Tag: NYC Public Schools

 

                 At the start of the new week Mrs. Caratini would enter the room and spend ten
                   or fifteen minutes with Judy Weiner, exchanging weekend gossip. The students
                   were told to boot up the computers and start work on their journals. Mrs.
                   Contreras, the teacher's aide, kept them on task, while Judy Weiner fixed her
                   hair and applied makeup using the tiny mirror in the teacher's locker; then she
                   joined Mrs. Caratini who sat in a student's chair, legs crossed, filing her nails.

                       They spoke as if it hardly mattered if students overheard, though Mrs.
                   Caratini lowered her voice when inserting the word fucking. They believed
                   their conversation had no meaning for students in the room and required little
                   privacy.

                        In fact, no one paid them any attention, except Xavier.

                        He had a late afternoon job that sent him home after midnight. Some
                    mornings he'd arrive and promptly put his head down on the desk. Since Miss
                    Weiner was never ready to start the bell, he saw nothing wrong in catching up
                    on lost sleep for the first 10 minutes.

                        He referred to Miss Weiner and Mrs. Caratini as Bologna & Cheese. Without
                    wanting to, he overheard much of what they said. At times he dozed off only
                    to be roused by Miss Weiner speaking in her slow refined way, explaining some 
                    mishap. Things always seemed to happen to Miss Weiner. She left her keys in
                    the teachers' bathroom; a car rear-ended her car and the insurance people
                    were refusing to cover the entire cost of repairs; her mother wasn't feeling too
                    well lately. On and on, one sad story after the next.

                        Sometimes he'd groan in frustration and mumble to himself, Get a grip,
                    bitch, get a grip! At other times he followed the conversation  ̶  when, for
                    instance, Miss Weiner was telling Mrs. Caratini about the Jewish cocaine gangs
                    at the turn of the century, and how she understood what was happening to kids
                    who were pulled into the drug business in the Bronx.
      
                    But Xavier saved his contempt for Mrs. Caratini   ̶̶  a conceited little bitch with 
                    a skinny butt. Always going on about herself. And talking shit. He couldn't
                    understand why a sophisticated person like Miss Weiner would have as a friend
                    someone as stupid as Mrs. Caratini; always, Oh, let me tell you, last night I
                    made myself a huge salad, it was like huge, and I ate it all by myself…Did I
                    tell you, I went to a model home Open House last Sunday? Just off the Grand
                    Central, past the airport? Anyway they had these model homes, two bed-
                    rooms, three bedrooms, kitchen, bath, really gorgeous houses. They were
                    asking 170 up. I tell, you prices are literally going through the roof these days.

                        On and on with this boring shit. And Miss Weiner just sat there sucking it up.

                    When he'd had enough Xavier would stretch his arms and make a roaring sound,
                    like a rested lion stirring itself; signaling he was ready to work. He'd been
                    ready all along, he implied, but these two teachers sitting there jawing away   
                    didn't seem eager to start. This tactic always worked. Mrs. Caratini would
                    throw him a frantic, worried look; then she'd glance at her watch, gather her
                    keys and leave the room.

                        And Mrs. Weiner would declare in a cheery voice, "So are we ready to work
                    today?… Xavier, how're you feeling?

                    Always she deferred to him with a curious tenderness, at times treating him
                    as if he were the scion of a very important person whom she'd been asked to 
                    tutor.

                    "No eating over the computers. You know the rules, Xavier."

                    "Calm down. You see any crumbs on the keyboard?"

                       "Xavier… you're squinting."

                       "So."

                       "Maybe you should get your eyes examined."

                       "I have glasses."

                       "You own a pair of glasses…? So why don't you put them on?"

                       "Don't need them. I can see alright."

                       "Xavier, if you don't wear the glasses prescribed for you, your vision will slowly 
                     deteriorate…to the point where, well, as you get older you'll need them all 
                     the time."

                        "It don't matter. Don't plan to live that long anyway."

                       "Please, don't talk like that."

                       "Why? Ain't nothing you can do 'bout it" 

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

 

 

                    "What happened to you? I tried calling you last night," Mrs. Caratini said. She'd
                    been waiting in the main office near the time clock for Judy Weiner. And much
                    to her relief, here she was, looking pale, a little tired, confirming her
                    suspicions something had happened.

                        Mrs. Caratini (Math) was Judy's closest friend in the building. They were the 
                    same age, twenty-nine, but Mrs. Caratini looked younger, and walked with 
                    frisky quick steps; and seemed always ready for fun.

                        Mrs. Caratini had been married, and she liked telling the story of her 
                    marriage. She'd flown out to Las Vegas with her boyfriend during spring break; 
                    and there, one evening, as they strolled on a crowded sidewalk, he suggested 
                    they get married; on the spot, right there. Why not, she responded, giggling.

                        Back in New York her husband  ̶  an Italian businessman, ten years older, 
                    good-looking, "with a nose for money", she said  ̶  turned into a testy, 
                    unbelievably coarse man. Mrs. Caratini didn't wait for things to settle down,
                    for problems to work themselves out. One day she was married, the next day,
                    boom! it was over; she was single again, just like that.

                    For Mrs. Caratini to emerge unscathed from what seemed a moment of naive 
                    reckless decision, only to resume her life  ̶  a fearless soul, full of carefree 
                    chatter and lean-bodied energy  ̶  seemed to Judy a feat just short of 
                    miraculous. If she, Judy, were to attach herself to this woman, who was 
                    already exploring new possibilities, some of those transcendent qualities might
                    rub off; her life might be changed.
                           
