Teacher Of The Year

Chapter 1: Summer Vacation Starts With A Bang

Hey Man

-Nelly Furtado

Monday, June 2, 2008

Wow, this is amazing! Elizabeth announced in a can-you-believe-that voice, the kind she uses when chatting with her mother over coffee. Since she was also flipping through the pages of a magazine while we were having sex, I correctly assumed the amazing had nothing to do with me. For the twenty-third straight year, we celebrated the beginning of summer vacation with afternoon screwing. In reality, it was mostly me doing the celebrating. For the first four or five years of my teaching career, the last day of school was reason enough to gasp, grope and groan into the night, only stopping to eat and kill off a bottle of Cabernet. Eventually, the frenetic passion gave way to Elizabeth mostly going through the motions as a mitzvah to me, not unlike a birthday and anniversary obligation, or anything else that fell under the category of " mercy sex."

Only one half hour earlier, the iPhone buzzed in my pocket. Ivy going to Starbucks with friends/Better hurry home the text beamed back at me. I slammed my computer shut, raked all the crap off my desk into a flimsy cardboard box, shoved it into my closet, grimaced at the sound of breaking glass, flipped off the lights, knocked the door shut with a backwards kick, strode down the hall waving gallantly at everyone in the office, quickly hugged other teachers, uttering hurried goodbyes and well wishes for a glorious summer.

I flew up the steps to our bedroom, already yanking the shirt over my head, my belt wrenched free and working hurriedly to wriggle out of my pants, still too snug even without the belt. Elizabeth crouched naked on the bed leaning forward on her elbows and knees, a pile of bills, magazines and junk mail strewn in front of her. I devoured her lithe body with my eyes while purposely ignoring my own jiggly paunch.

You’re reading the mail? I asked, my khakis and underwear draped over the sandals still on my feet, and clamored up behind her.

"Entertainment Weekly," she said, distracted, and handed up a small bottle of oil over her shoulder.

I registered the resignation in her tone, and in another lifetime, I may have told her we could pass on the sex if she wasn’t into it.

Instead of using this, I said, fumbling with the cap, I could just go-

Use the oil, baby. I don’t know how long Ivy and her gang are gone. Just take care of yourself, Scott, she said, leafing through the magazine. This is your day.

God, I love summer vacation! I nearly belted, still fighting the damned top. Christ, why would they put a child proof cap on oil meant for screwing?

Scott, it’s Johnson’s Baby Oil. We just happen to use it occasionally for sex, Elizabeth said, snatching the container from my hand, removing the cap and turning a page all in one fluid motion.

For a moment, I considered rubbing the oil over Elizabeth’s back and giving her a massage before slathering myself instead and plunging in.

"So, you know that guy on the TV show, Prison Break? The bald guy? she said. You won’t believe this."

I rhythmically slapped my hips and gut against Elizabeth’s ass a little harder to see if I could register an ounce of interest. Aren’t they…both guys…bald? I gasped.

Yeah, I mean the skinny one with the tattoos, Wentworth Miller.

I gripped her thighs in front of me, steely and toned from years of running. Okay. What about… him? I think I once watched half of that show.

He sang baritone in an a cappella group at Princeton called the Katzenjammers, Elizabeth said, as if breaking news that my 80 year-old mother was pregnant. Here, listen to this. She reached over to her nightstand and pressed the I-Pod standing at the ready on its dock. Suddenly, the a cappella sounds of the Katzenjammers singing Caught A Touch of Your Love filled our bedroom.

I slid my hand down her thigh, my fingers sweeping through her pubic hair.

Hey, I said just worry about you!

I quickened my pace, reaching toward her breasts.

Scott! Just, you know, put your hands on my back or something, she said, brushing my paws away. By the way, you got your teaching contract in the mail.

If I didn’t come soon, I could feel my erection losing strength as the boner-killing Katzenjammers killed me softly with their song. So? I already signed it…a month ago.

Elizabeth plucked the familiar yellow copy out of an envelope. There was an unfamiliar pink page attached to it. It looks like you didn’t sign this other form, Scott. She sounded irritated.

I pumped harder in an effort to not wilt any further, but the dolphin-fin-on-water slapping sound of our bodies, the amplified squeaking of the bed, the mystery document, Elizabeth’s disapproving tone, the Katzenjammers; they all worked in collusion to completely distract me. Sorry, I offered, more about the sex thFan the contract.

Okay, just finish, sign it and pop it in the mail before you forget.

