Too Dangerous to Teach

Copyright 2003, Isobel Kleinman.

Second Edition

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

The names of the characters in this story are completely fictitious and are not meant as a reference to anyone with the same name, whether living or dead.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Kleinman, Isobel, 1946-

Too dangerous to teach / Isobel Kleinman.

ISBN 1-4120-0276-1

ISBN: 978-1-4122-1189-5 (eBook)

I. Title.

PS3611.L44T66 2003 813’.6 C2003-902352-4

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Contents

Prologue

Book One

Chapter 1-In Hindsight

Chapter 2-Choices And Voices

Chapter 3-Don’t Make Waves

Chapter 4-Professional

Chapter 5-The Year Of The Child

Chapter 6-The Signing

Book Two

Chapter 7-Self Annihilate

Chapter 8-Police

Chapter 9-An Old Book, A New Cover

Chapter 10-Some Preposterous Ideas

Chapter 11-Strife Or Strive

Chapter 12-Rights, Rules And Plan B

Chapter 13-All In A Day’s Pay

Chapter 14-Boys Will Be Boys

Chapter 15-Know Thy Enemy

Chapter 16-Bad Decisions

Chapter 17-The Battle Begins

Chapter 18-A Second Front

Chapter 19-Who’s In Charge

Chapter 20-In Cahoots

Chapter 21-Turmoil’s Breeding Ground

Chapter 22-Spring Fever

Chapter 23-Lords Of The Flies

Chapter 24-Responsibility

Chapter 25-Respect

Chapter 26-Integrity

Chapter 27-The Cover-Up

Chapter 28-Checks And Balances

Chapter 29-Hot Air

Chapter 30-Liar, Liar, House On Fire

Chapter 31-Good, Bad And Ugly

Chapter 32-Hardball

Chapter 33-In A Glass House

Book Three

Chapter 34-Adieu

Chapter 35-The Charges

Chapter 36-Beginning Legalities

Chapter 37-Against Me

Chapter 38-An Ugly Metaphor

Chapter 39-In My Defense

Chapter 40-My Re-Education

Chapter 41-Fresh Start

Chapter 42-Life In A Redbook School

Chapter 43-The End Of The Honeymoon

Chapter 44-My Dilemma

Chapter 45-Treading Water

Chapter 46-Swan Song

I must acknowledge and give endless thanks to:

Rita Rottersman, my friend, colleague and editor whose selfless effort and tireless support made this book and me a hundred times better.

Susan Kleinman, whose suggestion to include the good with the bad made the writing of this ever more palatable.

John Ryan, who listened to my story and suggested its title.

Valerie Drake, who from the start convinced me that mine was no fool’s effort and then in the end who encouraged me to publish, no matter what.

Patricia Satterfield, for catching my goofs and setting me straight.

Renee Greene, for her proofreading and sage advice.

Janet Axlerod, for suggesting I write this in the first place.

Herb Leifer, and Harrison, Leifer and DeMarco for the cover.

Karen Lutsky, for her creativity, patience and effort for her design.

Serve Valle, Florence Bushke, Freida Lange, Ginnie Sixeas and

Richard Saland, a true friend, dentist, person extraordinaire, for his love of grammar, need for perfection, offer of help and skill in making this a more correct book.

Prologue

You are too dangerous to teach in my school, I heard my principal declare from the other end of her conference table. So did the others who had gathered to pay witness.

My heart skipped a few beats. A lump swelled in my throat as her comment sunk in. Oh, I knew she was annoyed with my grades, that I was spoiling her numbers, and that in her effort to garnish awards and accolades, numbers had become everything. But, not for one minute did I think it would come to this. Sure, she wanted to cut me, the ex-grievance chairman of the union, down to size, get me to play the statistics game, get me to be like the others who conformed to survive. But this was different. This was not just censuring. This was career threatening and with her, there would be no backing down.

How could this be happening? How could I become a throw away teacher? Could she prevail? What about my passion for teaching? And my thirty-one years? How could she, without flinching or a sign of remorse, actually question my ability to teach? Am I dreaming? Is this meeting really about me and my removal from teaching?

You are too dangerous to teach here, she said again. I have asked the Superintendent to have you removed immediately.

BOOK ONE

Chapter 1-in hindsight

It is something of an irony that Superman played such a role in my approach to the issues of the day. Right was right. That was all there was to it. It was easy to be that clear at five years old, when my heroes were Robin Hood, Liberace, Kate Smith, Captain Zero, Pinky Lee and Mickey Mouse. That changed by junior high, when I heard John F. Kennedy say, Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country. From that moment, I had a real hero.

Childhood was no shield from fear or evil. I saw my dad watch the McCarthy hearings. As a family, we talked about the Holocaust. I was frequently reminded that an expanding mushroom cloud could mean the end of the world. Even my favorite place—school—reinforced fears of annihilation. Loud bells drilled us to hide from flying glass. We complied, dropping beneath our desks or huddling in hallways. When the bomb got bigger, we were dismissed. It was better to go home. In theory, if we were going to burn, we may as well do it hugging our Moms.

Still, my heart believed in white knights and happy endings.

I shuddered as I signed the Affidavit of Appeal in 1993, but by temperament, commitment and job description, I did not equivocate. The Appeal to New York State’s Commissioner of Education was a proper union action and any fear of consequence had to be put aside. I did it, despite a decade of witnessing personal attacks on public figures, the witch hunt called Whitewater, judges victimized for unpopular legal decisions and teachers vilified for maintaining standards. I imagined there would be a reaction to the Appeal, but had no sense of the magnitude. With price unknown and warnings ignored, I went forward without suspecting that this business activity would unalterably change my life and my career. Would I have done it any other way? Probably not, not with my long history of doing very much the same.

