Bronx Teacher Opus, Vol. 3

Ah, the DreadTrain. The sunrise sleigh to the nether Bronx. Watch your heroes at their least glamorous and most heroic. This is where they find the will to wake and forage ahead to that classroom of both mayhem and miracle. It is a wonder. Your Bronson is choking back tears. Find out why...


Wednesday, January 26

My eyes are open when the alarm bleats at 5:43. An ambulance glides by on the street three floors below and the darkness makes the lights bright through the fraying curtains. I don't even hear it. I'm untangling my legs from the sheets, thoughts beginning: I really haven't planned and it's Wednesday so I start with a double period of Balanced Literacy, then writing, then a double period of Math, and then Social Studies before Lunch. I sit up and wipe the hair out my eyes and sigh. Six straight periods with those kids. I inhale and reach at the repeating sound. But that means only one period after lunch, Extended Day Test Prep, before After School until fucking 4:30. Goddamn, why can't I have two preps a day like the middle school teachers? Yea, but they get all the coverages. Shit, what if I get a coverage today? If that happens I don't think I could make it through. The brown towel is over my shoulder and I trip, stumbling over books and dirty clothes. The last time I took a day off I slept until 3. I was good the whole week. But, there is a responsibility that looms, though, and I fear the disappointment on the other end of the phone from Mr. Martin, a good man, and he's probably there already. The shower is sudden and beating becoming a steady drone. I forgot to put the coffee on, so I take my hand from under the warming water and run it through my hair. I do something to the coffeemachine without thinking and it starts hocking. I've only taken two days so far; I could take another. But that poor sub. The kids have to finish that Darwin lab anyway, which I need for the bulletin board next week. They'll work hard on it. It'll be easy. Just get through math. Amerigo has it worse. I stick my head under the showerhead and watch my hair fall wet, uneven and thick, below my line of sight, the water cascading down. I'm out of bed... By tonight, it'll be 48 hours until the weekend. The water turns cold and is turned off. Shivering and toweling, bending to look at myself in the unfogged bottom of the mirror, I begin to watch the clock.

My reflection is blurry as I tighten my tie wondering whether Nyquil causes hangovers or if I really slept at all. My weeklong beard itches and I scratch it like Italian fuck offs and decide to shave it into a mustache (or at least a pirate beard) by the weekend and begin to hate myself for anticipating and feel my face turn to a wince. The toaster hiccups poptarts and I take a long swill off my black coffee, splashing the rest atop dirty sink dishes. I juggle the hot poptarts onto a small plate from the cupboard. As I sit down in front of the 2crew with Shon Gables and Dave Price's effervescence just occupying my attention, the front door grunts and is pushed open by Bobby wearing seersucker pants and aviator shades. I don't look at him.

"Hey?"

"Um."

He speaks on fastforward: "I just came from this guy's place, Roman, the boyfriend of this smoking hot bartender at Play. That black one, who models, who I told you about. Anyway, he's this Ultimate Fighter. He showed me these brass knuckles and get this, he has this fucking arsenal of..." I look at the clock and the hands say I have five minutes before I have to leave. The New York subway usually comes ontime at 6:19 I put my plate somewhere and walk to my room and pull out my chalkdust-covered sportcoat, the hanger wobbling. i remember my hat, then bend down frantic, running my hands over the floor and under the bed, anxious at the time, maybe panicking, and gasp to find it, of all places, still in my coat pocket. I dip my shoulders and paw my hair back with one hand while angling the knit hat on with the other, thinking there is a much easier way to do that, still hurrying. The scenario of missing the train: arriving with only fifteen minutes instead of thirty to plan, to clean the board, to write the lessons. to prepare the reward charts. I could do it, but I would be rushing and wouldn't get the lessons straight in my head before the kids came in all rowdy. I would botch my explanations, my rhythm and the kids would know I was unprepared. What if Ms. Daley were to walk in then? God, six straight periods of that... Bobby is pulling tip money from his coat pockets, piling ones, and my focus moves to the top of the fridge where there is a congregation of plastic gators aimed at a Jack Daniels bottle from all sides.

"Hey, man. Can I finish this?"

"What? Yea. Yea." I look back at my room; I never turned on the light.

"Your poptarts?"

I try to say yes.