                     Sensing patches of emptiness in a colleague's life Mrs. Caratini was only too
                    willing to take Judy Weiner under her wing. "You need to get out more, make 
                    yourself available," she kept saying. "Some work on the hips, a little toning of
                    the thighs, fix your hair, you'll be fine."

                        Judy Weiner, in some ways more sensitive and intelligent, began to question
                    all the things she'd always believed, like her obligation to her ailing mother
                    (meaning, Judy was stuck in the house a lot). She deferred to the other 
                    woman's experience, the neat dramatic entrance and exit from marriage. Mrs.
                    Caratini (everyone in the building, for reasons unknown, continued to refer to
                    her as Mrs.Caratini) had gone through so much, in such a short period of time,
                    she just might have the answers that eluded Judy Weiner all these years.

                        So began, in a flurry of hope and desire, their joint excursions to Manhattan
                    nightclubs, on weekends, wearing tight fitting or revealing clothes. Mrs.
                    Caratini, who had a preference for leather outfits, assured Judy there were
                    guys out there, they were sure to find someone; not Italian guys who prefer
                    women with long hair, and in any case weren't worth the effort, Trust me on
                    that! Yes, nice Jewish guys, if Judy preferred; not your regular Orthodox,
                    but nice. And those new Wall street millionaires, looking for the perfect mate,
                    they weren't too intellectual, but you can't have everything, can you? And
                    there was always the stranger from nowhere who might turn out to be the 
                    one, who knows?

                        At some point, just as Judy was ready to give up, thinking the Manhattan
                    project ill-advised and irresponsible (she had to leave her ailing mother alone
                    for hours) she met someone she liked.

                    His name was Mike; he was fortyish, built like a warm cuddly bear; he had a
                    salt and pepper beard, chubby arms and soft hands; and he was half-Italian,
                    which surprised Mrs. Caratini who thought she could spot even half an Italian
                    a block away. He had a sense of humour, a gentle manner and he held a fairly
                    decent conversation. And he was a Pet Shop owner.

                        They'd stroll about Manhattan sidewalks; take in a movie; enjoy dinner at a
                     restaurant, talking all the time. He talked about his pet shop; ever since he
                     he was a kid he had this love of animals. Judy listened with keen glowing
                     wonder. He helped run a little league baseball team out in Queens; and he
                     was still single because, well, to tell the truth, he hadn't given any serious
                     thought to settling down.

                     They met again the following weekends, another movie, another restaurant. 
                     One Sunday afternoon he drove out to her home to visit, bringing her a
                     Tibetan dog. He said it had been house-broken. Judy was overwhelmed. No
                     one had ever given her a dog before.

                    "This is a big signal, Judy, biggg signal," Ms Caratini said, visibly more thrilled 
                     by the gesture than Judy. " Now here's what you need to do. You play him for
                     awhile, don't make him think you're needy. Just keep him interested, see what
                     happens. He gave you a dog, Judy, a dog! Now me, I'm the shallow type. I   
                     return all presents. Give me money. My ex-husband used to buy me jewelry.
                     I'd toss it in a box. Whatever he gave me. Into the box. Give me money."

                          Soon after that visit with the gift of the dog, Mike suddenly stopped calling;
                     he just dropped out of sight. Judy was baffled. She imagined him disabled and
                     hospitalized; maybe he was out of town.

                     She called the pet shop. A young woman, who spoke as if she was Mike's
                     assistant, told her in an odd knowing tone that she'd give Mike the message.
                     She said Mike was busy; there was a lot of shop business to deal with right
                     now. She added, as if she knew more than she should about Judy's relationship
                     with her boss, that Mike would get in touch with her as soon as he'd gotten
                     over the hump.

                         "Gotten over what? the hump? What did she mean by that?" Mrs. Caratini
                      couldn't keep her voice down. "She's got some nerve talking to you that way, 
                      the bitch! and as for Mike, he's a fucking idiot, disappearing on you like that.
                      Just like all Italian men. I knew this wasn't going to work out. Judy, listen to
                      me, you're going to have to forget this man…" 

                     "I can't think of anything I said. Maybe it was …" 

                     "…and forchrissake, stop flagellating yourself. It's not like you were hoping 
                       to marry this guy. If I were you I'd go right down to his pet shop and give
                       him back his fucking dog.  I'm serious. I told you I didn't like gifts. I had a
                       feeling this wasn't going to work out."

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

 

 

 

 

 

                  Most of the play is about Iago messing with Othello, getting into his head with
                  the jealousy stuff. The man is like a dog with rabies, evil to touch. But
                  Shakespear makes Othello act confused, like he don't know what to do. I'm
                  saying, get mean with the bitch! Niggers don't take crap from nobody. He don't
                  need to ask Iago what to do, telling him go spy on his woman, "bring me the
                  ocular proof". Get straight up with the woman, ask her what's the deal.
                  Shakespear have him falling down with epilepsy, and now Iago playing him
                  for a sucker.

                      See, Shakespear didn't understand niggers. This Othello travel around the
                  world, he tough and silent like Chuck Norris. The man decide to make a home
                  for himself in Venice. Aint easy to migrate and start a new life in a strange
                  country. People don't want you cause you different. But a man got to stop
                  moving around some time, put down roots somewhere.

