to catch the train to Manhattan. She
                    worked at a bank, from 6.00pm to 2.00am  ̶  "the graveyard shift", she
                    smiled knowingly. In fact, Xavier was on his way to her bank to get her 
                    house key (he couldn't find his) when the incident with the police
                    officer occurred. 

                    Outside Radix was determined not to seem disinterested right at the
                    point of taking leave. Xavier's mother was buttoning up her coat and
                    explaining more about her son. And for the first time he heard the 
                    anguish of a mother whose child lay in a hospital bed "in critical but
                    stable" condition. 

                    "I have to contact the lawyer, let him know 'bout the way they have
                     him handcuffed to the bed. Treating him like a common criminal!" This
                     brought them to a halt on the sidewalk. Judy Wiener folded her arms
                     and shook her head, firmly allied with Xavier's mother on this issue. 

                     Did she have far to go, Radix asked. Did she need a lift? No, the
                     subway stop was two blocks away; she could manage. 

                     She reached in her bag, took out a pack of spearmint gum and offered
                     it around. In the cold afternoon light she presented the image of an
                     indomitable island woman, up from island poverty; getting little sleep
                     these days, but not about to give in to self-pity and fatigue. A mother
                     relieved of the aggravation in her marriage, living only for her son
                     now handcuffed to a hospital bed. 

                     And as if to reinforce the idea of how resourceful she was, she 
                     explained, speaking now for Radix' benefit, that she had tried to enroll
                     Xavier in a high school on Long Island. They'd told her she would need
                     a referral from a school counselor. "Like he was a delinquent or some-
                     thing!"  

                     Turned away, her aspirations denied, she had no choice but to send 
                     him to his zoned school, John Wayne Cotter H.S.  

                     She spoke as if she wanted Radix to understand this, before they went
                     their separate ways bearing half-finished portraits of each other.
                     Whatever he thought about her, he should know this about her son  ̶
                     Xavier was a good boy, a smart, decent boy.  

                     "Him used to sing in the church choir." (The "him" gave her island
                     origins away, and as she went on she seemed to drop her speech
                     affectations.) His father was a strict man. When they came to New  
                     York he picked up the notion of raising a "straight A student". He
                     insisted the boy's report be free of blemish.  "Him get blows all 'bout
                     him head if his father see even one stray B on the report card." 

                     Judy Wiener nodded, though Radix couldn't tell if she'd heard the story
                     before and was simply confirming its truth. 

                     Xavier's father spoke too harshly and lifted his hands once too often to
                     the boy. She couldn't stand aside and witness the "child abuse" any
                     longer. She separated from him taking Xavier with her. It was at this
                     point that Xavier started going down. 

                     "Him kind of feel like freedom, you know, since his father wasn't
                      around anymore. So him lose the discipline. Him get into some kind 
                      of trouble with the teachers so they put him in Special Education. But
                      Mrs. Wiener here is a good teacher, so I have nothing to worry about,
                      right Mrs. Wiener?" 

                      It was a good moment to say goodbye, on a note of sweet optimism,
                      after the disappointment at not seeing Xavier. And so after a farewell
                      embrace and handshakes, Xavier's mother went off to catch her
                      train. 

                      "Isn't it terrible?" Judy Wiener was saying, searching her bags for her
                       car keys as she walked beside Radix. 

                       He wasn't sure what she meant but he agreed: life was indeed
                       terrible. Black boys handcuffed to hospital beds, that gold-chained
                       man lounging at the street corner with his pitbull  ̶  in the Bronx life
                       was a terrible, fragmented thing. With frothy rapids through which
                       they all navigated; staying closer to this bank or that bank; isolated
                       souls meeting and sharing distress, then pushing out and away again.

                    (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

          

                     Outside Lincoln Hospital he had to wait for Judy Wiener again. They'd
                     traveled in separate cars, it seemed the best arrangement, and he'd
                     got there first. It occurred to him she might get lost once she came off
                     the expressway. There would be a parking problem in the narrow local
                     streets; she was probably driving around looking for a spot. He'd been
                     standing outside the entrance a full twenty minutes and still no sign of
                     her. 