I looked down to see the slight tremor race over Elizabeth’s butt and thighs when I thrust forward, renewing a little hope that all was not lost, and then inadvertently glanced at the letter next to the contract and read the first line.

What the hell is this? I cried. As a jolt of shock and fury blitzkrieged through my body, its force, along with our coffin lid creaker of a bedroom door, ejected me from Elizabeth, spun me around to see Ivy and a cluster of maybe a dozen of her girlfriends, most of them former students of mine, gaping at my full monty. I swore the sudden horrible taste in my mouth was really the lost orgasm having reversed course upstream.

Oh, my god! That’s so gross! my daughter screamed.

I know, I thought, hazily still attuned to the rotten taste.

Squeals of horror and laughter reverberated around the house.

How could you forget to lock the door? Elizabeth wailed, diving for the covers.

I flopped down face-first while grabbing her Entertainment Weekly with George and Laura Bush on the front, an ironic and prescient attempt to cover my ass.

Chapter 2: Complicated Shadows

I Will Follow You into the Dark

-Death Cab For Cutie

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

I yanked the steering wheel toward the school parking lot, my fishtailing Toyota Camry miraculously evading demolition from an oncoming garbage truck. I attributed this to luck, some law of nature I never grasped in freshman Physics, or to Radiohead’s Karma Police, which happened to be roaring through my speakers at that exact moment. The letter from the superintendent, signed by the entire school board, slid off the dashboard onto the floor. The stench of rubber puffed out behind me as I careened up the nearly empty lot, screeching to a stop in front of the steps leading to the school’s main entrance. I tried to open the door and shove out in one motion, but the damned thing would not budge. I rattled the handle several times and threw my shoulder against the door. The only thing that gave any ground was my neck, suddenly frozen up again from a decades-old whiplash I suffered from a celebratory cartwheel gone bad.

Shit! I howled, as my head now listed to the left like a Minnesota senator’s. Shifting around and scooting over to the passenger side, I realized that the car was simply locked. I smashed my palm on the lock button, scooped up the letter and practically leaped out the car, frozen neck and all, the adrenaline-fed fury propelling me up the school steps by threes. I reached for the entry door only to have it fly open first as the mail carrier and I collided, envelopes exploding from the mailbag, his knee meeting my thigh, me yowling, him cursing. I snatched the letter off the ground and stumbled through.

Thanks a lot, Bumstead, you asshole! the mail carrier shouted as I hobbled down the hallway toward the main office.

Desks, chairs, tables, carts and bookshelves lined the hallways. The summer custodial crew was already scrubbing the classrooms, the smell of carpet deodorizer and ammonia permeating the entire building.

I lumbered into the office, glad that our secretary had stepped out, and headed straight for the closed door, flung it open and pitched forward. I slammed the letter on my principal’s desk.

I’m fired because seven special needs seventh-graders failed the fucking state assessment?

A flicker of a smile passed across her lips so quickly, only a super slow-motion camera pausing frame by frame, the kind that captures mating hummingbirds, would have caught it. Those are your words, not mine, Mr. Eisenberg, the principal said, lightly brushing the letter with a long scarlet fingernail. Which is beside the point anyway. The contents of this missive discuss your probationary status for the upcoming school year, and nowhere does it mention the word ‘fired’.

I batted the letter back across the table. It doesn’t have to say the actual word, Michelle! You and I both know that probation is the first step toward firing a tenured teacher, and no matter how many goddamned hoops I jump through next year, unless every one of my student subgroups passes this exam, my 23-year career is over!

Two things, Mr. Eisenberg, the principal said, slipping off her chunky diamond wedding ring and twirling it with same fingernail on her desk. First, do not curse in this building. We have a policy about that in our district manual. Second, the document says nothing about the state assessment or anything about your subgroup of special education students not attaining a passing score. Did you even read it?

Jesus, six years before retirement! Yeah, I read it! The things you cited me for had never been an issue in any of my previous evaluations, so it has to be the state test!

Michelle shrugged. This past year marked my first formal observations of you, Mr. Eisenberg. The former assistant principal observed you when you were last on the evaluation cycle four years ago, and before that, perhaps the other administrators in this building gave you a free pass. Now, despite the fact that these particular students failed to live up to the expectations the state has for all student subgroups--

Oh please! I broke in.

--and given that our entire school was assessed a failing score from the state education department because of you--

Seven special needs kids out of 98 from my team, Dr. Potter! That was my one subgroup out of six which didn’t pass!

