43 year old Ed from Rochester decided in 04 to leave his cushy executive job at a non-profit (assisting brillant kids from disadvantaged backgrounds attend prep schools and then the Ivy, leading to future leaders) to teach at a smaller, "theme' based school on Manhattan's lower east side (think Alphabet City), this school is based on International Relations. After 2 years of grad school, Ed starts the 06/07 year teaching 9th graders History and oh, what a group of 9th graders! You've got your gang members, drama queens, foster child with a heart of gold, illegal savant, tough asses, lover boys, etc! Ed realizes he is over his head and spends a year in the mess that is room 314 just trying to survive. Incompetent administration (in my opinion, I was Godsmacked), violence, investigations galore, a trailer in a Bronx parking lot serving as a suspension break, Six Flags Great Adventure, a field trip to a synagogue, and more profanity than you can shake a stick at. Will Ed make it through? How will the kids relate (or, um...not relate to Ed?), what will become of these so called "monsters" in the future? I read the entire book in less than a day.
My wheelhouse as a teacher of 21 years...everything from 1 year olds in 2002, in a rundown, out of compliance daycare that kept the heat off to save dimes, to a ritzy, affluent public school in one of the richest school districts in the state. I also taught, for ten extraordinarily rough years, in a large residential facility that had clients afflicted with Proteus syndrome (John Merrick), Fragile X, Prader Willi syndrome, Pitt Hopkins, Edwards Syndrome, Angelman syndrome, etc. There were also kids at the school from the inner cities of the east coast who were at the facility as their literal "get out of jail free card", taking bricks to the school windows and putting teachers in the hospital. I taught a wiley class of 8 teens with autism, downs syndrome, cerebral palsy, etc. I also had 8 staff, at times, in my room...often early twenty year olds from the inner city of Philadelphia...Tioga, Kensington, Germantown...
To say it was a culture shock for this admittedly privileged, young woman from a river bordered suburb of artist colonies and neighbors who headed Campbell Soap and Tyco Toys, was an understatement. I grew up on a farm back when the county was rural, only to watch it's startling growth which started in the mid 80s and still continues to amaze and disgust me. I attended admittedly, exclusive private colleges (one a granola, hippy college in the midwest of 400 students that held classes on American communes with 3 other students and had me rolling down a summer green hill with my awesome Brooklyn bred professor at the Zor Community, and joining drum circles in the Arthur and Sarah Jane Lithgow ampitheater, named after the revered former drama team. The other, a relatively plush oasis on the insanely bucolic Eastern Shore of Maryland, home to one of the finest Creative Writing programs, and sailing days.
Teaching at the latter school was a war. A personal war for ten years of (as cliched as it sounds!) finding myself and gathering a tough, pebbled outer shell on what was once a raw, throbbing, pink, exposed nerve. "You're the teacher is going to be stenciled on my tombstone" I'd tell family as I battled both children from the Dominican who had never been in school, threw clunky 90s eras computers at me, toothpaste tubes were used as makeshift guns, had my braids pulled on the daily, dealt with the impossible NYC School District, as well as DC and Philadelphia and states like NJ, MD, and CA. Slapped, smacked, strangled, jumped, bit, chased, hair pulled out by the handful, the tender under tissue of my arm yanked and twisted, leaving an impressive bruise, literally every color of the rainbow. Few preps, no lunch break, and summers worked straight through. Mounds of IEPS, Re-evaluation Reports, behavior plans, lesson plans that would return marked in red, mentoring younger teachers, dealing with cell phone addicted staff that were wont to sleep after grueling double shifts. And being utterly responsible for it all.
It's my fault that i subjected myself to trauma for ten years, but there had to be joy, right? Right?! The feeling of "getting through" had become addictive to me. The rare smiles from staff who despised me as we got the kids ready for bed back in 2014, back when I took on extra hours after teaching in the units. Staying until 11 pm, plying the kids'hair with coconutty pink lotion and listening to John Legand, a blizzard covering my tiny Mazda outside. The play I wrote in 2012 and the kids performed with enthusiasm and vigor, all of us huddling in each others arms after news broke about Sandy Hook. The true friends I made, happy hours and weddings and get to together at houses. Working with a neglected young man whoes progress was so stunning, that today I think about it and have to pinch myself. The warm hugs from students, making connections, and finding common ground far more frequently than I'd ever imagined.
I left, like Ed, but after ten years. Do i wish I left earlier? I'm a stronger believer in fate (had too many occurrences in these 48 years that reek of serendipity, too many...) so for some reason that perhaps I don't even know of yet(yet!) It takes a lot to work with kids who come from backgrounds that a lot of people have a difficult time wrapping their heads around. It's constant behavior management, which apparently Ed never received. As well as pulling from your "bag of tricks" and practicing patience, the rolling of things off the back, and having an organized, legitimate, easy and quick to administer safety plan in case of a crises of harm to self and others. Looking at things objectively and not trying to dig into the underlayers of what they're saying about *you*, and forming honest relationships. Interest in your students...genuine interest, which perhaps is a boon to me. I've always been interested in anything the kids were up to...the hair, the rap, the diction. Sharing stories. Pairing and avoiding the "smothering" in the early stages, every time Ed groveled to a kid who so very tentatively reached out, I lol. Make them work for THAT kind of praise. Know that for as many bad things that happen, you'll have just as many good. I certainly did and working there profoundly changed my view of the world, particularly the world of race relations, urban life, and just the inconveniences of life that would once drive me to tears and overthinking. I'm much stronger.
I did rather enjoy the book, admittedly SMDH through many parts, and feeling an odd mix of sympathy, disbelief, righteousness, and sadness. I'm very interested in reading other teaching memoirs and looking for recs.