My foot is placed on the couch armwrest and I twirl and pull my snowboot laces. I look at the clock. My boot bottoms are still wet, but it's only a futon (one I didn't pay for), so I hoist the other boot and lace, tie, pull my backpack off the ground, move my hat away from my fake diamond earrings while strapping the bookbag, heavy with textbooks and ungraded papers, over my shoulder and tighting the strap. My jacket puffs around the tightness and I squirm to get comfortable as I debate with myself to say goodbye. I say it to myself and the door creeks and I cross a threshold and the hallways are small. I think of how, when I move out, we will get my cases of records and Bobby's big bed the fuck out of here.
The darkness is low. Buildings are brightening in the halflight. The 24 hour CVS on the corner isn't open yet and Monday's snow has become unbeautiful with dirt and sand, refreezing over the shoveled paths. My boots slide with it and I tiptoe along maintaining balance, finally breathing. A truck lulls by and the lights change and I hear traffic. I turn the corner, noticed I forgot to think about school, see the downstairs entrance and reach for my wallet. My boots are loud against the sand on the stairs and the station floor has puddles extending out from the stairwells into the semi-calm dryness of pre-rushhour. I slide my metrocard, jam the card back into another space in my wallet, and see Amerigo, wet head, waiting on the platform below.

I notice him place his coffee on the payphone as I lean my head towards the tunnel to see if I see two brightening lights. He unwraps the tinfoil of his bagel, takes out a quarter and shakes the melted butter onto the platform before greasing his lips with the first bite. I notice a faint blonde mustache and think I hate him.

I confess: "I almost pulled the trigger today?"

"Me too. I think I'm going to pull it on Monday?"

"Yea?"

"Yea. Michelle's parents are coming in this weekend."

"Nice. Are you gonna keep the mustache?"

"This is ten days. This is all I got. I don't know I might just show up like this. Really make a great first dirtball impression"

"I almost cut mine into a pirate beard."

"Nice. But save that for the bender"

Another teacher, blonde ponytail, reads a thick book down the platform. She looks up at us and then back down.

"Did you plan?"

"Yea, I guess. I was up all night. You?"

"Yea. After school. I think I was up all night too. I mean, I planned After School, but I still didn't sleep."

"Dude we should just go to Costa Rica and just surf. Just ditch."

"Yea, I'll quit if you quit. Seriously"

The train became heard and there was a breeze.

"The only reason I'm still doing this is to honor my lease agreement."

"Ha."

Amerigo exchanges his coffee for his bagel on the payphone and shoves the cup to my chest. It tastes gooey with milk and sugar He pulls hard on both his backpack straps and looks at me for sampling without permission. I put the cup in his open hand. The train is slatting by and exhales to a stop.. .The doors open, bing-boo. Amerigo double fists his breakfast onto the train and I follow. The blondegirl curls around the post and settles against the back corner as Amerigo turns left and away pausing to get my attention and gestures with his coffee towards an old man whom we both saw take a deep pull of cheap liquor and then replace the bottle in his duffel bag with a library book. He smirks, and I laugh with a nod.

Once seated, I spread my legs and put my backpack between them and unzip to find my war novel. As I peel off my hat, some hair rises, charged with static so I shake my head, which makes it worse, and then brush the hair from my eyes. The doors have closed and the voiceover lady's call "next stop 103rd Street" makes passenger's eyes open. The lights are bright, phony. Amerigo is fingering through his open bookbag, kicks over his coffee "Oh shit" and ignores its spreading gray underneath the seats. I look up and around at the disparate zonked riders to see if they noticed, but I notice them, teachers and construction workers both, moving away from Downtown to help fix a shunned borough. I feel no solidarity but am grateful for the quiet.

I kid: "Nice dude."

"Whaaaat?"

I think of the Burrito Deli, but don't mention it. Amerigo moves his Teacher's Edish and Gradebook to his lap, balances everything, and lifts his headphones from his neck to his ears.
"How can you listen to music?"

"What?" He reaches in his pocket and thumb wars his IPod.

"The music would remind me of this, this boatman trip to the Bronx. Everytime I listen to it again, I be reminded of this."

"Oh. I listen to the Bends. It perfect. 56 minutes, the last song ends when I walk into school"

"I just can't." I regret talking and wish the morning would just weigh on me.

"What should I plan?"

"I don't know. What's the subject?"

"Mitosis"

We hush, wanting to keep the quiet on the train.
"Shit. Just go by the lesson in the margin."

