There was no way I was ever going to teach. I had a hard enough time getting through school as a student, why would I go back and join the system I railed against? It was enough I always had to train the new guy when I was working in the theater. Then came a series of injuries that prevented me from continuing in my chosen profession. A friend suggested there was a short leap from trainer to teacher if I could find an academic subject that interested me. I chose math because while I enjoyed reading and writing, I didn't enjoy analyzing and shredding apart what I read and wrote. I also saw that math teachers were always in demand.
Upon entering my new field, I found a lot of young people struggling to make their way in life. While I wasn't one of them, I connected with the kids other adults had written off as "bad" or "troubled." I bought into the dream that every child can and should be educated to the fullest of their capacity. I quickly realized that while there were many educators who believed that same fantasy, there were many who did not. It took a long time to find a place where I could actively pursue that goal.
Even the most hard core child has feelings other than destruction and anger and self-doubt. They have goals and dreams for themselves and their families. They have expectations that, for some reason, circumstances prevent them from meeting. I am not advocating for no juvenile justice system. I am not under the illusion that we can hug away all the problems our students face. I am suggesting that with a little compassion, with better listening skills, we can help more of our young people succeed and become more productive members of society.
CHRISTOPHER
“Fuck you! Get out of my way!” Christopher yelled, then he left. Not every time we met, but the sentiment was always the same. He had a hard enough time listening to the regular teacher, he was most certainly not going to listen to a new substitute. I wrote him up for cursing in class and for leaving without permission, and I marked him absent for the period.
“So I heard you work in a theater,” a friendly voice came from the open door. Paula, the new music teacher, stood in the hall so she didn’t interrupt whatever the class was doing.
“I do. What do you need?”
“We need to make a bed that’s seven feet tall, and I’m not sure what we have is steady enough.”
“No problem. I’ll stop by today after school.”
Thirty minutes after the last bell rang, there was controlled chaos on and in front of the stage. People were trying to organize props, people were painting, people were using power tools to cut and assemble set pieces. Home sweet home. And there was Christopher, using a power saw to cut the wood needed to make the seven foot high bed. As soon as he saw me, he put down the power saw and got a hand saw to cut with.
“Christopher, this is cool,” I said. “Did they show you how to use power tools?”
“Yeah.”
“So everything's good then.” A little confused, he picked up the power saw and cut away.
Later in the evening, it came time to try the monstrosity out. Four girls, two boys, and an art teacher slid the box to center stage.
“It still looks wobbly,” Christopher noticed. “Maybe a brace on the bottom there?”
“And two on the top corners. Three people need to sit up there.” Done, done, and done. Christopher and the art teacher had three braces in all the right places in under ten minutes. And the rehearsal went on as scheduled.
Two days later, the arts department chair stopped me in the hall.
“Are you supposed to be helping with the musical?”
“Yes.”
“Do you even know how to build things safely?”
“It's my other job, actually.”
“Well, don't bring that stuff in here. We can't afford the liability. And that kid, Chris? With the brown hair and all the earrings? He's not allowed to use power tools. I told Alison” – the art teacher – “and now I'm telling you. It violates his parole. Nobody under 16 uses power tools.”
“Got it. Thanks.” Thanks for nothing. Onstage, kids were milling about, including Christopher.
“We couldn't start working 'til we were supervised,” one of the seventh graders said.
“Consider yourselves supervised,” I told them. “Except nobody under 16 can use power tools today.” The kids were about as happy as I was with that decree.
“Does that include battery-operated stuff?”
“Well, I think power tools are the ones you plug in,” a junior said.
“Batteries good, plug ins bad if you're under age,” was my answer. Christopher held up a battery-operated saw. “Looks good to me,” I told him.
“Even after he told you about me?”
“Batteries good, plug ins bad.” And he was off with the rest of the crew, putting the finishing touches on the sets.
Monday morning, 743 am, the first bell rang. That meant they had two minutes to get to class. Christopher and his boys came in then stopped when they saw me.
“Oh, damn, son. First thing in the morning?”
“Hey, guys,” I smiled. “C'mon in.”
“Naw, we ain't like that,” another one laughed.
Christopher asked, “Miss, is it okay if we go to the library?” His friends were shocked. No cursing, no fussing, no referrals for skipping class. Rather, I wrote them a pass to the library.
“Sure. Are all of you going?” Only half of them went. Christopher took down the assignment and left quietly with his group. This was the beginning of the good working relationship we had while he was in school. Thank you, arts in the school.
DAVID
David was one of the kids hanging around backstage as we put “bedding” on the seven foot bed. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him.
“Maybe he'd help,” Marco told me as he pointed to David. Now I knew why I knew him - he had a twin brother, Brad.
“I'm in chorus, but you can't make me perform,” David said with a smile. Brad always sang in concerts and the school musicals.
“Good. We can always use another tech person,” I smiled back.
“No going out on stage singing or dancing?”
“You can dance, too?”
“No. That's why I don't do it in public.”
“Well, I need someone to work with Mr. Jamison on sound.”
“He doesn't need any help, Miss.”
“Sure he does. Just hang out and see what you can do.” David wasn't sure this was a good idea, but he went over to our musical director. Mr. Jamison was happy to have assistance, David was happy to do something other than perform.
JULIO
“Miss, I don’t NEED to learn this crap,” he would say. Every class, every time. “I’m gonna be the richest man on College Avenue, Miss. Don’t need school, so I’m out when I turn 16.” His plan was to be the best pimp and drug dealer in lower Westchester County. So said the handsome boy in seventh grade.