--thus putting us on the state’s Watch List, endangering future federal and state funding for the New Bedford community--

You are really going to lay this on me? I cried. A state law that says a so-called subgroup of white kids or black kids or special needs kids or free and reduced-lunch kids can blow the damn test and the entire school is considered negligent is beyond nuts!

My principal forged ahead, swirling the ring around in tighter, faster circles, a whirling dervish of glitter. And despite the economic, social and educational peril in which your lackadaisical approach to preparation for the state assessment places all of your students, that is not the reason you were put on probation.

My neck pulsated like a mating bullfrog. This crazy law is holding our entire public school system hostage. Every school district in the country is eventually going to receive a failing grade from their state because of the way ‘No Child Left Behind’ is written, Michelle, and every teacher, every administrator and every school board member in the United States knows that!

The principal shrugged again. You keep blaming the test results, and I keep telling you that is not the reason for your predicament. Regarding what you refer to as the inevitable failure of all schools-- maybe or maybe not, Mr. Eisenberg. We, however, fight like the devil to make sure all of our students pass, and at least for a while, our school’s boat continues to float while the public school armada around us has sunk.

I finally had to grab a chair and sit because my throbbing thigh was in such agony. I’ll extend your boat metaphor and remind you that NCLB is the iceberg gouging a hole through the hull of every ship out there!

Now Michelle shifted the ring back and forth, like a metronome for Gap Band’s You Dropped a Bomb on Me. Be that as it may, you have several things you need to do to maintain employment at New Bedford Middle School, which you should know had you read your evaluation.

I skimmed it.

My point exactly, she said, sliding a document in front of me. These are the areas for which you were cited this year, Mr. Eisenberg, not your failure to live up to the expectations of No Child Left Behind.

Pretty convenient to have my evaluations on your desk.

I figured you would be in soon enough, Michelle said, the ring scraping the top of her desk at R.E.M.’s It’s the End of the World pace. Read it.

I glanced down and read what she had checked off.

Professionally formatted lesson plans

Goals clearly stated and defined

Consistently follows district curriculum objectives

Models exemplary behavior to both students and staff

Maintains clean and orderly classroom

Adheres to and reinforces school discipline system, We-Come In Peace (We-CIP)

Looks pretty good to me, I snapped.

Michelle nodded. But these are all areas in which you failed to implement, Mr. Eisenberg. I also assume that you will not only make your best efforts to attain the objectives cited here, but you agree to work with an Intensive Assistance Interventionist throughout the school year as is stipulated?

An Intensive Assistance Interventionist? I repeated, my voice sounding as if it was filtered through a candlestick phone circa 1912. What does that mean?

Good Lord, sir! It is in that paper you virtually threw at me when barging into my office! Michelle said, angrily jamming her ring back on before swiping it across the envelope to unseal the letter. What in the Sam Hill is this supposed to be? A joke? she said, waving the contents toward me.

You tell me, since you orchestrated this whole thing! I rasped. My anxiety meter rose dramatically.

Michelle shook her head. This is a restocking order for sanitary pads and tampons.

I crouched forward to take a closer look and winced from both the charley horse and embarrassment. I had a little run-in with our mail guy outside. I obviously picked up the wrong envelope from the ground.

Michelle cast her eyes to the ceiling and exhaled loudly. God only knows what the truth is in your world, Mr. Eisenberg.

What do you mean by--

Oh, be quiet and listen, Michelle hissed. And get rid of that angry sneer and tone, sir. Now is the time for self-reflection and humility, not more of the blame game.

Okay, define interventionist, I mumbled, probably too much Charles Bronson and not enough Charles Osgood.

Michelle cocked her head. Are you toying with me? You know perfectly well what an interventionist is, Mr. Eisenberg. There are a significant number of these paraprofessionals in our school every year working with students.

With renewed outrage, I launched out of my seat like a North Korean rocket, crumbling before I could actually take off. Fucking mailman! You mean they assigned me a shadow? Someone who is going to follow me around all day because you think I’m some kind of drooling incompetent?

That’s a bit dramatic, sir, Michelle said. Even for you.

Oh, my god, this is such a slap in the face, Michelle! I cried. Shadows are hired for kids who have really massive special needs. Mentally retarded kids qualify for a shadow, and even then, they have to be extremely retarded!

Stop shouting, Michelle said.

I kept shouting. "Helen Kellers are assigned shadows! Kids who throw cats in microwaves or hang puppies get shadows. Is there any school district in the country that hired someone to be a teacher’s shadow?"