In 1967, when I began teaching, I hadn’t thought twice about going to Mr. Lewis Lauer, my principal at Sandyfield Junior High. I wonder now if he could have survived the era of the nineties, but then, I kind of marched into his office, in my very short gym clothes, announcing to a man whose face got redder as I stood there, Mr. Lauer, we need a new class. We have to do something for students who aren’t allowed to play gym. The law requires it.

It’s hard to believe that I, barely over five feet three inches and straight out of college, made our southern gentleman principal tremble, but I was told years later that I did. How, I wondered? I was such a small thing, a nobody really and he, even before age thickened him, was a big man, the head of a school, a symbol of authority. Anyway, he never said a nasty word. In fact, he hardly said anything. He was so laid back, so passive, so retiring that he merely nodded when we passed him in the halls. All of us laughed about it behind his back, but to this day, we acknowledge that he headed a great school and deserved the credit for it. He hired a terrific staff and let it run; taking care of the other things, the unknown, unsaid things that make schools function well. So what if he did not look us in the eye and say a few casual words?

Lewis Lauer is retired now and his school, Sandyfield Junior High, the stand alone junior high in our five junior-senior high school district, is a decaying relic of the past. Still, old staffers never fail to acknowledge his effectiveness in creating an environment that worked well for children, parents and teachers. Hands down, his laissez-faire policy of hiring good people and letting them run was far superior to the blight of top-down management, its encroachment on the educational system, and its usurping of professionalism. How did it happen? How did top-down management, a system that didn’t work in the once mighty USSR and a system that industry found necessary to discard, wind up infiltrating education? I can’t tell you, but then, in 1967, when I spoke to Mr. Lauer about Christine’s physical education needs, he said, Oh, really? I thought he was surprised, not intimidated and that I was informative, not threatening. I’ll look into it, he promised.

Christine had been relegated to the sidelines, not by her doctor’s doing, but by the District’s. Similarly, eight other perfectly healthy boys and girls, kids with the misfortune of being born with only one of two eyes, or ears, or kidneys or testicles, were excluded from most of what we taught in gym. The District feared its liability. Anyway, I did not think it would be long until the adaptive class was authorized, but it was. Weeks went by without hearing anything. When I asked, Mr. Lauer said he spoke to Central and that it was being handled so I waited, but waiting was hard. Christine was like an alley cat who we caged. She and the others begged for the okay, while straining to do anything other than watch. Each day, their wait became mine. It seemed endless. Finally, after seeing that Mr. Lauer could not hasten Central’s clock, I told Christine’s mother, You know the District is bound by law to provide adapted physical education for kids with disabilities. Christine qualifies.

Really? Adapted gym? Christine’s been watching her twin sister and is so envious. An adapted class would be great.

Maybe if you tell Central that you know it’s required by law, that it’s your daughter’s right to participate, maybe you’ll be more effective than I’ve been and the program will be in place before she graduates.

Oh, the power of a parent! I still laugh about Commissioner Sobel’s 1990 promotion of community-based management. Parents always pulled their weight. Christine’s mom did in 1967. She went straight to the top and must have been harder to ignore than Mr. Lauer and me because, within a short time, she accomplished what we could not. Adapted gym began. So, too, did my reputation for being a wave maker.

Not long after, I took up another cause—equity. You see, until 1976, physical education was taught to girls by women and to boys by men, and no one could have said that the two camps were separate but equal. Men coached and were paid. The women coached and got emotional rewards.

It is hard to know why we accepted it that way, whether it was the times, our maternal instinct or an education that brainwashed us into thinking it was our duty, but there was consensus among female physical educators. Without benefit of money, we built after-school programs, wowed the girls, got them active and when the girls were ready for more, every woman in Phys Ed I knew gave it to them. We worked like crazy, scheduling games, buses, officials and sometimes even sewing uniforms and got more kids involved than ever. Without assistants, we fielded multiple teams, spending every free minute, and there were not many, on the phone to other schools saying, Hi, I have a large group of ninth grade field hockey players who need some games. Can we schedule two?

Sure. How about seventh and eighth grade?

Sorry, they do soccer.

What about volleyball? And so it went. I called until I found schools that could accommodate us. It got easier. I learned who played our sports at our grade level and which schools we enjoyed playing. If there was money, it was for buses and officials. If not, we asked high school leaders to officiate. If they couldn’t, I asked my leaders. If that didn’t work, we officiated ourselves, feeling it preferable to canceling the game. At first, the girls’ enthusiasm was reward enough. It had to be. There was nothing more. As for the girls, there were no athletic scholarships or professional teams to aspire to. Intrinsic reward had to be enough—for all of us. After-school pay amounted to little more than $1.50 a day, three days a week. To add insult to injury, despite our time, expertise and interscholastic events, we were only considered supervisors, not coaches.

That first year, I followed my co-worker, Midge’s lead. I stayed three afternoons a week and ran an intramural program, but as I got to know the girls, the hour seemed too short, so I stayed longer. The following fall, though enrolled in a demanding graduate program, I stayed daily. My stipend remained the same. It was something I accepted until economic reality struck a sour note. Then I totaled the hours I worked and figured my real hourly wage—twenty-five cents—and was horrified. Here I was, a permanently certified teacher, and I was making less per hour than a babysitter. Even they got fifty cents.

That reality hit many of us at the same time. At a women coaches’ meeting to set up rules, schedule games and arrange officials, we ended up discussing our conundrum—coaching without proper remuneration—and before long made our disparity with men a hot issue. In the end, the women chose the most outspoken of us to take up the quest for financial equity—Peggy and me.