                      And Desdemona, she kind of migrating too. Moving out of Daddy's home, and
                  starting a new life. Stepping out of "no man" in my life, crossing into new
                  territory. People don't like when you do that. And since it's a black man and a
                  white woman, she got to watch his back, he got to watch her back. Only way
                  they going to make it.

                  Othello was right to tell her, you hang with me, everything's cool, you mess with
                  me, then "chaos is come again". Nigger got to know his woman is there for him
                  100 Percent!!

                  So when Iago start getting into his head he should have settled the matter right
                  there. Get mean with the bitch, that's what any nigger would do. Got Othello
                  saying, "Arise black vengeance", like now this is some racial thing. And saying he
                  "won't scar that whiter skin of hers than snow."  Can you believe, Othello kissing 
                  his woman, at the same time getting ready to kill her, and don't want to mess 
                  up her snow white skin?  Make no sense.

                     He shouldn't have trusted that sly dog Iago, calling him "honest Iago", like they
                  were buddies. Trust nobody, I say. Your best friend will sell you out if you give
                  him a chance. Trust nobody.

                  Well the handkerchief, Othello made a big mistake with that. Came back to 
                  haunt him. He should have given the woman jewelry and stuff, not a hand-
                  kerchief. Desdemona didn't understand how much the handkerchief mean to
                  him.

                      An Egyptian first gave the handkerchief to his mother, who gave it to Othello
                  to pass on to a Moorish woman, who would understand about the "sibyl" and
                  "magic" and stuff. Desdemona didn't understand all that. I think that's what 
                  flipped the Moor, when she lost the handkerchief. It's like losing a bird you care
                  for all these years. You wake up one morning, you hear no sound, the bird cage 
                  open, the bird that used to sing to your soul is gone. Othello trusted Desdemona
                  with the handkerchief. She didn't take care of it. Lost her man right there.

                     I rate this play a B. My reason for giving it a B grade is because I learned a lot 
                  about what could happen to a black man who's on his own in this world, even 
                  though Shakespear didn't get it all right. I think teachers should teach plays 
                  like "Othello" more. I had "Romeo and Juliet" in my freshman year, it was 
                  alright, then "Macbeth" with Mr. Bilicki which I didn't like (didn't like Mr. Bilicki 
                  either).

                     This play has taught me one thing, which is to get through all your adolescent 
                  stuff quick, then settle down with some woman. I don't plan to wait like Othello
                  till I'm in the "vale of years". Might end up marrying the wrong woman. Anyway, 
                  first I got to shake off stuff that's on my back right now.
                  The End.

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

 

 

 

                   

 

 

                                                            Report on OTHELLO the MOOR
                                                    Written by William Shakespear
                                                       Prepared for Miss Wiener by
                                                     M. Xavier H. a.k.a. the X-Man

                     Well first of all, I was surprised to learn there were Moors in Venice who 
                     invaded Spain according to my teacher. Seems like niggers were everywhere
                     in the world in those days. Just like they everywhere in the world today. You
                     can't keep a good man down all the time. My grandfather from Jamaica
                     would open his eyes in his grave if he heard I was in New York. Seems like
                     niggers is everywhere fighting for respect.

                           Well, Othello, I have great respect for that dude, seeing as how he was a
                     soldier of fortune who offered his services to the Venetians to fight the Turks.
                     Aint nothing wrong with that. A man's got to do something to make a living in
                     this world.

                           So he far away from home fighting for these white people, you think he'd get
                     some respect. But no, there is Iago and Roderigo plotting against him cause he
                     black. Calling him "old black ram" and "thick lips". Not to his face. They won't
                     dare say it to his face. Othello would take them out quick!!

                           Well, it seems they jealous of Othello cause of his big you know? White folks 
                     have a serious problem with the big you know. Personally I don't see what the 
                     problem is. Make no difference how big the nozzle once you get it in there 
                     and start filling her up. But Iago and Roderigo, they go brontosaurus with 
                     jealousy.

                           People be quick to say it got nothing to do with race. But when he hook up
                     with Desdemona it's like, who's this nigger messing with a white woman?
                     Making "the beast with two backs"? Bet the Venetians never heard of the 
                     beast with two backs till Othello rode into town. Takes a black man to show
                     some people a thing or two.

                    Well Othello, he wasn't going to run nowhere when Iago warn him the girl's
                     father looking for him. Cause running aint his style. "My title, my parts and
                     my perfect soul shall manifest me rightly." I say, go for it, nigger! Let them
                     show you respect. You got just as much right to a white woman as any man,
                     specially since there aint no black women around. I mean, what's a nigger to
                     do in Venice with no Moorish women around? Jerk off in the bathroom?

                     Now as for Desdemona, she knew what she wanted from the start. "She loved
                     me for the dangers I had passed."  She fall in love with a dangerous man,
                     cause she tired of being cooped up in her father's castle, bored out of her
                     skull, cause aint no good white boys around. Then this Othello come riding
                     into town and it's like Wow! Where you been? He been all over the world,
                     fighting cannibals and and all those weird anthropophagi people. This here
                     was one crazy nigger! "She loved me for the dangers I had passed."  Othello
                     got that right! Got all them white boys in Venice so spooked, they figure he
                     getting busy "twixt the sheets" with white chicks.