Technically, what New Bedford did is not ‘hiring’ an Intensive Assistance Interventionist.

A shadow, Michelle, I fumed. Call it what it is!

Shadow is a slang term that I find offensive, Michelle curtly said.

Shadow is to interventionist as janitor is to custodial engineer, I said. Both are about maintenance and cleaning up someone else’s shit!

Keep this up, Mr. Eisenberg, and you may never realize this golden career opportunity, Michelle said, jabbing her finger toward me.

I started to respond in kind and then pulled back. "What do you mean that the district didn’t technically hire an Intensive Assistance Interventionist? Before that, you said they did."

An anonymous donor has provided the money for this program. I suppose this person sees an opportunity to help a wayward teacher get back on the right path.

I laughed bitterly. Right, wayward teacher. No doubt this ‘donor’ has an agenda, and I will end up looking like a pathetic loser. Or is that your purpose, so I’ll quit?

Michelle put her hand to her chest, a look of surprise washed over her face. I simply wrote your evaluations. My agenda is to do what I am paid to do, and that is to make sure everyone here performs his or her respective jobs to the highest standards. The school board and superintendent orchestrated this plan, not me.

Come on, the most dysfunctional, inept school board in the country didn’t do this, I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

Leave your personal opinions at home, she said, picking up her vibrating cell phone. I have to take this call, but we have some more business to finish. I’ll be just a few minutes.

Michelle spun her chair so the back faced me and spoke softly. I leaned back and dropped my head to the top of my chair, forgetting about my frozen neck, and gasped from the sharp pain. I slowly sat up again and glanced about her room, quite likely the nicest educator’s office west of the Ivy League, thanks to her husband’s fortune. His photograph hung prominently behind her desk, an original Robert Grimm. Several mountain landscapes painted in oil adorned her walls by famous Western artists Darcie Peet and Scott Christensen alongside a portrait by Nashville painter, Dawn Whitelaw. Two ceramic Robert Arneson sculptures rested atop the hand-carved aspen armoire. Even a Dale Chihuly chandelier firing off prisms of the rainbow hung just a few feet suspended above her leather and aspen wood desk inlaid with abalone. Entering Michelle’s office would make any art connoisseur or badass kid grin.

The principal whirled around to face me again. Okay, let’s wrap this up.

I started to interject, but refrained when Michelle held her hand in the air. Don’t interrupt me anymore. That phone call was from our superintendent, Dr. Diggins. He wants you to sign off on the evaluations so we can move forward with the interventionist who was just hired.

Jesus Christ, I whispered.

You will be meeting with the interventionist next week. A Mr. Lohan.

Great, a real trust inspiring name. Who the hell would take that job? I asked, shuddering. The shadows for kids make about the same money as a grocery store bagger.

Michelle again held her hand up. That is not your concern, and do not ask me any more questions about the interventionist. All I can tell you is that the person is not a teacher, a stipulation of the grant.

Of course, it would make too much sense to have two teachers working together. I tugged at the neck of my t-shirt, finding it harder and harder to breathe.

Michelle tapped on the space bar of her computer twice. Let’s get started. She drummed her fingers on the amazing desk for a moment before continuing. Look, I am always honest, sometimes to a fault, I admit. In that spirit, I have to tell you that for all the years I’ve been a principal, your room remains the most disgusting I’ve ever seen, she began. Your desk is an absolute disaster.

We can’t all have a $30,000 desk, I shot back.

It isn’t the quality that I am referring to. Do you remember that when a student asked you for her supposedly graded assignment, it took you ten minutes to find it under that mayhem, and it wasn’t even scored? Your space is chaotic.

What if I told you that I know where everything is? I asked.

I’d say you were lying. Case in point, the student whose paper you couldn’t find.

I eventually found it, though, I said. Middle of pile 12.

Indefensible. I’ll continue, she said, scrolling down her screen. I’ve asked every teacher in this building to maintain a We-Come In Peace grid to monitor whether or not the children are following the five character education principles I’ve established for this school: Respect, Cooperation, Academic Piety, Self-Reliance, and Brotherly Love. Not once did I observe you acknowledging any of the five We-CIPs to your students. This was a goal I said you had not met in our first post-observation meeting. You did not meet it by the second observation months later. How do you explain this? Michelle asked, glaring at me.