"It says to have a tribunal over current event issues relating to abortion. There's no fucking way."

"It says to do that? Make a graphic organizer and have them fill it out."

After opening my war novel and removing my 5 train bookmark, I show him I'm waiting to read.

"Amerigo insists: Like what? I seriously need help man."

"Just get a sheet of paper, fold it into quarters and have them draw and label the four stages of mitosis. First, do a minilesson on why people say , ' you have your mother's eyes, but your father's nose.' that shit. Read aloud together from the book. Have them do the pictures in groups, and then write a paragraph summary independently. Present. You're done."

"So what's the aim? How do you define mitosis? What is mitosis?"

"Shit, dude. Whatever."

"..and the objective: students will be able to indentify or understand mitosis...Shit, I can't do this. Delroy will fucking get up and bother kids, man."

"So call in. When we get off at 125th take the train back. I'll come with."

"I can't man. I'm going to just keep showing up until they tell me not to come back."

"Which they won't, because you're the positive male rolemodel Delroy needs."

"Yea." I read the first sentence on my page and then read it again hearing the lady, now loudly, ".. stop 125th Street"
"Make a decision."
I read the sentence again and it flows into this violence. The characters are scared. Amerigo is scribbling on dogeared pages and post-it notes. People are dying. The subway cruises into an open station. Stationary people shoot by flickering in the windows. I put a thumb in the page and rise toward the door, my boots marking the floor with coffee stains. "Come on, man." Amerigo battles gravity with his arms full and meets the onrush of new passengers which I have already threaded and moved to the next platform. As Amerigo catches up, I watch the transferring passengers careen their heads down the tunnel and sigh and he nudges me to notice the blonde standing and reading: symmetry from 96th street.There is a bodega between platforms and I pivot to stare at its sidewall of magazines: glossy posing with blunts, in bikinis, with guns, with a basketball, for the paparazzi; the glass covering reflects a dull silhouette. People begin to be alert and there is a humming crescendo. A 4 train decelerates into the station. People mush together at the edges of the opening doors. Amerigo steps back and I stand with him. Passengers swarm out then in as I rejoin the firefight in the pages. Around us, everyone is funneling up the stairs while we stand still, hearing the 4 shuffle away to the Bronx, impatient for the fucking 5. "Dude...dude.."

I feel arms around my leg and look down at braids and pink barrettes. "Get the fuck over here, Raja. What did I say? I'm so sorry." "Nono" The little girl takes her mother's hand and is given candy and looks up, then is dragged by her muttering mother past the stairwell and away.

Amerigo: "Jesus, how old is that kid?"

"Three. Four. Five. Young. I don't know."

"Do you think we missed the first 5?"

"Maybe, the next one comes in like ten minutes right?"

"Fifteen, usually."

"Fuck,man. That's like those phone calls home, 'I don't know what else to do with him Mr. Irish. What do you think I should do?' I'm fucking 24 years old. I don't have a family I don't know how to raise your kid."

"Just give them candy."

The mood lingers. There are moments of brotherhood at war. The main character is confused and hesitant. The war unfurls itself in my mind, sentence by sentence. The text is gone. I feel the station move away from me. I look up from the book. The five train must be in Brooklyn, and my mind revs elsewhere, going over the sequences of my six lessons: the hook, the minilesson, the group work project, the independent work, the assessment, the phrasing, the questions, the necessary materials, and the next minilesson, the group work project, the right time hand back those quizzes, the agenda for the sixth grade meeting, my lesson for AfterSchool with no workbooks, how I will speak to Diamond when she first starts to act out, what I will tell Israel so he knows I'm serious even though I said I was going to call his parents last night but forgot, the new groups for guided reading, the student of the week prize, how to get copies of that math worksheet today (beg the secretaries), if they won't do I have time to write the problems on chart paper? Do I have a dark marker left? the group prize winner should get a pizza party, the need for positive reinforcement, the need to plan great lessons, the need to be consistent, the need to relate and be funny, the need to get there first...The propulsive thinking stops when I remember thinking all this last night.
I try again to read but see Amerigo standing with his mouth closed and his jaw askew. He must have put the books back into his bag; either he figured it out or has given up. Behind us, a downtown 5 train blasts and rattles in. The boarding passengers are dressed nicely, some in suits. I don't think about getting on, but I feel, somehow, that I am in limbo.