Seeking fairness, not a fight, we went to our chairmen. When that went nowhere, we approached the men at Central whom we regarded as father figures, not bosses. Frankly, we had the feeling that they’d take care of our problem once they heard it. What an illusion! After months, with nothing changing but our patience, we realized that doing what the District learned to expect from us prevented us from getting our due. The straw that broke the camel’s back was our being given copies of the school budget and being asked to help get support for it so we didn’t go into austerity.

When I saw that $14,894 was set aside for boys’ athletics and $4,207 for girls, I was disgusted. After years of running a program that paid next to nothing, thinking that the women at the high school level were paid for coaching, I saw that there was no interscholastic budget for girls and no budgetary item for women coaches. There wasn’t even a provision for a girl’s sports program. It was mid November, 1972. I called our union president, Mr. Gold, who said, You allege inequity. I need proof. Get me the facts and I’ll go to the negotiating table with them.

So I researched the facts further and wrote a letter outlining the inequities. In a fait accompli, Mr. Gold won women a $150 increase to be shared in each school and signed a 3-year agreement committing us to more of the same.

Need I explain? With patience exhausted, it was an easy jump from our in-house efforts for equity to the Human Rights Commission. Our complaint led to a full investigation. Eventually our District was instructed to treat its female coaches equitably. That meant anteing up money for women. It did not mean doing anything for the girls … and they didn’t. That required federal legislation. Title IX would come in 3 years.

Chapter 2-choices and voices

I did not consciously think that girls should settle for second best. At least not until one of my best students told me she wanted to be a pilot. I remember looking her in the eye and saying, Only men fly planes. There was no anger. It was just an accepted fact. Where did that come from? Not my mother. She wanted me to be a lawyer but I never gave it a second thought, thinking only men went to law school. To her, teaching physical education was second best and a waste of my brain. But teaching was my calling and not a decision made by default.

I applauded Title IX legislation. It gave women more opportunity.

My interest in physical education came about slowly. First, I discarded a childhood idea of becoming a butcher—I didn’t have nearly the motivation for working a liver as Philip Roth’s Portnoy did—and focused on nursing. When I fled the room during Medic, I knew nursing wasn’t for me. By then, I was dragging my Bubby down 174 Street in the Bronx, to look longingly at P.S. 70. That five story elementary school with its gated windows looked more like prison than a school, but I could not wait to go. By the time I reached junior high, it was clear that I was going to teach, but what was the question.

Math was my first love. Mom made it an adventure while we waited for dad to finish his office hours on Saturday mornings, entertaining me and my sister with numbers, so that before we ever set foot in a school, we were adept at addition and subtraction. Years later, my eighth grade social studies teacher, Mrs. Eifler, made time charts and maps come to life, and I wanted to teach social studies. Then, my science teacher intrigued me and I was totally confused. It was 1961, when a co-counselor at camp suggested that I teach physical education. I think I laughed, but she was serious. She was impressed that I could do what our hunk of a swimming counselor could not. The fact was poor Wendy kept sinking no matter how much attention our handsome swim instructor gave her. Unable to stand their frustration, I jumped in the water, put my hand under her stomach and walked her down the crib. When I took my hand away, she kept going. Everyone congratulated me, though I never saw what was so special. Still, the incident was pivotal and put a bug in my ear. The clincher was becoming a high school leader. In tenth grade Phys Ed became my choice.

As for Sandyfield, it had been my dream school the minute my parents drove out to Great Eastern Mills, a shopper’s paradise in Nassau County, and I saw the building. Unlike schools in Queens which were surrounded by concrete this one had lawns, a glass entrance and a circular driveway. Mesmerized, I said, Wouldn’t it be funny if I taught there some day? Clearly by then, I’d forgotten an earlier proclamation that I was getting married at 18. My dad, a professional man, took that news in stride. Let’s see, he’d say, you’re 14 now. That means you have 4 years to go. Tell me, Liz. Have you picked out anyone yet? Each birthday, until I left for Cortland, my dad reminded me of the joke, saying So, you’re 15 now. Who’s the lucky guy? Got anyone yet? You better get cracking. You’ve got 3 years to catch him.

The years came and went. Off I went to the State University at Cortland, the number one school for Phys Ed in the state and hundreds of miles away. Before I knew it, I was a senior, checking job listings at the Placement Office and signing up for interviews at any school that was within commuting distance from my house. When I signed Tenowonda’s list , I had never heard of it. All I knew was it was near Queens County and in need of teachers. The sheet said nothing about Phys Ed, but I signed anyway, hoping for the best. Months later, the phone rang in my dorm and I heard, Can you get down here right away? Well, I wasn’t dressed, but someone was asking for an interview so I rushed.

In five minutes I was out the door, running down the hill in my best outfit—a plaid skirt, a black velvet vest and matching knee highs and loafers. When I got there, I was directed to a sunny room where a rather broad, tall, stalwart looking man stood gazing out the window. When he turned, all I could see were beautiful blue eyes lit by the sunlight pouring into the room. He reached out his hand and said, I’ve read your file while I was waiting. Your recommendations are glowing. You’re just the kind of person we’re looking for. You mention wanting to teach in a junior high. I think we’ve got the position for you. When I nodded, he went on, We’ve one junior high. Its principal is unusual. He’s not trying to climb the career ladder into high school like the others. Seems every time I give someone a job at in the junior high level, the first thing they want is to move up to the high school. I get the feeling no one wants to be in a junior high, he said, laughing. Your preference is junior high, right?

Yes, that’s the age group I love the most.

Well, this principal believes in his program. If you want junior high, I think you’ll be happy there. When can you meet him?

Does this mean I am hired? Don’t I have to sell myself? I’ll be home for Easter vacation, I answered.

Good. Let’s set up a meeting. Frankly, when I planned on coming up here, I didn’t have a PE opening. It’s a good thing you left your name.

I know. I didn’t see a listing but you had so many spots.