Well, I guess I’ve never had a problem with discipline in the classroom, I answered, massaging my neck. I also have to confess that I have no idea what academic piety refers to. There might be three seventh-graders in the school who are self-reliant, and I don’t know how to measure brotherly love. Do you mean the Philadelphia kind or the Appalachian?

Michelle narrowed her eyes. We’ve had how many We-CIP training sessions since the summer? Fourteen? You missed four meetings, slept through seven others and carried on conversations through the ones for which you did stay awake, asking inane questions during the few times you participated. Furthermore, you did not sign your evaluations, and you apparently ignored every area I cited as ‘Needs Improvement’.

I thought it best to not mention that I actually dozed off during every meeting. Well, regarding my so-called inane comments in the We-CIP meetings, I was just trying to add a little levity to a dry topic. Most of this staff is experienced enough making it unnecessary to learn some new silly discipline system. No offense, I added.

You asked if We-Come in Peace was a Buddhist porn film, Mr. Eisenberg.

I sighed. My boat clearly was taking on some water. I did not mean to offend you, Michelle.

She rifled through more of notes on her desk. Of course you did. I will also add that my silly We-CIP system has reduced the number of office referrals by 30 percent from last year’s records, and the reduction of office referrals is a major district and state goal. Explain that since the system I created is so ridiculous.

It’s just easier and more efficient for me to deal with a kid than sending him in here.

Michelle leaned in. As principal, I can tell you that I need a specific paper trail on discipline issues for legal reasons and discipline referrals are annually reported to the Department of Education.

I shook my finger since I could no longer shake my head. Do you know how often you send those referrals back for insufficient evidence against a kid? That’s why I think referrals were--

Let’s move on to your second evaluation, Michelle interrupted. I think you carried on an important discussion about the Nazis and relating it back to other conflicts where atrocities took place, you know, like Bosnia and Rwanda, and such. Fine, but that writing exercise you had them do was a waste of time. An essay or several constructed response paragraphs related to the Anne Frank book would have been the way to go, Michelle said, continuing to flick through her notes both on her desk and on the computer screen. That’s the kind of writing they need to know to be successful. You should be aware that some of the other English teachers on this staff are frustrated with you. Why? They are expected to have the students focus on expository paragraphs and essays while you continue following your own agenda.

My own agenda, huh? Man, what nerve! Hardly. You didn’t think that having them write about a fictionalized totalitarian state and how it could affect everything they know wasn’t worthwhile? I asked. Many of those kids not only wrote beautifully, but most of them showed how well they understood many of the themes we discussed about persecution. I thought the writing was a huge success, I added.

We-ell, she said, stretching out the word almost as if she were falling into that well, I just don’t really get what you were doing.

Teaching writing? Making universal connections? Promoting humanity and social justice? I said.

Oh, can the rhetorical crap! Many of these children still don’t have basic writing mechanics down, so I have to question why they are writing fictional stories at this stage of their education.

Ah hah, now I knew where this was going. I do teach basic writing mechanics and show them examples of good writing: fiction, nonfiction, drama and poetry.

Look, when reading over their shoulders, I have to tell you that I was appalled at the huge number of spelling errors, errors in mechanics and sentence construction, Michelle said. In fact, I talked to several of the students once your, uh, lesson was complete. They informed me that you apparently told them spelling, language mechanics and grammar are unimportant in first drafts. According to my notes, the kiddos said that you just want them to get their thoughts and ideas down on paper. True?

Absolutely. Why should they care about errors in conventions on an early draft? Writers worry about those kinds of things on a final draft, I said passionately. It is their ideas that need to flow unimpeded in creating the initial skeleton of a story.

Did you say why should they care? These children, and that is what they are--not ‘writers’--will fall flat on their educational faces with that kind of attitude, Mr. Eisenberg, Michelle said leaning forward in her chair. Also, not one of them said you had taught them anything about how to write a constructed response paragraph, and that was back in November. This is the very form of writing on which they would be evaluated later in the year during testing season.

Christ, Michelle. The exam wasn’t until April! I said, my frustration again about to boil over. I taught it and they got it! Besides, it isn’t real-world writing; it’s test writing. There’s a real difference between the two.

Being able to produce a well-crafted paragraph is one of the key components of the state test and is critical to their studies. Every scrap of research data supports this premise, but several months into this past school year, you still hadn’t taught it? Michelle actually smiled broadly, but it was the kind of smile that was so incredulous, it was as if I had just told her I had eaten her children for breakfast. Not actually having children, she would be that much more taken aback.