                     The temperature had fallen. A cold afternoon wind had sneaked up. 
                     What had started as a balmy night and then a warmer morning was 
                     taking a chilly turn that would surprise everyone coming out of offices 
                     at five o'clock. Weather aside, the traffic flowed, the stores and
                     sidewalks seemed active; people in the Bronx had their reasons to be
                     out and about. 

                     We wake to situations altered while we sleep, he started thinking: a
                     bullet-pierced body, a door lock broken, drug capsules like scattered
                     seeds on the stoop. Something keeps creeping closer as through a
                     mist, always hard to detect.                 

                     He looked up at the hospital and imagined Xavier waking up, waiting in
                     bed for the doctors to decide what to do so he could be out again in
                     the streets. The longer he stood waiting for Judy Wiener the stronger
                     his irritation grew.

                     People all about, most of them jobless at this time of day, he had to
                     assume. Vanishing specks. He was a speck waiting to vanish, too,
                     amidst the movement and noise and odors swirling around on this
                     Bronx street. Xavier, too, was a speck. How many people were even
                     aware of his condition up there in a hospital bed? The hospital was a
                     speck. But for its name on the outer wall it was fairly indistinguishable
                     from most buildings around.

                     And who was this guy standing across the road, a strapping young man,
                     dark glasses, gold chain gleaming on his chest, his chin jutting out as if
                     to discourage scrutiny? And beside him a heavy panting fleshy dog? 

                     It was exactly as he'd imagined  ̶  Judy Wiener had gotten lost. She'd
                     stopped to ask directions twice, and she was parked on a side street
                     two blocks away. She explained all this on the sidewalk, going through
                     her bag again like a squirrel. She looked up at the hospital as if
                     surprised to find it actually standing there. 

                     Inside the doors they hesitated. Xavier's mother had said she'd be
                     waiting to meet them in the lobby. There were rows of chairs in a
                     waxed waiting area, but she wasn't there. 

                     A security officer, a youngish, balding man standing in a corner
                     chewing gum, studied them. Two stern-faced receptionists at the
                     reception desk listened as a doctor in white coat handed over a folder,
                     whispered instructions, clicked shut his ballpoint and headed for the
                     elevators. 

                     They approached the reception desk; but then someone called her
                     name and rushed toward Judy Wiener and it seemed Xavier's mother
                     had found them. 

                     She'd just come off the elevator; she'd been upstairs to see Xavier;
                     they weren't allowing him visitors at this hour. And he lay there
                     handcuffed to his bed. Handcuffed to his bed. 

                     Radix stood aside watching the two women embrace after a flurry of
                     smiles and exclamations. He was introduced as a teacher who knew 
                     Xavier very well. "He's from the West Indies, too." Judy Wiener
                     added. Xavier's mother extended a limp hand and smiled a wary island
                     smile. Then she turned back to Judy Wiener.  

                     Radix had expected a mild-mannered, good-hearted lady gripping a
                     handbag, her face a mask of distress. Xavier's mother  ̶  Mrs.
                     Haltaufauderhude!  ̶  was a short woman, in her thirties, he guessed.
                     She wore a blue beret, and a London Fog  raincoat unbuttoned to
                     reveal her shimmering corduroy pants outfit and Nike footwear. She
                     carried a Channel 13 TV tote bag with a magazine sticking out, and
                     her perfume hung like a protective mist around her. 

                     With animated gestures, her bracelets jangling, she explained her
                     intention to protest to "the proper authorities" about Xavier being in 
                     handcuffs. "I mean, come on…" , she kept saying, in a tone of ladylike
                     outrage. Judy Wiener, arms folded, nodded and shared her outrage. 

                     For awhile Radix could think of nothing to say. He sort of hovered over
                     the two women. At times he looked from one concerned face to the
                     other, and he tried to wedge his own concern somewhere in the heart
                     of the conversation. 

                     At some point he sensed silence around them, a lull in the conver- 
                     sation. Perhaps feeling they ought now to include him in their 
                     exchanges, the women turned their attention to him.

