Signs of Life (35 page)

this
morning on my way to work I am listening to Mojo and Spike, two radio deejays, talk about how today, September 2, is the first day of school for every public school kid in the state of Michigan and they are sad for those kids because nobody likes school. They rail about how no teenager can possibly enjoy this day.

First of all, it should be noted that Mojo and Spike are radio hosts on a popular FM station, so it seems like part of their job is to say things that are so outrageous and inaccurate that I just can’t change the channel because I am so appalled.
I really should be listening to Detroit Public Radio
, I tell myself. I’d be embarrassed if anyone at school, students or co-workers, knew I
checked in on Mojo and Spike every now and then. But sometimes it’s impossible to turn them off.

On Thursday mornings, for example, they do this thing called War of the Roses. They have girlfriends, or even wives sometimes, call in and nominate their boyfriends or husbands who they suspect are cheating. Then Mojo and Spike have one of the women at their station call the alleged cheater and tell him he’s just won a free bouquet of flowers from Flowers Forever or something, and he can send one dozen roses to whomever he chooses. So, for example, Lynette calls Mojo because she suspects Ed, her live-in boyfriend, is cheating. Lynette stays on the line, and the woman from the radio station calls Ed. She pitches him this line about some contest he entered online, and usually the guy is surprised and says what anyone would say (“I never win anything!”). Finally, once she knows he’s in, she says, “All right, Ed, so who would you like to send these flowers to?” And then, you wait. All you can think is,
Please say Lynette, please say Lynette …
Ed thinks for a second and the whole time his girlfriend, Lynette, is right there listening. Ed takes a deep breath and says, “Um, I’d like to send them to Renee.” I hit my forehead on the steering wheel. My heart stops every time. I so badly want to turn it off because I feel so horrible for Lynette. It’s like when I watch
American Idol
, and some of those kids cry because they actually thought they were good singers and Simon just likened them to bad cruise-ship karaoke or said something like “You
can’t
be serious.”

So then fake Flowers Forever woman says to Ed (in this real serious voice), “Ed, you’re actually on Mojo in the Morning War of the Roses. We have Lynette on the line. Lynette, what would you like to say to Ed?” Just like that. They switch it up on the guy so fast, he can hardly keep afloat. Of course, you can imagine, tears and swear words follow. “Who’s Renee, you cheap
bastard? When was the last time you slept with
her
?” It’s brutal. I don’t even know why I listen to it. It’s so sad and depressing. You’d think once in a while the guy would just play it safe or maybe he really wasn’t cheating at all, but no, he’s guilty every time. I’m sure they record innocent ones, but they probably never play them on the air. Nobody wants to hear the ones that end nicely. It’s like casting for a reality television show. Nobody wants the stable, even-keeled people. For whatever reason, the emotionally volatile are always more intriguing. War of the Roses is the same thing. Everybody wants to know about the bad ones.

One time Mojo and Spike were giving away passes to see Justin Timberlake rehearse before his big show in Detroit. In order to win, they held a contest called “Tattoo Your Grandma.” You had to get your grandma to get a tattoo and you got the tickets. And, no, it didn’t count if your grandma already
had
a tattoo. You had to bring your grandma into the studio and have her get a tattoo right there. How can the BBC World News compete with something like “Tattoo Your Grandma”?

That’s the kind of garbage on this radio show. And now, this morning, they are going on and on about school and how much kids hate it. I desperately want to call in and yell at Mojo and Spike and tell them that they are wrong, but then I would have to publicly acknowledge that I listen to them, which I can’t do. I work in a public high school, and although I’ve only been there for three years, I still feel like I’ve got some street cred—more than Mojo and Spike at least. I know, despite what any teenager or moronic radio deejay says, kids love going back to school.