Someone’s going out on leave so there’ll be a position for you next year. If things work out, it will be permanent. She’s training to be a librarian. Chances are she’ll do that when her sabbatical is over. You should know that before making a commitment.

I ran back to the dorm on cloud nine. It didn’t register that the position might be short term, only that I had been offered my first teaching job. Weeks later, I drove out to meet with the principal, having no idea where I was going. Not until I pulled into its driveway and was at the school I dreamed of as a teenager did I realize that the junior high in Tenowonda’s district was Sandyfield Junior High, the sprawling school next to Great Eastern Mills.

With a job secured, I spent the summer touring Europe where I learned, among other things, that my mother was not the best cook in the world, that Europeans loved John F. Kennedy, that Continentals were more hospitable than

New Yorkers and that out of Cortland—a college with many more women than men—I had no trouble attracting male attention. It was overseas that my second dream came true. It was priced at $1774—a Triumph Spitfire, ordered from home and picked up in Coventry, England. Behind its wheel, I felt like Nancy Drew dashing around the countryside in her roadster. I loved the wind in my hair, the adventure of new places and the landscape. I loved everything, even the rainy days, the chill that never seemed to go away, the awful English food, and the driving directions that were nearly impossible to understand. What could I do but laugh when someone told me to go to the next fly over and take a left off the roundabout? With smiles, I struggled to find where I was going, drove on the left side of the road and survived my first fender bender before shipping my car home.

It was 1967 and nothing could tarnish the fact that I was a lucky girl, who loved life and couldn’t wait to begin her career in the place that she dreamed of as a girl. When I did, I wanted my girls to be as lucky as I was, and I did everything I knew to help them meet their dreams. So, despite the lack of money, I went ahead with the interscholastic program, forgetting minuses and dealing with the pluses.

When schools met for games there was excitement in the air. With few practices and fewer games, those early contests were just like scrimmages. I ran the sideline screaming out coaching so the kids could hear me as they played. I used the teachable moment in class, too. It never mattered: the staggering difference between groups, the number of kids, and the length of time I had with them or the difference in their skills. I ran the sidelines, five periods a day, five days a week and every afternoon, so that by Friday, I barely had a voice left. My efforts never seemed bizarre until we played a game against a new friend’s CYO team.

I met my friend when I began my graduate work at the Queens College School Psychology program. From the minute she claimed to teach math, art, history, gym and English and said, No, she would not participate in sensitivity training—she was completely gracious about it—I was curious. Most of us were uncomfortable with the touchy, feely stuff that was the rage of the day in psych circles, but we, budding school psychologists, did not have the nerve to speak up and sit out. So five minutes later, with our eyes closed, we walked the room, praying we wouldn’t be groped while she, all four feet ten inches of her, in a skirt that was long for the day, a high collared, starched white blouse adorned by a cross, sat and watched. Intrigued, I wandered over after class to find out how she handled all those subjects and learned that she coached junior high basketball too. Would you be interested in playing my school, I asked, thinking that a game against a CYO team would be exciting and, if nothing else, would be against a neighboring school.

Yes, she said, and arrived days later with her basketball team.

It was 1968. We played by the rules of the day, beginning with the customary six players around the jumper’s circle. The guards (two) played defense on half of the court and couldn’t shoot. The forwards (two) played offensive and could. The rovers (two) did both. Whatever the job, no girl could use more than two dribbles. The rules, rumored to have been written by men to protect us from our limitations, were as different from boys’ rules, as were the playing conditions. For our games and practices, we were relegated to one side of the gym where wall to wall boundaries forced substitutes, second teams, coaches, and parents on top of unopened bleachers, just to be out of the way. Anyway, with games underway, my friend sat quietly with her group while her players went into auto pilot. I, on the other side, bounced up and down screaming, Laura, you’re covered. Pass! Seconds later, Linda, get it to Emily. She’s open. Then, Shoot for heavens sake, shoot! It would not be a distortion to say that I screamed through the entire game, probably at the top of my lungs, while Suzan sat on the other side, demurely.

At halftime, in the same cordial tone she used on my professor, she asked, Elizabeth, can you possibly have a voice left? I did—for the moment anyway—but by game’s end, could not get over the look on her face. In short, she made me rethink my sideline antics.

There was never enough gym space, so we shared it, accepting that during boys’ games, we’d have to disappear. Game days, we played from 3:40—4:00 PM. Other days, we used our side unless we were accommodating a coach’s request. One day, the dividing wall opened while we were playing. Certain that there was some mistake, I went next door to let the coach know we were there.

Then get out, he said.

What do you mean get out? The girls aren’t ready to leave.

Get out means what it means. My guys have to take foul shots. I need the backboards.

Come on! I said. You have backboards on your own side.

Not enough.

The guys can take turns, just like we do. Anyway, why throw the girls out when they’re having so much fun?

I have things to do, that’s why. I need you and your girls out, pronto! Get it? I don’t want to be here all night. He spoke as if we weren’t friends, but we were, and I was fuming. Nevertheless, I stopped the girls and sent them to the locker room, thinking that later, when everyone was gone, he and I would talk this out. It was not to be. Fifteen minutes later, when the girls knocked on my door to say good night, the gym was empty. He had gone. Had he asked for the gym for fifteen minutes, things might have been different, but by throwing us out he drew my wrath and I drew a line in the sand. I would not give up the gym just to be nice. If it was a game day, that was one thing. The girls got minutes. The boys got hours. If not, the gym was ours until we were done.

As I learned to develop my own voice and modulate my use of it, I taught my girls to have one of their own. Responding to their wishes traced back to Mr. Lauer’s request for a Gym Show and the excitement it generated. You see, after the show was over, after the girls had practiced for hours to get their dance and gymnastic routines flawless, they begged, Please, please, Miss Feinman, can’t we do gymnastics after school?