                     That Desdemona knew what she was doing. Only one way to get out of that 
                     no-life castle her father kept her in. She had to cross the tracks, get on the
                     wild side. Went all the way to Cyprus with her man. Knew what she was doing 
                     alright.

                     But check this, now Shakespear makes Othello say lines like "Rude am I of
                     speech", like he apologizing to the Venetian court cause he don't speak good
                     English. Aint nothing to apologize for. Let the man speak his own way. I'm
                     saying, some white folk got this thing about speaking proper, meaning their
                     roundabout chicken squeak way of saying things. Aint nothing rude about
                     being direct, saying what's on your mind.  (I'm sure you understand what I'm
                     saying, Miss Weiner, even if I forget to indent and stuff. By the way the spell 
                     check on this computer don't know some of my words!!!)

                     Then Shakespear make Othello fall down with epilepsy. Can't have a nigger 
                     who's strong and dangerous in his play. No, something got to be wrong with    
                     him. He talks "rude" English, he old and "declined into the vale of years", and
                     now he's got epilepsy. Make no sense. A dangerous nigger with epilepsy? How
                     come he a soldier, fighting all those Turks, and suffering from epilepsy? Falling
                     down in the middle of battle, shaking and frothing with epilepsy. Make no
                     sense. 

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

 

 

 

 

                 For the parents' conference Radix was assigned to share the room with Judy
                 Weiner. She sat at her desk at one corner of the classroom, while he pulled 
                 chairs together at the other and made himself accessible.

                     Judy Weiner gave herself completely to the duty of meeting parents. She had the 
                 kids design a WELCOME banner on the computers; she pinned writing samples of
                 their work on the wall; the computer screens flickered in readiness for student
                 demonstration of competence and grasp of the new technology. At her desk her
                 mark book was open, with student folders and texts nearby; and as the parents
                 walked in – nervous, uncertain or sometimes visibly angry – she'd put them at
                 ease with a cheery "Hello! nice of you to come ". She had no problem with the
                 Spanish-speaking parents who studied her face and seemed to understand every
                 word she spoke.

                      All of which intrigued Radix who couldn't decide if Judy Weiner was a consum-
                 mate actress putting on a show for anxious parents, or a true professional who
                 did what was expected of her; who followed the guidelines set out by Principal
                 Wamp for these conferences: saying nothing that would injure the self-esteem of
                 student and parent; reinforcing the positive; projecting a future of accomplish-
                 ment and success for the child.

                 Because they shared duties and space he kept bumping into that other side of 
                 her, the vulnerable, anxiety-ridden side. Whenever this happened she'd look
                 away, or busy herself with some desk-straightening task.      

                 Their joint "Special Education" classes were limited to a maximum of twelve
                 students. On good days they were lucky to see six students, all of whom needed
                 individual attention. Then there were snow days when no one showed up, and
                 there was not much to do but catch up on paperwork.

                       Not surprisingly there developed between them an awareness of each other,
                  silken threads that connected them, but which snapped the moment their eyes
                  met. She would look away and the conversation trailed off as she scurried
                  back to her rabbit hutch of duties. Or so Radix imagined.

                  What was she afraid of? Was she seeing someone? How old was she, where did
                  she live, why was her face so blanched with worry while her body, clad often in
                  tight trendy clothes, looked firm and youthful? And how to explain those
                  mornings when she seemed affable, buoyant, on top of things, then the next
                  day apprehensive, dogged by some hidden distress?

                       He couldn't bring himself to enquire about her; he didn't want to appear prurient
                  or "interested". Still he worked alongside her, partners on task, aflame with
                  with curiosity.

                       As the weeks passed, the distance, the strangeness between them, seemed to
                  widen, then close, then widen again. They talked easily as teachers, but he
                  had to be careful with that other sensitive side which surprised him like cobweb
                  he'd walk into. Maybe she sensed his spirit hankering after something, and not
                  wanting to be rude she'd let him approach but only so far; then she'd let him  
                  back off, peeling the cobweb from his face.        

                  So they sat at two corners of the room, waiting for parents, preoccupied and
                  apart. 

                  At the end of the evening, as they prepared to leave, she took her time tidying
                  up, switching off the computers. And when Radix offered to help she assured
                  him he needn't worry. Besides, she was sure he wanted to get home. A smile
                  broke out on her face, and she said, "I was hoping to see Xavier's mother. I
                  wanted to show her his book report. He wrote me a wonderful book report."
                  Radix knew and understood her fondness for Xavier. "Would you like to  a look at
                  it?" she asked.
 
                      Radix hesitated. English Literature wasn't his field; and Xavier was a strange
                  moody student who liked Miss Weiner but steadfastly ignored him. "You could
                  take it home with you, read it over the weekend," she insisted. And because 
                  this was the first time she'd pressed anything on him, because she was alone 
                  with her hidden passions, wanting him now to share this one, he agreed to look
                  at it.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                 "Be careful," Meier spoke up. "There's a patrol car behind us, if you're thinking of
                  going through another light."

                 "Well, whaddaya know! Bob, why don't you stick your head out the window, and
                  tell that officer he's going the wrong way. We're the good guys in the Bronx. The
                  bad guys are the other way."

                 "Speaking of which, did any of you teach Rosie Contreras…? graduated three or 
                  four years ago," Brebnor said.

                 "You're lucky to see anyone again once they graduate. It's adios amigos! and
                  they're gone," Lightbody said.