                          (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

 

  

                     Radix spent the morning pondering his future  ̶  what might happen if
                     he were excessed; or reassigned to another school, say, in Brooklyn,
                     miles and bridges away. Would he have to consider moving? Did he
                     really want to continue teaching? 

                    When he saw Judy Wiener in the cafeteria, sitting with a teacher he
                    didn't know, he lost no time moving toward her. he pulled out a chair,
                    nodded politely and sat tight-lipped. "What's the matter, Michael?" she
                    asked, quick to sense his distress. He waved a hand as if the matter
                    could easily wait. 

                    All around him, the cafeteria noise; tense white faces leaning forward,
                    talking to each other, scooping up food with plastic forks. 

                    The teacher sitting with Judy Wiener abruptly shrugged and sighed in a 
                    way that suggested there was not much anyone could do about what- 
                    ever they'd been discussing. "Talk to you later," she said, remembering
                    to smile at Radix. 

                    And before he could utter a word Judy Wiener said, "That was  Mrs.
                    Summerhays, Xavier's Guidance Counselor. Did you hear about Xavier?"
                    Radix shook his head. "He's in a hospital…with gunshot wounds." Radix
                    looked at her, his heart going cold, his own discomfort fast dissipating.
                    "He was shot by a police officer in a subway station…resisting arrest…"
                    She said resisting arrest as if she didn't believe it, not her Xavier.
                    "What happened?" Radix asked.
                         
                    It seemed Xavier was on a subway platform, somewhere in Manhattan.
                    He heard a train rushing in; he had to go down a long flight of stairs
                    which was crowded; it meant he'd miss the train on the lower level.
                    There was an up escalator not in motion; without thinking he charged
                    down the up escalator. When he got to the bottom a police officer
                    tried to arrest him. "For walking down an up escalator?" 

                    What happened next was not clear. Xavier started to walk away,
                    protesting he'd done nothing wrong. The cop tried to stop him. Xavier
                    dared the cop to arrest him for something that stupid. There was a
                    scuffle, the officer's gun went off. The next thing they knew he'd been
                    shot. 

                    He was in an Intensive Care unit, his condition critical. The bullet had
                    lodged somewhere near his heart. The doctors were afraid to operate.

                    Radix' stomach stirred, reminding him he had forty minutes, no, thirty
                    minutes, to eat before the bell. He didn't have the will to move. Judy
                    Wiener had spoken in a low intense voice which transfixed him. Not
                    just her voice. The look on her face, the moistness in her eyes. A 
                    student  ̶  her Xavier!  ̶  had been shot.  

                    What could he say to her? He returned her stare. He could see right
                    down to where she kept her feelings for the Xaviers of this world. She
                    managed a week smile and she told him his teaching break would soon
                    be over.  

                    When he came back to the table, with a cup of coffee and a Danish
                    roll, her lips were compressed, her shoulders rounded; and her body
                    seemed to sag with the weight of this fresh calamity. "Where is he, 
                    which hospital?" His voice was sharp with concern. "He's at Lincoln     
                    Hospital."

                    Judy Weiner took a deep breath, then reached for her bag, taking out
                    a mirror. "I'm going to see him this afternoon." And Radix said, "I'll
                    come with you, if that's alright." "Of course, we'll go right after
                    school." 

                    She got up to go. She wore a red dress which hung down her body like a
                    sack. He'd never really paid attention to the body inside that dress
                    until this moment,in this sack dress. She launched into chatter about 
                    things she had to do and perhaps they could meet in the lobby and go
                    off to the hospital together; or would it make sense to get there in
                    separate cars?

                    He waited for her in the lobby as the school streamed out. There was 
                    some sort of Art class display, artwork stuck around the walls by the
                    Art teacher, with the title, The Joy Of Spring. No one seemed in the
                    mood to stop and look. Judy Wiener was taking her time.

                    She didn't exactly rush from the elevators, frantic and apologetic.
                    Radix saw her walking toward him, self-absorbed; stopping to
                    put on her dark glasses, rummaging in her bag, her lips moving
                    nervously. And he found himself studying her again. The legs seemed 
                    fairly confident under the sack dress. Something about the face,
                    though - a little too passive and unlucky; the face of someone who
                    spent too much time worrying; who found little reason these days
                    to exert herself.