Oh, I loved their enthusiasm! The trouble was I did not love gymnastics. I had a personal antipathy toward inversion and so was not particularly confident in gymnastics. But the kids wanted gymnastics and there was no one else to do it. I enrolled in a few clinics, bought a few books, analyzed the mechanics and stuck to the approach of Cortland’s visiting British instructor, Val Drake, writing her annually to make sure I was headed in the right direction.

In the process, I learned to love Educational Gymnastics. I loved initiating movement with ideas. I loved watching students explore their limits. I loved using themes—like spatial awareness—that gave them choice. I even loved the warm-ups which had kids going every which way—running and jumping—with infectious energy. When told to move, they took off in scattered directions, not sure where to go. If they cluttered up, I’d stop them, remind them about their space and get them going again. When I trusted they wouldn’t collide, I’d ask, While you run, jump and try to get small in the air. Eventually, we’d pull out the mats and focus on balancing in different small positions … it depended on the lesson … and the girls worked on their own mat finding balances on four parts of their body, then three, then two, then one. I’d walk around saying, again and again, find another way. After a while, we took time to watch what the others were doing. It gave the kids ideas of more things to try. Then, I’d ask them to make a routine by connecting three balances. They’d work; we’d watch; and they would work some more. The next time we met, we’d use the same theme on the apparatus. In this case, they would try to be small to get on, or be on, or get off. Val hadn’t broken up a lesson that way, but at Cortland we had an hour. At Sandyfield, we had thirty plus minutes so I compromised.

Anyway, the kids took to the British approach like kids to a playground. The gym was joyful. The kids worked hard, had wonderful results, became fitter, moved better, and developed a new pecking order. You see, the ones who were never thought of as athletes became the stars during gymnastics. Their confidence sky-rocketed. Yes, there was much to love about Educational Gymnastics. It was inventive, kept the class active, and gave everyone an appreciation for the art of movement. It also led to laughs.

When I think of my gum-chewing M & M’s, Marilyn and Madeline, I still double over. My M & M’s were eighth graders who frequently seemed on the other side of the straight and narrow. During soccer, volleyball, folk dance, and basketball, I never knew what to expect from them, but during gymnastics, they were different, especially when we worked in pairs. The class had been experimenting on taking each others weight before I asked the partners to combine three supporting balances by alternating who was on top and bottom. In a few minutes my gum-chewing, sometimes compliant, sometimes not, M & M’s asked, Ms. Feinman, isn’t this good? They showed me three balances, each with Marilyn on bottom.

Well, you’re off to a good start. You just have to switch who’s on bottom. Why don’t you work on it, I said and left to help some others.

Minutes later, I heard, Miss Feinman, Miss Feinman, look. I saw Marilyn come out from under Madeline until she was on her head.

That’s great, but it’s the floor that has your weight, not your partner.

But I like my headstand and want to do it, she said.

It’s perfectly wonderful. I don’t blame you. Can you see if you can find a way to do it so that Madeline is supporting you? I asked and left.

Miss Feinman, how’s it now? I returned to watch their transition from top to bottom and saw Madeline do a forward hip circle from the shoulder stand she had been in on Marilyn’s back. She finished her dismount under Marilyn and rolled onto her stomach. Then Marilyn curled up and moved behind Madeline, ending like a ball at Madeline’s feet. From there, she rolled onto Madeline’s ankles, down her legs, traveling as if Madeline’s legs were railroad tracks, only stopping when her head hit a fork in the road. From there, her head planted, she unraveled. Out came her feet, then her knees, then her legs. Finally, stretched and perfectly balanced, she was in her favorite position—a headstand—but this time she was upside down with her head comfortably on her buddy Madeline’s only cushion—her derriere. It was all I could do to keep a straight face.

That was my second year teaching. Though many years have passed since, whenever I think of my M and M’s, I cannot stop smiling. Not only were they original for their time, but they impressed me with their humor, cooperation and good will. For them, gymnastics marked a turning point. After it, my M and M’s were great students in gym.

Not all classes reacted as creatively as my M & M’s. Some were stuck on the formality of the equipment. We didn’t have the stuff the Brits used after World War II—abandoned ladders, tires, bars. We had the formal stuff—the horse, parallel bars, rings, Swedish box, unevens, horizontal bar, and balance beam—and each had defined expectations. To compensate, I combined the pieces and asked the kids to travel from one to the other. That encouraged exploration from all but my best and brightest. My other classes would fly as fast as I’d let them. If they had forty kids, I’d see forty different things. That was not so with my brightest. They believed that there was only one right way to get on and off the equipment and wanted to know what it was. Explore, I’d say. There is no right way. They didn’t believe me. To them, if it was comfortable, it could not be right. Get on small, I’d say, but they were paralyzed. Each would look to the other, hoping to find someone to imitate, someone with the A they thought I had in my mind. It was like pulling teeth to get them moving, and it got worse when I decorated the walls with dusty old gym charts. Immediately they glued themselves to the charts, not making a move without consulting them. With that, the creativity I hoped for went out the window, so it was back to the drawing board for me and into the garbage for the charts.

Then, after the first fully televised Olympics, my kids begged for a gymnastic team. That left me two choices, either say no or learn to coach it. I decided to learn. For a while, I even felt lucky to be ahead of them. Then I relaxed, realizing that those who were ahead of me would come from their clubs and teach me what they learned. I never stopped learning, gymnastics never stopped getting more difficult and the more advanced they got, the more girls wanted to learn them. They asked and I responded. In the end, I learned how to go home with a voice and taught my girls to have a voice of their own.

So, how could a flexible, caring, thoughtful, responsive teacher get into so much trouble?

Chapter 3-don’t make waves

Why is it that what is exemplary in students is negative in teachers?