I sighed. No, I worked a little with creative nonfiction and poetry, just to give them a taste before we really hammered those genres later on. After the writing, we moved on to another novel.

Michelle again gave me that you’ve-got-to-be-shitting-me-grin. Creative nonfiction? You mean more fiction writing?

Mindful of my frozen neck, it was back to the disapproving finger. No, I’m surprised you don’t know this genre. We’ve been teaching it as long as you’ve been here.

You have, but not the other English teachers, Michelle said tightly.

"Right. Creative nonfiction is basically memoir writing but using some of the elements of fiction to create the story, like having a developed plot, conflict, dialogue, and vivid characterizations of the people in the story. Think Angela’s Ashes," I said.

I’d rather not. The movie depressed me.

Haven’t seen it. I was referring to the book.

Haven’t read it. I usually immerse myself in educational periodicals or books. You?

Not if I can help it.

She raised the offended eyebrow again.

Sorry, education periodicals tend to be dull, and given how much time--

The ring came off again and the abrasive sliding immediately followed. I’ve had 113 articles published and collaborated on two books. I think I’m pretty good. So do the publishers who write my checks.

Okay, I chuckled. I wasn’t actually passing judgment on your writing skills, Michelle. I could see my fake laugh wasn’t helping endear me to her.

I’ve forwarded the staff many of the articles I’ve written, Mr. Eisenberg, which you no doubt ignored.

I shrugged. I’d fail the test if she quizzed me on anything she had sent.

We both sat forward in our seats, a tennis match of loathing and hostility. She must have sensed as much and leaned back.

The creative nonfiction still sounds like fiction to me, but you said your classes actually then read a novel. More fiction.

I wanted to leave, though I doubted my ability to actually stand and walk. "Yes, they read a novel called The Golden Compass. It is a compelling story with wonderful characters- really a retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost."

"The poem Paradise Lost?" she said it as if she had a bug on her tongue.

"Right, but The Golden Compass isn’t a poem. It is a great book for teaching literary elements and figurative language. And those things are on the state test," I said, reaching for a hair of common ground.

Potter took off her reading glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. Fiction has its place, I think you are simply setting them up for failure, and when they fail, our entire school fails, and here we are.

I really burned. Not because of the way I teach, though.

The fact is that your team’s Communication Arts test scores are the lowest in the building making it hard for me to buy into any of your methods, Mr. Eisenberg.

I don’t put as much stock into the numbers as you, but what I teach is valuable, I insisted. To teach to the test or to teach what’s right. That’s the question, isn’t it?

Michelle forged ahead. "There is no question when it just takes one subgroup to fail. And as far as teaching a novel to a team of 100 students, why are you not addressing their individual reading levels? The data consistently shows that children improve their reading only when they are reading material at their own level. You said yourself this was a challenging novel. How does this meet the needs of a kiddo reading two grades below his actual grade?"

I think they get a lot more out of it when we have group discussions and I can challenge their critical and analytical thinking skills, Michelle. I want kids to actually learn something of value and not be some kind of test-taking automaton!

Now Michelle laughed. Do you have any research, yours or a legitimate professional’s, to back your views up? Certainly not your test scores!"

Twenty-three years of teaching experience is my legitimate professional research, I volleyed.

Is that supposed to mean something to me? Give me some authentic action research, and then we can talk about your 23 years. Frankly, you can’t even write a lesson plan. That thing you turned into me before you taught was written more like a story of what you planned on doing that day. That’s not a teacher’s lesson plan.

That is how I create my plans. I write them as narratives, I said, knowing she was going to skewer me. I don’t need to waste my time writing detailed lesson plans at this stage of my career. You’re not teaching the class; I am. I know what I’m doing, why I’m doing it, the expected outcomes, and what I’ll do if it blows.

She rolled her eyes. The excuses of a lazy teacher, Mr. Eisenberg. I’ve heard them before. Despite taxing your valuable time and impugning your apparently exceptional teaching skills, I still expect real lesson planning. There is a format for it that every teacher here but you appear to know.

Silence.

Whether you like it or not, she continued, one of the primary ways our New Bedford community sees our schools is by how well we perform on our standardized test scores.

I raked my hands through my hair. Really? If our community, our country, knew that more than 70 percent of all public school districts have actually cut back on science and social studies instruction to try and boost reading and math scores for state tests, there would be vomit flowing on the steps of our schools. That doesn’t include all the draconian cuts in arts education, Michelle. How are we going to produce an interest in the sciences, humanities and the arts if we don’t teach them? I said, feeling the vein in my forehead popping.