“But Julio, you NEED to take math so you know your girls aren’t ripping you off, right?” was my response. “And you NEED English so you can formulate a business plan and communicate better with your workers and your clients. And you NEED History and Economics to know about the area you’re working in. You need to know who else is in this area, how businesses work. You need marketing skills, including computers, to advertise and keep the customers you have.”
“Oh, Miss, please!” was his response. Every class, every time. It even became a running debate in the hallway when he wasn’t in the classes where I was working. I left the school when Julio was in tenth grade, worried that he’d someday become the grand master of College Avenue.
STAGE CREW
The day our students got their first aid and CPR cards from the health teacher, no adult could be at the school to supervise the cast and crew after school, so everyone had to leave campus, get dinner, and reconvene at 6:00 pm. At 5:45, I was about a half mile from school. Traffic was stopped. I was most displeased until I saw a man lying in the street, cars trying to get by him in both directions. I drove up and used my car to shield the man and the people trying to help him. The car that hit the man was in a parking spot nearby. I took out my EMT badge and put it around my neck.
“What do we have?” I demanded. Then I saw Courtney, a girl who’d said she would never get involved with blood and guts, holding the man’s head steady.
“This man got hit by a car,” she said. “Maggie’s got the driver over there,” she jerked her head to my right, “but the cars keep coming.”
“Let me go,” the man on his back yelled, “I’m fine! Just let me get to my truck.”
“Sir, you’ve been hit by a car. You need to lie still,” Courtney told him. Just then, four kids dressed in all black joined us.
“I know first aid!” Jordan yelled, sliding in next to me. I handed him gloves from my pocket. “What can I do?” he asked.
“Sit on his legs so he doesn’t move anymore.”
“Are you sure, Sinko? Didn’t you want to check them first?”
“If he keeps moving, he’ll just make the injuries worse.” Jordan did what he was told. “Mary!” 5-foot tall, blonde-headed Mary jumped out of the crowd. “Stop traffic in this lane!”
“Can one lane go by?” she asked.
“Yeah. Sure.” Mary took her spot on the road and quickly got control of the traffic flow. I started checking the patient for any further injuries. “Has anyone called 911?” I checked. On cue, we heard sirens in the distance.
Courtney replied, “I did from the store. Maggie came down here with me, but we ran out of gloves, Miss. I mean, I had mine on from the store, but”
“You’re doing great, Courtney. Just keep hold of his head.” The sirens from the police cars and the ambulance were closer now. “Sir, can you hear me?”
“Please let go. I have to get home for dinner. My wife’s going to kill me.”
“Miss, he’s got an injury here,” Jordan said quietly.
“Where?”
“Here on the right leg.”
“Okay. Just be careful there. You're doing good.” The man had open wounds on his left arm and ribs where he was hit by the car. David joined us with a box of gloves.
“Here, Sinko. The restaurant over there gave these to us.”
“Great. Put some on, and hold his left arm in place. We don’t have anything to splint it with yet.” David took some gloves then passed the box to Marco before kneeling next to the patient. “Marco, check the driver for me.”
“Done.” Away he went.
“Courtney, how’re you doing?”
Screeching tires, and Mary’s voice boomed, “What the hell is your problem?! Don’t you know how to stop?!” The car was about two feet from her. “Now you stay there for a minute.” And she directed the opposing car to go through.
"Courtney?"
“I’m fine, Miss,” Courtney lied. Even in the street light, I could see her face had gone ashy.
Then came the police and the ambulance. One of my EMS trainers happened to be in charge of the crew.
“I thought I recognized your car, Sinko,” she said. “What’ve we got?”
“Pedestrian hit by car, flew about ten feet,” I told her. “I’ve got someone checking the driver out now. This guy has trauma to the head, neck, left ribs, left arm, both legs. His pulse is bounding.” Quietly I added, “His occipital region is mushy.”
“Okay. Take some gloves,” she told me.
“I’m good; my hands are a mess already.”
“Take them or step off,” she said. I put clean gloves on dirty hands.
The ambulance crew, with the help of the students, cared for both men. The police took over directing traffic, wrote down the kids’ names, and started taking notes for their reports. When Courtney sat on the curb to collect herself, the ambulance crew chief went to her.
“Are you okay, hon?” the EMT asked.
“Yeah. I just … I didn’t think I could do all this.” Courtney looked at her gloves. “That’s not his brain, is it? ‘Cause I’m gonna be sick if that’s what that is.”
“No,” we lied to her. “That looks like some junk off the street, maybe some glass from the car.”
“Don’t you worry, honey, you did great,” the EMT said. “Thanks for the assist.” And the ambulance left.
By the time I got to school, all the adults were back, as were most of the students. All they were talking about was the accident.
“You should’ve seen Jordan, Miss Penna, ‘I know first aid! I know first aid!’ It was so funny! Marco and Maggie got the guy who caused the accident. Sinko, what happened to them? Did they arrest the driver? Is our guy going to be okay? What was that white stuff on Courtney’s gloves?”
We spent about a half hour discussing the accident and that the man was definitely better off from having the kids help him. I made a mental note to let the administrators know how good it was to teach first aid and CPR to the students. It took me twenty minutes to clean up, and the rehearsal went on.
“What was the white stuff on Courtney’s gloves really?” Miss Penna asked quietly as the kids performed.
“The white stuff was his skull,” I whispered back. “The gray stuff was his brain.”
“Oh, gross.”
The incident made the newspaper, and our kids were honored by the village. The man had a long recovery, but he turned out all right.
