Suburban Renewal (26 page)

1998

E
ducationEnvironments.com was coming along very well. As the technology got better, I was able to look at more classrooms online and make observations. I began doing a weekly column, for want of a better term, on whatever I happened to be thinking about. What a luxury! To be able to just spout out whatever observations I had on teaching and find an immediate outlet for them. Other teachers were responding with their own take on things, and early that year I began a new feature on the site called The Front of the Class: Teachers Speak Out. Initially, I expected it to be about the classroom-design issues, but it quickly broke out of those parameters into a spectrum of opinion on everything from discipline and school violence to teachers who “don't dress nice.”

One thing that began to stand out to me was the growing chasm between classroom teachers and school administration. It was as if there was some great paradigm shift that had occurred in American education. School boards and administrators had begun to see teachers and parents as different constituencies and decided that their best interests lay in siding with parents. Teachers were left hanging. They faced the
day in their classrooms knowing that if anything went wrong,
anything,
from Johnny not learning to read to Janey having a potty accident, the teacher was going to be held at fault. And nobody in the principal's office was going to back her up.

“It's hard to concentrate on the correct placement of the science nook,” one participant wrote sarcastically, “when I've got to keep my eye on the kid who sharpens his plastic ruler into a stabbing weapon.”

“These days the schools are run by education executives in business suits,” another complained. “It's been so long since they've been in a classroom, they haven't a clue what goes on there.”

“This is a teaching job? I thought my principal hired me as a prison guard!”

The open forum with its venting and controversy brought more and more teachers to the site. Unfortunately, it also brought administrators and school board members and the lawyers and lobbyists representing every side.

My first hint that this was not going to be good for me was when the flood of new clients began to drop off. I wasn't worried. School funding is cyclical and I thought maybe second-semester money was tight. I got my wake-up call when overnight my advertisers dropped me, one even threatening me with a lawsuit if their logo was not taken down from my site immediately.

“Apparently, I've stepped on too many toes,” I told Sam and Nate one morning at the breakfast table.

My husband was sympathetic.

“I thought talking things out was supposed to be a good thing,” I complained. “This country was built on
free speech. Now the educational establishment is virtually endorsing censorship.”

“Take 'em to court, Mom,” Nate told me. “That's what everybody does when they get their rights trampled.”

“I can't do that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Well, because they really haven't stopped me from talking,” I explained. “They've just stopped me from making money and talking at the same time.”

Nate just looked at me for a minute and then asked, “What do you need money for, Mom? Aren't we still selling tamales?”

“Sure we are,” I answered.

“Then you don't need anybody else's cash,” he said.

“Well, yes, that's true,” I admitted. “But everybody wants to be rewarded for what they do.”

“Monetary rewards are not the only rewards,” Sam pointed out. “Nate's right. You got into this to help teachers help students. You can still do that.”

“Yeah, I guess I could.”

“You've got the luxury to do what you want and not
have
to get a paycheck for it,” he said.

“But I've always made money,” I argued. “And this business should make money. Think of all that venture capital that people have been trying to throw at it.”

“I'm always a capitalist,” Sam told me as he sliced a banana into his oatmeal. “But sometimes giveaways can be great promotion. Think of all the underfunded school districts that can't even pay for textbooks, let alone any classroom design, no matter how inexpensive you make it.”

What he was saying made sense.

“I've been looking at this as a setback and I need to
view it as an opportunity,” I said. “I need to retrench, get back to my basics and do what I do best.”

Sam and Nate looked at each other. Nate raised a hand and Sam slapped it in a high-five salute.

“What is that about?”

“Oh, you've been whining around here for a week,” Sam said. “Nate and I just decided that we would give you a little push to get back to the onward-and-upward trail.”

“You're so easy, Mom,” Nate told me.

“You guys were manipulating me?”

“We're only pushing you in the direction you want to go,” Sam assured me.

I playfully stuck my tongue out at him. But a few weeks later I was called upon to do my own share of urging people I loved in the direction I thought they should go.

I was home on spring break. Following my new mandate, I was voluntarily working up a design for a New Jersey public school. The photos I got of the room looked like the film sets for
Blackboard Jungle.
I took on both the challenge of making the room “learning positive” and doing it with virtually no money.

Lauren was still at Baylor. Most of the colleges had scheduled their break for the following week, so I was trying to get my work done, freeing myself for a full week of laughing, shopping and talking with my daughter.

Nate had started working with some new imported woods and had taken Sam's truck to a lumberyard in Sapulpa. Sam had, in turn, borrowed my car, so I was going to be blissfully alone in a quiet house all morning.

My new armoire/desk that Nate had made for me
was wonderful. I'd located it in the corner of the family room where it could be closed up and out of sight when I wasn't working. And it put me in front of the backyard views from the deck windows when I was.

I was deep into my work when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up to see Jin Chai walking toward Nate's workshop. When she saw the place was locked up she turned and walked to the house. I'd just risen to my feet when she reached the back door.

I expected her to knock and I was ready to walk over, open it and greet her. To my amazement, without even a tap on the glass, she jerked open the French doors. Apparently not seeing me in the family room, she hollered toward the kitchen.

“Damn it, Nate! Are you in there?”

I was momentarily taken aback, but having raised two children, I was not unaccustomed to rowdiness and loud voices.

“He's gone to pick up some lumber,” I answered.

Jin's expression was strictly deer-in-the-headlights.

“Mrs. Braydon, I…I didn't know you were here…I thought you'd be at work. I didn't see your car. I thought Nate…I'll come back later.”

“No, no, come on in, Jin,” I said.