When I was a student, thinking, asking questions, generating discussions and getting involved were rewarded. I was honored at graduation, received a Mayor’s award, was memorialized on a high school plaque, got tons of pins and certificates and had the respect of my teachers and classmates. I was a student officer, represented my school on radio, sat as a student member of a college committee, made the Dean’s list, earned a BSE and MSE, got seventy-five graduate credits in an intensive certification program and gained two certificates from the State Education Department, one as a physical educator, the other as a school psychologist and I did it with honors.

I did not change. What changed was the response.

Typically, when the day was over and the equipment put away, I was in my street clothes, driving the girls home before heading to Queens College. When it was my turn to bring in subjects so we could practice giving psychology tests, I asked my Leaders if they wanted to be guinea pigs. Six volunteered. That was too many for my Spitfire, so I borrowed the family Buick and piled them in.

Being squeezed in with a bunch of excited teenagers was great fun until they started sounding fearful. Some worried about not doing well and that their results would get back to me. Oh, I told them, no one was interested in their scores, that all we wanted was to practice giving the test, but I was upset. Their outing to a college campus was supposed to be an adventure, not a trip into self doubt.

After awhile, the girls stopped talking about failing and started asking each other questions they thought might be on the test. Their choices were funny and their reactions priceless, especially the one from the only seventh grader in the car, who remarked, I hope they don’t ask when Christopher Columbus discovered America.

Everyone laughed. Then the girl next to her, I think it was Barbara, said, Come on, Jenna, you know that. It was 1492.

I know, but for some reason I get mixed up, Jenna said.

Grinning from ear to ear, I drove knowing that that was the first question they’d hear and imagining their reaction. I was glad they were back to their old selves—laughing and kidding around—and hoped it would last. It didn’t. By the time I parked the car, their tone had changed and when we walked in the building, they had no hint of the athletic swagger that characterized them. Did I feel guilty!

An hour and a half later, we reunited. I couldn’t wait to hear what Jenna had to say about Columbus. I figured it would something like, Wow, I’m sure glad we discussed that in the car. It wasn’t. She came out looking furious. I knew it! I just knew someone would ask me that question, she said all four feet five inches of her. Accusingly, she went on, I told you I didn’t want them to ask me when Columbus discovered America, but they did anyway. Why did you let them?

What are you so upset about? Barbara asked. We told you 1492.

I know, Jenna said, but I forgot.

That was the last time I involved students in my graduate work. In fact, I rarely spoke about it after that. That is not to mean that I did not use what I learned and did not expect the District to support me in my efforts toward completion of the program.

Certainly my psych training helped answer some nagging questions, like why a ninth grader who seemed heads and shoulders above her peers in judgment and ability to translate instructions into action, tested marginally in reading and math. It helped me understand why another was unable to write an intelligible sentence though she spoke well. It helped explain why a ninth grade boy could not tell time, and why he constantly got in trouble with his academic teachers though he was athletically gifted, a fantastic leader, a great team captain, and polite and responsible in my arena. And, it almost turned me into a zealot, convincing me of the value of using what kids loved—being physical—to encourage their thinking. I believed we should exercise body and mind and did what I could to integrate both. My students read the blackboard, followed diagrams, learned how the laws of physics affected their performance, translated instructions into deeds, created, executed team strategies, and took written quizzes. If I could help improve reading, writing, thinking and communication, if I could raise self-confidence in a fun-filled environment while promoting fitness, I was happy. Mine was not a new goal. It was the Greek ideal, an ideal drilled into us at Cortland.

And yes, as a budding psychologist, I was concerned with how the District implemented Special Ed legislation while trying to achieve cost savings by bringing back our classified students. I watched when their teaching-assistant brought them to the gym and saw behaviors I had never seen, a boy scaling the wall, another disappearing under mats and into crevices and another causing squabbles every few minutes. That was three. There were five more, each with differing needs and manifestations and they were alone with a single teaching-assistant. It was wrong. It violated education law. It violated the teaching—assistant’s rights. It was not a proper remedy. Doing, once again, what I thought was right, I lobbied the District to hire a Special Ed Physical Education teacher, one trained to deal with disturbed children, one who could travel to each building and deal with special populations. I reminded the District that teaching assistants could not legally teach Physical Education. Nothing changed. It took a union grievance to resolve the matter.

Liz, don’t you realize the boss breaks out in a cold sweat whenever he sees you coming? a friend told me. I laughed, wondering why? We worked well together. I liked my bosses, respected their pragmatism and could not see the harm, at least not until I applied for a sabbatical to complete my School Psych program. By that time I had spent 7 years teaching, coaching and going to grad school at night. I fit in everything—except a life—even fieldwork at Creedmoor, a mental health hospital, Lexington School for the Deaf, and the Bayside Center for Learning Disabilities. All that stood between me and my certification was a full-time internship. I applied for a sabbatical, never once doubting the merits of my request. I was permanently certified, had sixty graduate credits and needed to finish.

To this day, I am unsure whether the Superintendent was giving me a compliment or hinting at an excuse when he asked at our meeting, Why would we want you to be a psychologist when you’re such a fine Phys Ed teacher?

I’ve been in this program for 7 years and need to finish.

We have a number of applicants this year. Why choose you?

I never said that he should because I worked harder than the others, or that I gave the community more than they paid for, and deserved something in return. I never said that I deserved it because I’d been working on my education all along, and that education was what sabbaticals were meant for. All I said was I’ve been enrolled in a 6-year program and have already taken an extension so I could time my internship with a sabbatical. I have no more courses to take."

Would you consider waiting and applying again next year?

I can’t take another extension.

Would you consider doing your internship in the district?

It would be a waste, don’t you think? This is my chance to learn something new. I’ll be a stronger professional if I learn what’s being done elsewhere.