She waved me off. If we were testing in those subjects, you can bet your bottom dollar I would be just as focused on those subject areas too. Your methods hinder the success of our students.

Bullshit! I spat. I think allowing kids to find their own voice helps them develop a love of writing so they can get to deeper level thinking. Drilling our students on worthless--

They aren’t worthless, and neither are factual, research-based expository paragraphs!

Fine, but not as an exclusive focus. That kind of writing is your baby, not mine!

Not my baby, the district’s curriculum baby! The state’s baby! The no-baby-left-behind baby! Michelle’s eyes blazed. I’ve got a responsibility to make sure you people are teaching what you are supposed to be teaching and not what you think is appropriate! Got it?

I also leaned in. Yeah, I got it. I already had it. I just may not do it in the way you would like me to, but it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

Well, you better reconsider how you go about doing things from now on because things are going to change!

I wanted to storm out of her office but not looking like Quasimodo.

Michelle slid the familiar yellow packet across her desk. I need your signature on these unsigned evaluations.

I looked up, and we locked eyes. "I’m not signing, Michelle. These are offensive.

Michelle nodded. I absolutely agree, Mr. Eisenberg. It is now up to you to make the appropriate changes. Sign and then work with Mr. Lohan, your interventionist; otherwise, your contract will be voided.

As I said, I’ll pass on signing. I refuse to get caught up in the hysteria of No Child Left Behind! I stood to leave but leaned back on the chair for support.

Michelle cocked an eyebrow. Hmm. Well, think what you want. This of course is your choice, but know that this will be documented in your file, and I will have to alert our administrative board office about your unwillingness to sign your evaluation. I’ll also have to note your insolence and cursing.

Yes, I’m sure you will. I took a deep breath. Fine; here, I said, and signed my name ‘John Hancock’ large. Then turning around to face her again, I said, You picked the wrong teacher for a No Child Left Behind war, Michelle.

Oh, Mr. Eisenberg, she said leaning forward with her fingernails on my signed evaluation. I absolutely picked the right teacher. Welcome back.

Monday, June 9, 2008, 10:30 a.m.

TO: susan_franklin@newbedford.k12.us

FR: scott_eisenberg@newbedford.k12.us

Subject: What The Hell?

You have been the assistant superintendent for nearly as long as Oscar has been superintendent, right? This is your 17th year? I trust you as much as Auggie and Jessica, my two best pals at New Bedford. By agreeing to write this journal, I’m going to uphold my end of this sham, Susan. Maybe sham isn’t the right word. Let’s call it what it is: a vendetta. Has there been one complaint about me in 23 years? Okay, maybe a few early on in my career, as far as I know.

Explain why Oscar agreed to go along with this, Susan. He’s been superintendent of this district for 18 years. He doesn’t need to kiss anyone’s ass. For a school board that regularly makes the national headlines for such pleasantries as our president pissing in a trashcan to make some kind of political statement, the video starring two former board members along with a set of ball bearings and an umbrella, the gambling trips to Monaco; nothing they do should surprise anyone, except when they agree on something.

Forget my personal humiliation, the likelihood of financial and professional ruin, and the tension created at home. Forget all of those things but consider this: How can you let this happen to a friend?

Okay, I’m done venting for now although I can’t promise I won’t kvetch every time I write. I want to reiterate the ground rules you and I agreed to before this goes further. If you think that any of this is incorrect, I will remind you to go back to your notes from the meeting we had last month. We both tape-recorded everything so I urge you to double check in case you think I’m wrong about anything I’m about to include below:

1. I can write about anyone: teachers, students, parents, administrators or board members without fear that any of it will incriminate me or any of the people about whom I write.

2. Everything I write will be completely private; the only person who can legally read any of this is you and ONLY you. Remember, I can say whatever I want about whomever I want and however I want. We’re clear on that, right?

3. Upon completion of the Intensive Assistance, I will no longer be on Intensive Assistance and my teaching contract will continue to be honored as long as I fulfill the terms of the contract.

4. Susan, I want you to know that whatever I write in this journal, for lack of a better word, it will be the truth.

Chapter 3: The Sherpa

Carry That Weight

-The Beatles

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Look, I’ll be blunt. I have no clue what it is you are going to do this year, I said to the stunning man sitting across the booth from me. I only agreed to this because… I trailed off. What was I going to say? Because I’m a loser? A scapegoat? Desperate? At first, he said nothing, but based on the overall vibe he radiated, I had the feeling he was evaluating my being right down to the molecules.