This morning I walk through Berkley High School and here is what I see: a lot of girls running up to each other and screaming, “
OH MY GOD
! I missed you so much! You look so cute.
Oh
my
God, who do you have for math? Do you have Wayman?
Please
tell me you have Wayman …”

Students wave to teachers they had last year. “Mrs. Taylor! I’m in your third-hour!” Liz Adary yells from her locker. “Yes!” I do the arm-pump thing.

They love it here. Their friends are here. The opposite sex is here. People expect something out of them here, which for a handful of students may be different from what happens at home.

I love being here again. I love setting up my classroom, getting my class rosters, and thinking about all the things I’ll do differently this year. I think for both teachers and students, there is a certain amount of relief in that no matter how bad last year was, we get to try again this year with somewhat of a clean slate. Few jobs seem to have this type of annual renewal.

During my second-block class, all of my new eleventh-grade students are chatting as I pass out the syllabus. A skinny, short boy walks in the room and looks around awkwardly. I can tell without even asking him that he is a ninth-grader and he is completely lost. He looks very scared, like he just walked in on a meth lab. “Um …” he stutters, and looks around the room for a teacher. He is visibly shaking.

“Hi there, can I help you?” He pieces together that he thinks he should be in this room—“I thought … my algebra class …”—and hands me his schedule. I look at his crumpled half sheet of paper. He is in fact a ninth-grader and has no idea how to read his schedule, which, to his credit, is more difficult than it needs to be. I tell him where to go and not to worry, that he won’t be marked late. He bumbles back toward the door.

“It’s okay, man!” one of my students shouts as he walks out the door. “Happens to the best of us!” I give her a look that asks why she is shouting across the room. She shrugs. “Sorry.” I have no idea how they come into this school being insecure and
self-conscious, and by eleventh grade they think they are smarter than everyone in the world.

I had a large number of these eleventh-grade students when they were freshmen. I think about how the last time I saw them in desks, I was married to Josh. He died on Sunday, June 17, two days after these kids ended their freshman year. I know I shouldn’t be mulling over these facts on a day like the first day of school, but I can’t help it anymore. I have learned to let things wander in and eventually they wander out.

I direct the students to their seats and ask them to take out a pen or pencil. There is some shuffling and chatting as I walk around the room. Then I hear a voice say, “Um, Mrs. Taylor, do you have a pencil I could borrow?” I look up. I don’t know this kid. You may think that I would be shocked at the idea that some eleventh-grade student did not bring a pen or pencil on the first day of school, but I’m not. This happens every single year. Even today, after second period, it will happen again.

“What’s your name?”

“Eric Heller.”

“Eric, do you show up to track practice without your running shoes?” I pause for a second. I have my hand on my hips and my eyebrows are furrowed. “Do you show up to work without your uniform? Do you show up for a Red Wings game without your tickets?” I throw four more syllabi on the table at the back of the room. I’m still facing Eric. “No. You don’t. So why would you show up to English class on the
first day of school
with no pencil?” Eric kind of does this shrug like I’m the one asking the stupid question and could I please just give him a pencil. I ask the class if anyone has an extra pencil that Eric could borrow. Some girl at the table behind him, who probably has thirty pencils, hands him one.

Teaching is this funny thing where some days you feel really
inspired and grateful that this is your job. You feel like you are lucky because you get to be a part of a very important experience. You watch kids grow and change and learn. Then there are other days when a sixteen-year-old asks you for a pencil on the first day of class, and you really believe that they are paying absolutely no attention to you at all.

I think about calling Eric’s mom after class, just for the hell of it. I’d explain to her that right now, American schools are on the bottom of every single academic totem pole in the world. China, Japan, India, Russia are all crushing us in math, reading, and writing. There are a million studies that try to explain why this is and a million different philosophies as to what teachers need to do to close the gap.

“Do you know what you can do to help this cause, Mrs. Heller? You can do your best to make sure that your son leaves the house in the morning
without
his head up his ass. You could start with giving him a pencil … That’s right. Let’s just start with a pencil.” I would explain that the twenty-first century is a cutthroat place to be and ever since Sputnik, American educators have been doing their best to catch up. “But, Mrs. Heller, we can’t do it without your help. We’re not asking for much. But I think a writing implement would at least get us started in the right direction.”