The young woman had always impressed me as being cool as a cucumber and totally in control of every situation she encountered. Today, however, she seemed anxious, jittery. I assumed that she and Nate remained friends, although I could never remember seeing them together in public. I was sure her parents probably still didn't approve. That undoubtedly explained her nervousness at being around me. I wanted her to feel at home. I wished that she and Nate were
still dating. I couldn't say that to her face. It would be like saying, “I'm right, your parents are wrong.” But I thought by being open, friendly, welcoming, she'd get the message.

“Come in and let me make you some tea,” I said. “I've got some new herbal stuff that I got in Tulsa at Wild Oats Community Market. It's fabulous.”

Jin looked like she wanted to refuse, but she didn't.

She followed me into the kitchen and made herself at home at our breakfast nook.

“Nate built that,” I told her, indicating the wainscoted benching and the half-moon table.

“I know,” she answered. Her tone was so sorrowful and sad, I turned to give her another look. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine and I couldn't read the expression on her face. I decided to be upbeat.

“So, how's school?” I asked, falling back on the requisite grown-up-to-student question. “Hye Won tells me that you're majoring in chemistry. Are you going to go into pharmacology, too?”

Jin shrugged. “Maybe drug research,” she answered. “I don't want to be tied down to a pharmacy counter all my life.”

I nodded. “Drug research is certainly important,” I said. “And a growing field.”

“Uh-huh.”

The conversation was dying. I tried again.

“You're home for spring break already?” I said. “Lauren gets hers next week.”

“Me, too,” she said. “I came home early.”

“Jin, is something wrong?” I didn't really need to ask. I knew there had to be a reason for this bright, sunny young woman to be sad and monosyllabic.
“You can talk to me,” I assured her. “Tell me what's wrong?”

She didn't answer immediately, and when she did, she was defensive.

“I need to talk to Nate, that's all.”

Her hands were folded in front of her on the table. I don't know what caused me to reach out to her, but I did. She jerked back, but I held her hand gently, but firmly, in my own.

“If you can talk to Nate about it,” I said, “you can talk to me. Something is terribly wrong, I can tell. You've got to tell someone. Nate's not here, tell me.”

She looked at me then, directly, her eyes locked with my eyes. She was so young and so pretty and so sad.

“Tell me,” I urged.

“I'm pregnant,” she said.

Strangely, the admission came as a total surprise. I'm sure my expression must have been incredulous. I was sure I hadn't heard her correctly.

“You're pregnant?”

She wasn't looking at me anymore, she was looking down at our hands, still entwined across the table.

“Who's—” I began, but I knew the answer before the question got out of my mouth. “It's Nate's.”

She nodded ever so slightly, ever so stalwartly. Her face was a mask of calm, but one tiny tear escaped her eye and trailed down her cheek.

“Everything will be all right,” I assured her, rather lamely. I felt as if the roof had fallen in on me. “It will all be fine. This kind of thing happens all the time.”

“It doesn't happen to me,” she said with a choke, struggling against her emotions before dissolving into tears.

Her breakdown snapped me into action. I was the
adult here. I was the one who had to keep a perspective.

I scooted around the bench seat until I was beside her. I put my arm around her shoulders and allowed her to cry.

“Only stupid girls get pregnant,” she snapped angrily. “I'm stupid, stupid, stupid!”

“Shh, honey, that's not true,” I whispered.

“I've been on birth control for years,” she said. “I've always been careful. Always. But I was away at school and it didn't seem important. I thought I wasn't going to need it. And then when I came home at Christmas we started up again. I started back on the pills right away.” She shook her head regretfully. “I guess it wasn't soon enough.”

I listened to her tears, her anger, her self-reproach, and I remembered my own. It had been so very long ago. But it felt like only yesterday.

She began to gain control, but she was sniffling. I couldn't get up to get her a tissue. I thought if I let her go, she might run away. I handed her a pile of paper napkins and she blew her nose.

“I don't suppose your parents know,” I said.

“No, absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head. “They can't ever know. You've got to promise you won't tell them.”

“Jin, they'll have to find out eventually,” I said. “If you got pregnant at Christmas, you'll be showing in a couple of months.”

She turned to glare at me.

“I'm not having a baby!” she said. “I can't have a baby.”

Momentarily I was puzzled.

“I came to get Nate to go with me,” Jin explained.
“I'm going to go see a doctor, get an appointment for an abortion.”

“Oh.” I must have pulled away from her. I don't remember doing it, but now my hands were over my mouth.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Braydon,” she said. “I can't have a baby. I have a scholarship. I'm halfway to my degree. I want graduate school and a career. I can't have a baby, not now.”

“I see.”

“No, you don't,” Jin said. “You can't understand what it's like. For my parents, Korean parents, their children's achievement is everything to them. They gave up their home, their friends, their family, their careers, everything that was familiar and that they held dear, to come to America and be laborers. They live their lives here, where they will always be outsiders and always suspect. They did that so that my brothers and sister and I would have a brighter future. If I don't finish school, if I don't do something with my life, it's a slap in the face to them. It's like saying their sacrifice meant nothing to me.”

“They will understand,” I assured her. “Parents, all parents, they understand. Yes, they'll be disappointed, but when they see this baby, their first grandchild, they'll feel differently.”

Jin shook her head. “They'll feel differently, all right,” she said, sarcastically. “Their first grandchild and he's only half Korean. That will go over real well.”

I shook my head. “It's hard to dislike a baby, any baby. Especially one that's your own flesh and blood.”

“They don't like Nate at all,” she said. “I think they must hate him. Every time his name even comes up, my father gets angry and my mother has something
mean to say about him. They forbade me to date him years ago. I told them I wouldn't. I've just kept lying to them.”