Friday, March 10, 1995
Today, before I went about my task of going over the 4/4H research papers, I dropped by the library. Just another opportunity to avoid work and make a small human connection with an adult on campus. Mary was putting the new sign on the old "media room" when I came in. The media room had been where she used to store all the old media equipment. During the past year, however, our principal decided in her infinite wisdom that it would be better if the room was turned into a "professional room," a workspace for teachers, a kind of technical room where teachers could create multimedia projects, or work on computers to build lessons (never mind that we don’t have the computer workstations to do this). Our fearless leader simply told Mary to remake the room in this new image, one that would impress the WASC visitation committee.
That had been before winter break, during which I put together a wish-list for Mary to submit. She knew I was interested in such things and that I could create an appropriate list of necessary machines and software. I did. Much of it wasn’t approved, but at least the principal now knew that the Library/Media Center was serious about bringing technology to the teachers. If you don’t count the blinds to create privacy in the room (which arrived a month ago), the first addition for the room arrived today: the sign--"Professional Room: Teachers ONLY". Yes, we now have a sign. And Mary was putting it on the door when I came in. Of course there was a problem: the old sign ("Media Room") wasn’t coming off the door without leaving chunks of adhesive still clinging ugly to the door. So Mary was putting the new sign just beneath the old one. It looked very professional.
Right.
Anyway...
As I asked her how the end of her week had been, she started recounting today’s visit to the library by a new member of the school district’s board of trustees. No, not the guy arrested outside a local bar a month ago on suspicion of attempted murder (this is no lie, though he was released because of conflicting testimony... of course, wags on campus, I included, started wondering if we should start putting our "no weapons allowed" posters in bars now). No, not him. The other guy. While the work experience teacher was impressed by the new trustee--"Looks like we might finally have a winner on the board... he actually said, ‘Each school has different needs.’"--Mary was less than blown away.
The new board member had told her that he "hadn’t been in a library in years" after asking if this was, in fact, the room’s function. That’s the way to instill confidence. Our fearless leader, who was taking the trustee around on the tour, pointed out the new, but signless, Professional Room and told him that this room was going to be the area in which great new innovations would be hatched, and that a certain teacher on campus--insert my name here--was an "expert in interactive video."
What a crock. I can use laserdiscs, I can BarCode them, I can teach students to do that and to create HyperStudio stacks that incorporate text, graphics, and segments from laserdiscs. If that’s interactive video, then I know some. But a real "expert"? Hardly. "Interactive Video" is a catch phrase she heard another principal using, and now she wants to be on the bandwagon... just as some of the other principals in the district are demanding that their media centers be connected with the Internet. They all want to surf the ‘net without knowing what’s out there (which is why one of those principals now wants to be disconnected, since he has learned what immoral matter can be accessed). Oh, brother. Needless to say, Mary and I had a humorless laugh over that one--over that one and the fact that with ten days to WASC, no new equipment has been placed in this "professional room."
I helped her position the new sign on the door. "A little up on the right side..." She made an adjustment. "Good." She began to press it onto the door. "Oh, no. It’s--" I watched her body tense. It was too late: the sign was attached. She jumped back to look at it.
"Hell. It’s straight." She did a slow turn to look at me, to find me smiling. "Funny." She looked haggard. Unamused.
We talked for a bit, going over weekend plans, and I queried her on what Lisa and I needed to bring to her annual St. Patrick Day’s bash next week. Later, yawning, she bemoaned the fact that she didn’t think that the next two days would be enough rest, having spent extra time here every day this week, either reloading software into media center student computers, working at Open House, or working on WASC focus group evidence boxes. But she nodded her head at me and said, "But I bet you’ll be working on stuff, too, right?"
"Not even. I’m avoiding the Hammer. That’s why I’m not in my class right now. Harder to hit a moving target." I smiled, almost proud of myself.
"Too late." Mary cast a look beyond me, over my shoulder. I turned to follow her gaze.
Aimee Hamm, folders in hand, wry grin on her face, was walking across the semi-deserted library toward us. "Got those notebook cover page roughs for you, Bill."
I smiled my most fake, shit-eating grin. "Gee, thanks, hon. But I didn’t get you anything."
She scratched the side of her face, just outside her right eye with her middle finger, the other fingers retracted in a fist. And she smiled back, handing me the sheaves of yellow legal pad.