                 "Well, I was on my way home a week ago and this police cruiser tucks in behind
                  me. I changed lanes thinking he wants to pass. He tucks in behind me again.
                  Kept following me for miles. So I'm wondering: what does he want? Next thing I
                  know he pulls me over…May I see your license and registration?…So I ask,
                  what's the problem, officer?  The officer lifts her hat and she says to me, The
                  problem is you can't teach!… Yes, Rosie Contreras! I couldn't believe it. That
                  girl always said she'd be a cop one day. So Rosie, I said, you finally made it. Yes,
                  she said, I was following you from way back in the Bronx. waiting for you to
                  make one mistake so I could arrest your ass."

                 "I think I know who you're talking about…short and feisty, with these big busts, 
                  well-harnessed and…" 

                 "No that's not Rosie Contreras."

                  At the Bravo piazza place Jaime Bravo waited at the entrance to greet his
                  teachers, wearing an apron, and making exaggerated gestures of readiness to
                  serve. Eventually his father came over to say hello.

                  The group concentrated on the pizza, chewing and sipping, listening and 
                  nodding respectfully to Mr. Bravo who hovered and said over and over that he
                  was not a college-educated man, that he knew what it took (he pointed to his
                  forehead with index finger) to make it in New York city. He waved his arms
                  around his pizza place to indicate how hard and long he'd worked to build up his
                  business. When it was time to leave Mr. Bravo, feeling topped up with fresh
                  self-regard, shook everyone's hand at the door.

                       Usually when they trooped back to the car it was in the rowdy spirit of sailors
                  who'd gone ashore, had a good time in the town and were returning to the ship.
                  This time, the night cold and dark,  they could think only of getting back to
                  John Wayne Cotter and its uncertain future; getting through the parent
                  meet with little agitation, then going home.

                      "Does anyone know the trick of getting selected to go on the senior trip," Brebnor
                  said, breaking the silence in the car.

                      "Now there, Senator, is something worthy of a congressional hearing," Lightbody
                  perked up. "You know, last year I submitted my name. They told me I couldn't
                  go. They said it was up to the students; and apparently the students didn't want
                  me along."

                      "So who gets to go?"

                      "That's what I want to know. And get this: certain teachers get to go every year.
                  Always the same people. And I've heard of all sorts of… goings-on that… go on
                  up there."

                 "What do you mean goings-on?"Brebnor said.

                      "Well, strange things do happen… certain liaisons, shall we say..? The students 
                  talk when they get back."

                       "Aw, c'mon."

                         Lightbody was relieved, the bon vivant carpool mood was back. "Listen, you 
                   guys, there are things happening in this school that, if word ever got out…" He 
                   wagged a finger, and lowered his voice. "I know for a fact there's a tiny    
                   prostitution ring working in the school." Laughter, incredulous laughter.  "I'm
                   telling you… it's a teacher's job to listen to what the kids say. "My sources…"
                   More laughter.  "You see, everybody's so busy looking out for the bad guys
                   with the beepers and the drugs and guns in schoolbags. Meanwhile, there's
                   this little cell of…shall we say, forbidden pleasure… run by three Jamaican,
                   you might know them, the ones with the big earrings? and jangling bracelets?
                  
always hanging out in the hallway? I hear they've got a little bordello business
                   going. They cut class, they go home, parents are at work, they're open for 
                   business. You can even get a little marijuana on the side if you like…it's
                   happening, guys!…and from all reports these girls are expensive."

                         "I think Mr. Lightbody is in the wrong profession," Mr. Ghansam said, amused 
                   but absorbing every word. "He'd make an good undercover agent, don't you 
                   think?" 

                         Back outside the school, feeling reinforced by the pizza meal and the buddy
                   talk, they looked up at the building they worked in, massive in the dark, all lit
                   up (they rarely saw it at night); and waiting now to receive parents, students
                   and teachers, as it had over decades; seasons of graduates streaming through
                   its doors, filing up on its auditorium stage in caps and gowns, then pouring out
                   into the working world.

                         Out of nowhere something sparked and stirred inside Bob Meier, a sense there 
                   might be some purpose after all in his profession. It stirred right at the 
                   moment they came through the main entrance, mingling and shuffling forward 
                   with parents and students, some of whom smiled and pointed him out to
                   mothers with grim set faces.

                         And there were the seniors dressed formally in white and black, smiling at
                   everyone, handing out schedules and programs. A group from the culinary
                   classes stood behind their display table in shiny aprons. Oh, Mr. Meier, you
                   have to buy something from us!

                         Yes! And no wonder we keep wanting to come here every day, Meier thought.
                   Never mind the hellish classrooms, the hair-whitening grind; the fear that flays 
                   the spirit. John Wayne Cotter, old stone quarry of a school. Welcome back.

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

 

 

 

                 Meet The Parents day was an event not too many teachers looked
                 forward to; nor could they escape or be excused from it. It required some
                 dressing for the part. At the end of the afternoon (or the evening, the
                 next day) session, the question, "How many parents did you meet?", fell
                 from everyone's lips. They hurried out the building thinking maybe it
                 wasn't worth the effort, wearing that jacket and tie, or that black
                 dress.

                      Asst. Principal Bob Darling had tried once to implement an everyday dress code
                 for teachers, something within the bounds of the college-professor look; at bare
                 minimum a jacket. It didn't catch on. It seemed once they got tenure many
                 teachers didn't care much how they dressed.