Well, it’s only for 6 months.

That’s all I need. Then I’ll be back.

The sabbatical was denied. In shock, I appealed to the Board of Education and was denied again. I decided to take a leave without pay, and the whole time I was finishing up, questioned why the fathers at Central denied me when I had done so much for their girls. Why refuse someone who worked hard for their kids? Why reward teachers who never gave a minute after school and who hadn’t begun to make an inroad on required graduate work? Was this my comeuppance for making waves? Was I being told, ‘Stay in your place, don’t give information we don’t want, and don’t expect administrative action when administrators don’t want to take it?’

My qualifications as a school psychologist went unused by the District. I slid back into Physical Education, almost forgetting about it until Elaine, a former pupil, called me at home. It was 1992, 17 years since finishing my second certification and 22 years since Elaine had been at Sandyfield, when I heard her on the phone saying,I need your help.

How can I help?

Right now I need a psychologist and I don’t know any. Then I remembered that you were training to be one.

I opened my home to her, heard her story, and begged her for weeks, Please, go for help. I’ll find someone good. I promise. But Elaine did not want just anyone. In the end, she was consistent. In her memory, she reacted to advice in her life and death matter as she did to my coaching at Sandyfield. She did not want to hear it. Elaine, who did things her own way and on her own terms, would not settle. Unable to accept the person she had become, she gave up and left us all … in tears.

Looking back, it is ironic that what is valued in many venues led to my professional abyss. Speaking my mind, being consistent, ethical, persistent, pragmatic, curious, and emotionally stable was who I was as a student, teacher, and union rep. Those characteristics, along with my willingness to say no when no was hard to say, was what attracted Libby Flower, the second President of the Tenowonda Federation of Teachers (TFT) to invite me to become its Grievance Chair. Those traits served the union and my students well.

If not for students, the grown ones, the one who moved on in the sixties, seventies, eighties and yes, the ones still looking to make it in the world, after what happened to me, I would not be confident. It was their thanks, their visits and their need to tell me that their time with me made a difference that got me through those final years in the Tenowonda School District. If not for them, their memories and willingness to share them, if not for their letters and cards, if not for my memories of our time together, I would not have survived the onslaught of the negative, hurtful, damaging messages Tenowonda’s administrators began sending me after I made the biggest wave of all. As a union leader, I signed an Affidavit of Appeal to the state Commissioner of Education accusing my District of ignoring the Commissioner’s Regulations by giving some of its teachers an excessive student load.

Not surprisingly, a pattern of harassment began shortly thereafter, when, in November, 1993, my principal, Dick Cross, and my new chairperson, Glenda O’Leary, insisted, in one meeting after another, that no student of mine had a positive feeling about being in my class.

Well, it was my students, the old and the new, who kept the Cross-O’Leary day-to-day put downs and relentless criticism in perspective. If not for my students, the administration’s coordinated assault and continuing vendetta would have withered my confidence and prevented me from wondering, with such conviction now, how I could ever be called too dangerous to teach.

Chapter 4-professional

A professional

An expert, authority, specialist, veteran

experienced, learned, masterful, proficient

The impetus for the Appeal began in 1985, when a quiet, humble, easy going staff of thirty men and women teaching five thousand plus students, turned into irate professionals, incensed at the message given us at our first-ever District Staff Development Day. Until then, divide and conquer had kept us quiet, but that day, we were gathered for the first time. After Mickey Polo, the District Coordinator of Health, Driver Ed, Physical Education and Athletics, piled us into a classroom and showed us two videos about negligence and liability in physical education, we let him have it. The videos showing a well managed gymnastics class of twenty responsible students, made us so irate, when the lights went on, we were ready to tear his head off and we did, vocally.

How dare you ‘develop’ us with something so elementary? one said.

Yeah, the group yelled. Comments from every seat followed.

You pull us in here for a seminar on negligence and safety and show us a film on gymnastics with twenty kids in a class. How could you, when we’ve been begging for smaller classes for years?

Yeah, teach us how to deal with fifty kids, not twenty.

Gymnastics yet … imagine teaching fifty kids gymnastics safely?

You can’t even be sure it’s safe in regular sports, much less gymnastics.

Steaming from the simplicity of the morning session—decorating potatoes and making like they were kids who talked—we were livid. The video had absolutely nothing to do with the reality of our day. In fact, it reinforced everything we as professionals had lobbied for, for years. To a man, we felt like the fall guys for administrated negligence. With anger mounting, we looked for a target and there was no better one than our leader, Mickey Polo.

Mickey stood, front and center, as if he were a voodoo doll being stuck with pins. It was hard to feel sorry for him. He heard these arguments, from each of us, one at a time, and had managed us easily. But this was different. This, our first Staff Development day, gave us an unusual opportunity. We were together. We could get consensus, build up steam and vent. And, we did. Com’on you guys, Mickey said. Don’t use numbers as an excuse. You can teach a lot. You should see what Elizabeth does with her classes.

He should know. He was at Sandyfield, so was my colleague first, and then my chairman long afterwards. The thing was, he never said anything like that to me before, so being held as a standard came as quite a surprise. Never did anyone suggest that I had been doing anything out of the ordinary. Still, though Mickey’s reference to me felt wonderful, it did nothing to mollify our concerns about crowded classes. We just had too many kids. Within minutes we were back to discussing class size and getting angrier. Unable to proceed, Mickey said, You think you’ve got it bad now, wait. Next year they’re combining grade levels.

With that, everyone was jumping from their seats, dying to get in a few words, yelling from all over the room, What? How could they implement that kind of change without consulting us?

How can they ignore us? Shouldn’t they check with the professionals?

Don’t they know there are real issues here? Has anyone thought of the little girl who finds herself in a class with large, fast, strong, aggressive boys a grade older? We bombarded him, demanding that he promise to do something to stop the change.