                     (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

              

 

 

  

                     
               Chapter Chair Quackenbush sent out a fresh bulletin to his troops
               assuring them the battle for John Wayne Cotter H.S. was ongoing; talks
               with the Board of Education were continuing. All was not lost, something
               would be worked out. In the proposals for change, the interests of the 
               teachers were paramount and would not be compromised.

               All of which had a nice ring of defiance, but did little to lift spirits. 

               Two teachers in Radix' department were among several who went on
               extended sick leave. The word was they were cashing in their accumulated
               sick days and, fearing the worst, looking for jobs outside the teaching
               profession. Their absence meant that substitutes were sent by the Board
               to man the classrooms. This led to frequent scenes of disruption, the
               mobilizing of school Security. 

               There was a huge commotion one day that nearly grew into a riot. A 
               substitute teacher had  "lost control of her class", as the dean of discipline
               explained later. 

               She was from Nigeria, and she wore a bright patterned robe whenever   
               she reported for duty. She didn't have a classroom key, so her class was
               usually found milling around outside a locked door. And she was tired of
               asking other teachers, who smiled but seemed irritated, to open doors for
               her. 

               The students couldn't pronounce her name so they quickly settled for "Miss 
               Mandela". They mimicked her accent  ̶  You children haavve no risspec!! 
                ̶  they drew chalk pictures of her on the board, exaggerating the tortoise
               shell glasses on her nose. They asked her questions about Africa, and made
               monkey noises which, she reminded them, were "very racist". 

               On the day she "lost control" she'd told a student to Shut up! (Later she
               argued she didn't see any harm in what she said, didn't understand why Be
               quiet! would be the preferred choice of words.) The offended student rose
               to his feet, threw down his chair in outrage, came up to her desk, and 
               screamed  ̶  You telling me to shut up?  YOU shut up! You shut the FUCK
               up!  ̶  his hands menacing, but not touching her. The class went  ̶  whoo!
               whoo! whoo!  ̶  and drummed on the desks; a few more chairs got thrown
               down. The commotion spilled out in the hallway, triggering an exodus from
               nearby classrooms of students thinking there was a fight". Worried
               teachers, fearing "loss of control" on the entire floor, called for Security. 

               Spring days, still cool but warming up, led to a breakout of seasonal
               colours and  fashion among the students, prompting Principal Wamp to
               issue stern warnings  about exposed mid-sections and the general tone of
               the building. 

               Despite the overhanging gloom some teachers seemed strangely energized.
               Bill McCraggen had switched to season (army) green tee shirts, short
               pants, sneakers and tube socks, and a Yankee baseball cap. His Girls
               Soccer team was out on the field getting ready for the season. 

               His commitment to task attracted smirks from teachers who couldn't see
               the point, since soon there would be no John Wayne Cotter H.S. To which
               Bill McCraggen would retort,  coolly swinging his coach whistle, that come
               what may, they would be really "stoopid" to shut down the sports
               department. Not after all the years of winning trophies. If nothing else,
               the school could boast about its fine sports tradition. There were plaques, 
               awards, teams pictures and memories going back decades. Doing away
               with the sports department would be plain "stoopid". 

               Jim Lightbody switched to blue jeans (under which he wore his long johns)
               a checkered shirt and cowboy hat. He kept saying he had a new job
               already lined up "out in Texas", but nobody believed him.

               There was now, more frequently than before, the strong aroma of 
               marijuana in the stairwells. Somebody was smoking marijuana in the
               building. No one was ever seen, no one was ever caught; and everyone
               suspected those quick-tempered, foul-mouthed Jamaican students who
               walked the hallways and hung about on the sidewalk during morning
               sessions because the weather was really nice.

               Radix tried not to think about what would happen come June.  He
               expected to be excessed; last hired, first to be laid off. Not much he could
               do about it. He carried on dutifully. He even took time out to quell
               student fears about their future, explaining there was nothing to worry 
               about, education in one form or another would continue. He avoided
               hallway huddles and didn't say much of anything to anyone.

                    (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)