                      Principal Wamp privately bemoaned the absence of uniting colors and a uniting
                 spirit at John Wayne Cotter H.S. Students for the most part were more attentive
                 to fall and summer fashions (they had their 'Dress For Success' day but only a
                 handful of seniors showed any enthusiasm for that); and her staff looked on the 
                 profession as more akin to a job in a sprawling old stone warehouse; a job that
                 demeaned them by requiring that they punch in a card on a time clock. They
                 dressed in a way that provided at least some comfort, some compensation for
                 the low salaries.

                      There were the usual mavericks in bizarre colors, jeans and sneakers; like Mrs.
                 Sciatti, responsible for school drama productions (last year she mounted a huge
                 production of "Evita" in collaboration with the music department, which went
                 down rather well). She favored braless ankle dresses and beads, straight out of
                 the 1960s. And Mr. McNulty who believed his US army fatigues would deter
                 trouble makers from starting anything on his floor; and, of course, Mrs.
                 Haliburton.

                     The crew from Westchester – Meier, Lightbody, Brebnor and Ghansam – was
                 always nattily attired. They wore jackets as a matter of course; it  looked
                 better leaving home for a job at a Bronx high school in a jacket and tie.

                 For the meeting with parents the evening conference presented a problem. It
                 started at six thirty, about four hours after the end of classes; which meant four
                 hours of doing nothing; or finding something to do in the Bronx, since it made no
                 sense racing home to the suburbs and racing back.                  

                 Luckily for them the father of one of the students, Jaime Bravo, owned a pizza
                 place in the Bronx. They were welcome to hang out there, he assured them;
                 enjoy special service, courtesy of Jaime, and special prices, courtesy of Jaime's
                 father. It became their evening pre-conference ritual, going to the pizza place.
                 They reminded each other about it, waited for each other at the school 
                  entrance.

                      Lightbody, the designated driver that evening, wore an elbow-padded jacket and
                 a tie designed with the Stars and Stripes.

                     "I see you're showing the flag tonight, Mr. Lightbody," Mr. Ghansam said, 
                 squeezing into the back seat.

                     "Damn right, I am. It's going to be a long night. I had six parents yesterday. Six 
                parents. With weather like this I don't expect many more. Yes, I'm striking the 
                colors tonight."

                     "Hey, did any of you see Mr. Beltre yesterday? He's Jahmal Beltre's father," 
                 Brebnor said.

                     "I saw Mrs. Large…and I saw Mrs. Smalls…"

                     "This guy, they're from Jamaica, I feel really sorry for Jahmal, he's not going to 
                 pass my class, that's for sure. Anyway, there I was trying to make it look like he 
                 might just make it, if he got his act together. I mean, this guy is a pain in the 
                 ass; no self-control, gives me no end of trouble. Anyway, there I was saying to 
                 his father, Weell, he has a slim chance if he hands in the remaining assign- 
                 ments. And Mr. Beltre's there, you know, nodding and shaking his head like he 
                 understood what I was saying. Suddenly the guy stands up and…smack…he 
                 lays a right hand across Jahmal's face…he's got these big hands, like sledge 
                 hammer swinging hands, and he goes…smack…right across the face, sends 
                 Jahmal sprawling off his chair…"

                       "You're kidding me!" Lightbody turned in his seat.

                       "…and then he turns to me and says, See here, teacher, now you can't do that, 
                  cause you not allowed to, but I can do that. Don't worry, I'm going to straighten 
                  this thing out."

                        "Probably went home and beat the manure out of the kid," Brebnor said.

                  "I sat there… I mean, I was stunned. I didn't know what to say."

                  "Well, fresh off the boat they keep coming, still searching for the American 
                   dream…and bringing the old barbarous ways of dealing with problems," 
                   Lightbody said.

                        "These days they're coming off planes, Mr. Lightbody, not boats anymore," Mr. 
                   Ghansam gave him a challenging grin.

                        "Well, now, thank you very much, Mr. Ghansam, for…shall we say… updating 
                   my metaphor. I presume in your day you came off the boat."

                        "Mr. Lightbody, I'll have you know I arrived in this country by aircraft."

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

 

 

 

 

 

                 The teams came back from the lunch break at different times, so for awhile
                 there was little team work; just one or two teamsters slogging through the
                 paper pile, disgruntled, looking at their watches, wondering where everyone
                 else was; and thinking of calling it quits for the day.

                      Bilicki made no objection whenever his team suggested they call it quits. One
                 afternoon Amanda explained she had a dental appointment; and Bilicki himself
                 muttered he had business to take care of. The following morning the team
                 assembled but Mimi Agulnick was late. This incensed him. Mimi didn't have a
                 sense of fair play.

                      And Mimi came up with the most banal explanations for lateness. Always some
                 pathetic little story. This time it was her boyfriend. In her mid-thirties, frizzy-
                 haired, always touching the mole near her left nostril, Mimi talked with a
                 student's agitation about her boyfriend. She had no scruples baring intimate
                 details. This was part of the free spirit image she liked to impress everyone
                 with: the teacher who, when she wasn't teaching, could be naughty, could be
                 downright dissolute.