At the end of the class period, I have students fill out a short survey. It asks questions about what they read over the summer, how they learn best, and some random questions like “Identify one major character from literature that you can relate to.” Question number fifteen asks, “Have you changed since the ninth grade? If so, how?”

During lunch, I flip through their surveys. I am most interested in the question about their transformations that may or may not have happened during their tenth-grade year. In response to
question number fifteen, Delaney Rob writes, “OMG I hope so.” Charlie Moore writes, “Sorry if I was a jerk in your class in ninth grade. I’m better now.” Blake Forman writes, “Yes. I am more handsome, funnier, and I can grow a beard.” What a year for Blake Forman. He wins for best answer to question number fifteen.

This year, instead of starting with
The Great Gatsby
, we start with
Macbeth
and
No Exit
. It’s just as well as far as I’m concerned.
Gatsby
would not have felt the same this year as it did last year. I think starting the year off with Jean-Paul Sartre is a great idea. Every text we read after
No Exit
will challenge Sartre’s idea of free will.

At the end of the year, instead of reading
The Color Purple
, we’ll read
Fences
, a play by August Wilson. In
Fences
, Troy Maxson is a middle-aged African American man living in the year 1957. The audience learns that Troy was an amazing baseball player, but when he was in his prime, black men could only play in the Negro League. Now Troy is a garbage man. His son, Cory, desperately wants to pursue football and Cory tells his dad that college scouts are interested, but Troy tells Cory he has to quit football and get a job at the A&P. Because of Troy’s experiences as an African American athlete, he believes that Cory doesn’t stand a chance in following his football dream, no matter how good he is. Because Cory is black in America, he does not have access to such dreams, or so his father believes. The play is amazing, and makes the reader think about where people come from and how much our ancestors have to do with our destinies.

The interesting part about starting with Sartre is that we can continue to use him throughout the entire year. What would Jean-Paul Sartre say to Troy Maxson? What would Troy Maxson say back?

Of course, all of these issues are ones that we ultimately contemplate in terms of our own lives. How free are we? What kind of power do we have in life? And if we don’t have power over our own lives, then who does? What do our actions say about our identity? The hope is that all of these ideas can collide, and students can be exposed to all different ways to look at the world.

On the second day of school, my English class brainstorms our classroom rules. I have them talk about it in small groups first, and then we meet as a big group. We do this so they can think about and understand why it’s necessary to have rules like “One person talks at a time” or “Make sure you participate.” We do a lot of small-group and large-group discussions in this class. I like to take half a period at the beginning of the year and talk about what we need from each other and what they need from me in order to make those conversations successful.

“Be respectful,” Sean Hay says. I ask what the word
respect
means. We say it all the time, but what does it look like or sound like? Melanie Ritman raises her hand.

“I don’t think you need to be respectful. I just think you need to be polite. You don’t have to respect everyone’s ideas, but you do need to have manners.” I am a little caught off guard by her shrewdness, but I don’t disagree with her comment.

We go over each group’s list. Sam Stafford, the girl who shouted at the ninth-grader yesterday, holds up her sheet. Under classroom procedures and expectations she wrote, “Play Kanye West softly in the background during group work.”
Maybe starting with existentialism is setting the bar too high
, I think to myself.

•  •  •

My single moms’ group officially ended in May. The Beaumont volunteers, Janet and Heidi, were only to be with us for six
months. They explained to us that we could carry on the group on our own if we wanted. Of course, all of us were interested. Over the summer we did a really good job of holding the group together on our own. I had everyone over to my house a few times. But once we stopped meeting one another at the church, things just felt weird. Instead of meeting in a neutral space, everyone in the group had to expose a little more about their lives in these strange, unintentional ways. They would come over and look at my house and I could tell they felt a little awkward about it.