The interventionist candidate looked like he stepped out of a natural history museum exhibit. His black hair cascaded in wavy ringlets past the middle of his back. He sported a Fu Manchu mustache drooping past his chin, melding into a wispy goatee. His almond eyes were deeply set, the kind that could be intense, kind or intimidating depending on the situation, flanking a rather prominent nose. His clothing on any day of the year would fascinate me but considerably more so in the summer steam bath, a sugar cone of 100-degree heat swirled with 90 percent humidity. He wore not so much a parka or coat as much as it was a massive cloak made from animal skins and fur. Heavy leather boots were also covered in thick animal hair with an intricate cross-weave binding. A simple thick wooden staff, possibly six feet in length, leaned against the side of our booth. He introduced himself as Sherpa Lohan.

I hunched forward in this booth at the South City Diner, feeling more than a little ridiculous sitting across from a Sherpa. I wondered if it wasn’t for the anonymous grant the district received to help rehabilitate experienced teachers, would they have offered to buy out the rest of my contract? When the man called me earlier in the morning about meeting, I chose the diner because I figured no one I knew ate here.

This is an area of town with a lot of new immigrants from all over the world, but even in a diner that featured as much diversity as an international seaport, this guy stood out. One West African man wore a long robe, loose white pants and cap. A Muslim family, presumably from North Africa or Central Asia, dined in the corner where the mother and daughter wore the black burqa. Several men spoke animatedly in Serbo-Croatian while huddled in a corner surrounded by smoke. A young Goth Vietnamese couple typed across from each other on laptops.

I don’t mean to be pushy, but can you please explain the plan, you know, if there is a plan? I asked again.

Sherpa Lohan closed his eyes for several seconds and clasped his hands together before responding. It is a simple plan. I am of the Sherpa. If I am to be your personal guide, then I will do my best to aid you on your journey, whatever that journey may be or wherever that journey may lead you. Ultimately, it is the decisions we make that move us through this plane, this universe. Although you are blessed with free will, just as we all are intended to be, Sherpa such as myself may help guide you to the best paths to follow.

I also nodded, now wondering if the district planned on shipping me off to a remote Asian mountain village. I pictured myself behind a snorting water buffalo plowing a parcel of land given to me by a blind, toothless shaman.

Lohan, may I call you Lohan? Mr. Lohan?

Please, call me Sherpa or Sherpa Lohan.

I smiled which caused me to nearly laugh, my involuntary reaction to all things that make me uncomfortable. I dug nails into palms. You speak English beautifully. Where did you learn the language?

The people who come to hike our mountains are most often English speakers. For our family, we must learn at an early age. French, Hindi, German, and Italian have been helpful to us as well.

Geez, that’s impressive, I nodded.

The Sherpa shrugged slightly. These languages have been beneficial. Of course, there are others such as Mofu-gudur, Uripiv-wala-rano-atchin, Greenlandic Inuktitut, of course Helambu Sherpa, Kungarakany, Lemolang, Xaasongaxango, Southern Giziga, Emai-iuleha-ora, Rennellese and Yucatec Maya Sign Languages. The Nordic tongues have also been propitious.

I softly whistled, but Sherpa Lohan wasn’t done.

Japanese and South Korean hikers have been numerous over the past couple of decades; those languages presented exciting challenges. I enjoy Farsi and Arabic, particularly Arabic, because it helps me expel mucus due to my problematic sinus, he said, tapping his large nose. Mandarin Chinese was important for me to learn given China’s proximity to my own country, Nepal, a region that features 123 languages and dialects. My parents believed it showed national pride if their children were taught to learn each of these individual tongues.

All of them? I said, raising my eyebrows in amazement. "Unbelievable! You actually speak all of those languages fluently?"

Sherpa Lohan almost imperceptively bent his head forward to affirm my question. My native accent peeks through in them all, although truth be acknowledged, I would not know if it is perceptible in the three extinct languages of Nepal.

Wow. What else was there to say?

Yes, and another exception can be made for the language of the Khoisan, the San Bushmen of Africa. They represent the trunk of the world tree, if you will, from which all other cultures in the world branched. They use a form of clicking to communicate, and in this language, my accent is not so pronounced.

Why would you learn the Khoisan click language? I didn’t realize they were known for their great hiking skills, you know, given that they live in a desert thousands of miles away.

Yes, this is correct, the Sherpa said.