                 Yesterday morning she gave an account of her trip last summer to Jamaica
                 with the boyfriend. They'd stayed at a place called Ecstasy, where all expenses
                 were pre-paid, and everything imaginable was catered for. All told to a gasping 
                 Amanda, their voices lowered, the giggles muffled, while Mimi stood bent over,
                 her elbows on the desk, her bosoms – my God given boobs! – bulging for world
                 acknowledgment; and her fat rump, unruly flesh stuffed and barely contained in
                 blue jeans, stuck out in free spirited readiness.

                      Ignore, Ignore! Bilicki clenched and grit, irritation bursting his seams.

                      She walked in an hour late this morning, a little puffed face. She gasped and
                 seemed frantic about something and apologized. To Amanda's What happened?
                 she launched into an explanation involving the boyfriend. He'd lost his job,
                 poor thing; he was depressed; he was unhappy with their situation, with having
                 to depend on her; she'd tried to cheer him up, and had left the house late; and
                 then the traffic and everything.

                 Bilicki didn't know what to make of these revelations, and what looked like 
                 another display of shameless histrionics. In any event, despite the heaving of
                 her overburdened breasts, Mimi was ready and eager to pitch into the piles
                 now that she'd arrived, so he said nothing.

                     At some point the chatter broke loose.

                     "This essay is doomed from the start…doomed." "Who's the kid?" "Sandy
                Quinones …know him?" "Oh, Sandy…he's in my class. Fancies himself a lady-
                killer. He does little work and he thinks he's God's gift to the girls." "And the
                girls go flip for him." "Well, one thing's for sure, he can't write." "I've been telling
                him that all semester. The other day I said to him, Sandy, you're going to need
                more than good looks if you hope to graduate on time. He tells me, Don't worry
                about it. I've got the juice. I've got the juice!" "Well, this composition has no 
                juice whatsoever… "The Deathing of an American Girl". I think he meant "The
                Dating of an American Girl"! With some of these scripts, you read the first
                paragraph, the last paragraph, you get a pretty good idea whether it passes." 

                     At this point Bilicki, his voice controlled but quivering with displeasure,
                intervened: "I'm sure Sandy's mother would want us to give her son a fair
                hearing."

                    "You mean, give her son a fair reading," Mimi said.

                "Well, my dear tax-paying team captain," Amanda scraped back her chair,
                 turning a few heads in the room, "You're welcome to read this script…in all
                 holistic fairness… there you go." She grabbed her bag. "Now if you'll excuse
                 me, I have to go to the bathroom."

                     "Oh, let me come with you," Mimi said. "I left my bathroom key at home."

                      Bilicki sighed; he knelt at the pew of his soul; he prayed (for Mimi Agulnick) that
                 a sudden cancerous affliction would require the immediate removal of one of
                 her boobs; he prayed (for Amanda) that horrible-looking varicose veins would
                 show up and spread one morning as she lotioned her legs.

                      Mrs. Balancharia, whose accent at that moment sounded wonderfully soothing,
                 exclaimed, "We're almost done anyway, aren't we, Brendan?"

                      It certainly looked that way. Just the Sandy Quinones script, then the totals,
                 and they were done. Bilicki picked up the Quinones' script and he read it.

 

                             
                                           The Deathing Of An American Girl

                The deathing of a girl come's from meathing a girl. Eather in school or on the
                road and you and her begin to talk. You maybey would say, yo! Can I bring your
                bag for you if she have a bag. Maybey she would say eather Yes or no. If she say
                yes, you would take the bag from her and you would bring it for her. then you
                would ask her, What is you name and she would tell you her name if she want to
                but! I not shure she would want to. Then you would say my name is Sandy or
                anything you want to say. Then you would ask her if you can foller her to her
                hous. If she want to she would say to you yes, but if not she would say no. You
                may ask her for her phone number. Maybe she would give it to you and the two
                of you would exchange numbers. You may invite her to come to your hous and if
                she want to come she would say yes. About two week's later you would ask her
                if she would like to go out on a death with you. If she is in love with you, she
                going to say yes. But if she don't love you she going to say no. but if she say yes!
                you and her will plan a day or night and a place to go. When you go there the
                two of you would share some ideas and eat some food if you want to. Then you
                can do anything you want with her. Anyhow you want with her. That is what a
                death is.

                                                                                    THE END

                      

 

 

 

                 For the marking and grading of the State Regents exam Pete Plimpler organized
                 his department into teams, selected, he said, smiling ruefully, on the basis of
                 their congruent personalities. He appointed captains to solve problems and
                 disputes that might arise.

                      Bilicki was the captain of his team. He winced when he read the names of his 
                 team members: Agulnick, Ballancharia, Blitch. What congruence was Pete
                 talking about. He'd simply arranged the department alphabetically, the lazy
                 fop! Mrs.Ballancharia, always careful not to offend, laughed at everything that
                 was said. Amanda and Mimi Agulnick, the drama teacher, acted as if they hadn't
                 seen each other in ages.

                     Sporting a bowtie, and a brand new shirt he'd evidently cracked open for the
                 marking session first day, Pete Plimpler made a short speech about responsi-
                 bilities; he reminded everyone the room was off limits to inquiring students;
                 papers should remain in the room at all times, which meant that Bilicki couldn't
                 disappear somewhere quiet once the chatter started; and lunch break should
                 not exceed the stipulated one hour.

                     Most everyone was dressed in blue jeans, or something suitably informal;
                 except Bilicki, who showed up dressed for just another day at the office, and
                 was told to relax when he complained about the noise level affecting his
                 concentration.