Mickey, our District Coordinator, did not promise us anything nor could he assuage our anger. He was not empowered. Despite his title, he had no influence on issues that affected the bottom line. When it came to money, the budget ruled supreme. But the meeting planted the seeds that led to the Appeal. Sure, it was not filed until six years later, but it was at that meeting that Maddy, a Phys Ed teacher and union building rep from another district building, said, Elizabeth, why don’t you write up something stating our opinion. I heard you at union meetings. I’ve read your grievances. You sound and read as clear as a bell. You’ll do a great job. Write a petition. We’ll sign it. And that started everything.

November 15, 1985

TO THE GUARDIANS OF GOOD EDUCATION

Discussion generated by issues raised during the April, 1985 Staff Development Day made it clear to all participants that the physical educators of the Tenowonda High School District are unanimous in their viewpoint and frustration and have chosen to speak to the problems raised, as a group, hoping that the collective voice will institute much needed change.

We, the undersigned, believe that our goal of providing a SAFE, INSTRUCTIVE ENVIRONMENT, which will ENHANCE PHYSICAL FITNESS within the classroom, cannot be achieved in the present environment. We cite the following problems that can lead to LIABILTY problems, or the alternative, the failure to provide reasonable participation for the students enrolled in our classes.

1. The ratio of student to teacher (50-1) is too high.

2. Commissioner Regulation 135.4 directs that class size be compatible with the activity being taught, yet, our District, without regard to available facilities, the safety needs involved, or the subject matter, have a uniform class size of 50.

3. Coeducational classes are frequently scheduled with severe imbalances, no provision for locker-room supervision, and in disregard of the psycho-social needs of the age group and the nature of the activity.

4. District Curriculum is heavily weighted toward competitive team sports which ignores the nation-wide call for the teaching of lifetime activities and is in disregard of the interests of the non-competitive student. These activities are frequently impossible to safely supervise in such large groups.

5. Each building suffers a variety of its own problems: i.e., there is mixing of age groups within the same class; the nurse is not always on duty throughout the school day; the physical plant is not conducive to the scheduling needs of the students, a well-planned program and necessary student-teacher access to communication outside the confines of a scheduled class.

Having addressed these problems, we call on you to help. Please provide us with the opportunity to implement changes so that we might provide our students with a safe, instructive environment that will enhance their physical fitness.

Every physical educator in the District, except the chairmen, signed the petition. It was sent to the Board, raised a few eyebrows and resulted in an invitation to be heard. Not wanting to confuse the issue—it was professional, not labor—Ellie Headman, a Phys Ed teacher from Tenowonda HS represented us. Not long after, without any ado, the District merged grades levels anyway.

The momentum was lost and didn’t return until my trip—inspired by a bunch of my complaining senior girls—to a professional conference. My girls wanted aerobics the way Ellie Headman, my co-workering female PE teacher at Tenowona did them—on mats—but I was teaching aerobic-dance. Unused to complaining, I felt the need for fresh ideas and/or affirmation, so paid my way to a Health, Physical Education, Recreation and Dance Convention where I ran into a District retiree, Mark, a big-wig in the state association. Mark had been retired for years but was still incensed about our class size. You know, he said, it’s unheard of anywhere else in the state. You should fight it.

How? I asked, all ears.

There’s a Commissioner Regulation that no teacher should have more than 150 students a day. You’re well over that. I say sue the bastards.

Sue them?

Yeah, get the union to sue them. Base it on Commissioner Regs.

It wasn’t easy getting the ball rolling. First, I had to convince Libby to take a legal action and then Libby had to convince the NYNEA attorneys. While we were working at it, word leaked out. Libby Flower, TFT’s president and I, were asked to attend an off-the-record meeting with Jim Corey, the chairman of my department who played several roles. He taught PE at Tenowonda and shared a District level job with Jake Saldo.

We met in Libby’s closet of an office. Her desk, a mess, was cluttered with piles of papers and folders, a dirty coffee mug and a phone. Old notes were everywhere. The window sill next to it was stacked with books, old files and more papers. The union’s newspaper, UPDATE and a variety of memos hung haphazardly on the walls. There were two chairs that barely fit, one at her desk and one for a visitor. We needed a third, so I slipped into the cafeteria to get one and somehow squeezed it in.

I knew what the meeting was about before Jim stated his case and was sure that nothing he could say would change my mind. The image of my class of fifty haunted me. I never stopped seeing the dangerous lack of space, the frustrated students and the bodies covering every inch of floor space. I never stopped agonizing over my inability to give each student the attention he or she needed. With a mere 30 minutes on the gym floor, I did not even have 1 minute with each. So, no, I didn’t think I’d back down.

Is it true you’re going to sue the District? he asked. Because, if you are, I’m concerned. In fact, Jake and I are both concerned. We think you should reconsider. We’re afraid your plan might backfire.

Meaning what? Libby asked sternly.

The way things are going with this new superintendent, we wouldn’t put it past him to react by stacking every class with fifty students.

So what! There are almost fifty in every class now. Given what we hear, that’s the way it’s going anyhow.

Well, we shouldn’t give him more reason. Think what it means. If he programs every class for fifty, we’ll need fewer classes and fewer staff. Can you imagine how many people he’ll can? Don’t think he won’t. It’s the only reason I asked to speak to you. I don’t want to see it happen and I don’t think you do either. Libby did not say a word. I know this man. I know his type. I’m afraid if this guy gets angry, there’ll be no going back. He’s liable to take everyone down with him just to get back at us. I was a bit surprised at how vindictive Jim thought our Superintendent, Stanley Silverstone, was and listened for Libby’s reaction. Give her a fight and she would not hesitate to come out of her corner but, a loss of jobs? That