                 Captains had not much power; they assigned tasks and coordinated activities.
                 Bilicki knew he had to be careful. Each teacher was in a sense a captain of his
                 or her classroom once the doors closed; they didn't take it kindly when spoken
                 to about grading; they became edgy and defensive if a colleague questioned
                 their judgment, no matter how subtle the questioning.

                      They were expected to follow the criteria for measurement set out by the
                 State, but as the hours slipped by, and the pile of brown envelopes still looked
                 formidable, fatigue set in, the eye glazed over from repeating the same task;
                 and grading sometimes became a snap response.

                      Situations would arise and swell and consume everyone with cross-talk:

                      "Has anyone heard of Deliverance?" "Heard of what?" "This kid is using as his
                 reference a novel titled Deliverance." "Wait, I think I've heard of… isn't that by
                 that writer, what's her name?" "Judith Cranston." "Riiight… doesn't she write
                 those torrid romance novels?" "That she does." "Okay, but is that literature?"
                 "Well, the question did say, Choose two works from the literature you have
                 read." "Right, not necessarily the literature we have taught." "Right, so I
                 suppose we should accept this book." "Yes, but does anyone know this book,
                 Deliverance?"  "Deliverance was written by James Dickey." "Judith Cranston
                 writes these trashy novels about sex and betrayal and handsome cruel men…"
                 "What am I to do with this essay?" "Wasn't there a movie with that name?" "Oh,
                 that's a different Deliverance." "About four guys in canoes and the Cajun
                 people?" "I think I saw that movie." "No, that was something completely
                 different."

                 "What am I to do with this essay?" "Amanda…Amanda… I just told you who
                 the writer was. You're not listening to me." "Just mark it. I mean, does it sound
                 credible? Does it try to answer the question?" "Yes, but suppose the kid made
                 it all up."  "Oh, I don't know, ask Pete." "Who's the kid?"  "…Jennifer Eliely?" 
                 "Oh, I had her once. She's a good kid." "She's not going to be here next
                 semester." "What do you mean?" "I hear she's moving out of state… she's trans-
                 ferring."  "Why would she do that?"  "Apparently, she saw something dangerous."
                 "Saw something dangerous?"  "That's what I heard. She. Saw. Something
                 dangerous. In her building. So her parents are shipping her out." "What a
                 shame. She's such a  sweet kid." "I still don't understand. What could she
                 possibly see that was  dangerous?" "Brendan, could you help me with this? I
                 don't know what to do with this."

                 "I just wish you'd all shut up. And get on with marking," Brendan's brow was
                 creased and grim. He'd been stuck on one paragraph, reading it over and over,
                 unable to block out completely the talk that seemed always too loud. "We've
                 still got piles and piles of envelopes, and the tallies to do, and then…"

                     "Whoa, Brendan, Brendan, you really must learn to relax, "Amanda said.

                     "Yes, you need a time out, lighten up," John Benkovitz shouted from across the
                room."

                     "What you really need is to see your barber… no kidding… this time of year, a
                 haircut would do wonders for your state of mind."

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

 

                 Being friendly with students had its rewards and boundaries.
“Look all you
                 want, don’t touch,” McCraggen in Phys. Ed would say. “And if you
touch, don’t
                 roam.” Which was alright for him to say, teaching in the gym. He’d
kiss the
                 Hispanic girls on both cheeks, the Spanish way; he’d hug them and
squeeze
                 them, and heaven knows what else he did – and got away with.

                     Last year in the Regents test room this girl Theresa Santos
– she was a senior
                 now, getting ready for college life – caught him,
Mr. Brebnor, looking. She
                 had this short skirt on, you could see right up the canyon of her thighs. She
                 caught him
sneaking a peek.

                 His eyes sort of swept past her body like the beam of a
search light, and there,
                 like a breach in the fence of a POW camp – her open
thighs. She looked up at
                 him, smiled and crossed her legs. The search light
moved on. It circled and
                 passed her way again, and – holy camoli! – the breach was there again.

                    Now she was writing furiously, head bowed with a strange
inspired concen- 
                 tration, as if the answers to all the questions on the page had started
flooding
                 her brain; she had no time for ladylike proprieties; she had to
put pen to
                 paper fast.

                 The heads of the other students were bowed over their
papers. Brebnor peeked.
                 His eyes popped alert in his skull and became a
hairy-legged insect. It crawled
                 up the girl’s legs, over her knees, it started down those
thighs. Not once did
                 Theresa Santos flinch; she chewed her gum a little harder,
but not one muscle
                 of awareness twitched on her thighs.

                      At some point she must have felt a frisson of impropriety,
prompting her to
                 cross her legs; he looked away with one fast beat of his hot
heart.

                 That was last year in January. Here, now, so far, nothing
quite as world-
                 upturning  happened. Just
dark thoughts - as yet to slide into a zone of
                 depression, but all the same
dark, angry dark thoughts. Like the tardiness of
                 the teacher who should have relieved
him long minutes ago!

                      He heard her shoes clack
clacking up the hallway. He started gathering his
                 things for an abrupt hand
over and wordless exit. He didn’t look up to see who
                 it was; he knew who it was,
from the footsteps in all haste, apologizing for
                 being late. He knew the old
hag face, the fading, single picket fence of the
                 body, the short skirts she wore,
too short, despite the firm, youngish legs. No
                 man would want to hold her in
his arms, he thought; but the legs merited,
                 maybe, a quick second look.

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