We shot the shit for a few minutes, and Mary launched into a wonderful story of trying to get Open House attendance numbers from the front office. She had talked to Bubba Gump, whom she has now christened Dumb and Dumber (while I hate to have my creation of a moniker topped, I do have to admit that she’s much closer to the mark than I). In the midst of her story, she was called away to help a student out, leaving Aimee and me to discuss her delineation of who was Dumb and who was Dumber; Mary refers to Bubba as Dumb and Gump as Dumber. Both Aimee and I found this to be a flawed assessment: Bubba is much dumber than Dumb. We mentioned this to Mary as she returned; she concurred then went on with her tale.
She had gone into the office Thursday to gather evidence for the Support focus group box. She thought some discussion of parental attendance of Open House might be of some benefit to the visiting committee. She first questioned our fearless leader, who sent her to Dumb(er). So she questioned BubbaDumber. He wasn’t sure. But he was willing to think out loud on this one.
"Well, it’s funny. I never knew how many people the gym holds. But on Tuesday night, when I was walking around, I saw the capacity sign. It says twenty-one hundred. So I’d say we had about eleven hundred."
Mary had been incredulous. "What?"
"Well, the gym looked about half full to me. And half of twenty-one hundred is eleven hundred."
At this moment, Aimee and I were looking at each other and smiling. The imperfect math aside, this incredibly high estimate could call for only one response: yahright.
Mary cut us off. "I told him that there was no way in hell that there were a thousand parents in there. So Dumber scurried off, left me in his office for a moment. And I could hear him talking next door to (Gump)Dumb. I could hear Dumb tell him that his estimate was around two hundred and fifty parents. Dumber tried to convince Dumb of his estimate, and the two settled on five hundred. So that’s the administrative estimate of attendance. Five hundred."
Aimee and I stared blankly at Mary. That’s still a little high. But Mary only smiled a perverse grin and shrugged.
"So I told him to write up an evidence cover sheet and put it in the box. I’ve done my job."
And on that note, I knew it was time to do mine. So I headed back to my class to work on the 4/4H research papers. In the midst of them, at four o’clock, just when I was realizing that there was no way I was going to finish them before heading home for the weekend, Aimee came by.
Her arms were full of papers and in her hands were her car keys; she was obviously on her way out and home. She looked depressed.
"What’s up?" I asked.
She set her stuff down on a student desk and leaned against it. "I just learned that Mary isn’t running for leadership team." Her head, shaking from side to side, dipped to look at the floor.
uh-oh. The Leadership Team is the elected group of teachers, counselors, administration, and support personnel that will lead the campus into the reforms outlined in the WASC report’s Action Plan. Two weeks ago, ballots went out to every staff member to nominate members for this team (which would be comprised of seven teachers, one counselor or librarian, one from the support staff, one from the administration, with an additional member, a parent, to be elected from the PTSA). Last week, the staff members who were nominated were notified and were given a private opportunity to accept the nomination; they could either state that they accepted the nomination, decline the nomination, or by not returning the nominating sheet decline silently. So it seems, Mary declined the nomination.
Here’s where the problem comes in. I never turned in my nomination sheet. So I declined silently. Last week was the week from hell. Last week, I left this campus saying, "Fuck it, I’m outta here." Last week, the last thing I wanted to do was tie myself to this school for another year. The problem was/is that if Aimee is this bummed that Mary isn’t running...
But I had to come clean. "Well, Aimee. Neither am I."
She snapped to look at me. Her face was unbelieving, like say-this-is-a-really-bad-april-fools-joke-three-weeks-early-please-say-it-SAY-IT.
I shrugged. "I can understand where she’s comin’ from. She’s burned out on this. Except for you, nobody’s worked harder on this than her--she. She’s had it with WASC, Aimee."
"And what about you?"
"I’m not sure I’m gonna be around next year." I had run into Aimee last Wednesday, after the Academic Detention on the SubDay from Hell. I had told her how frustrated I was, even--in confidence--that I was going to a job interview that night. She should understand.
"Are you transferring?" And I suddenly saw fear cross her face. Nicole had been her best friend on campus last year, and last spring Nicole had transferred to Academy.
"No. I’m not sure I’ll be teaching." Her head bowed again. "Look. It wouldn’t be fair for me to say in June, July, or August, ‘Hey, guys. I’m not going to be there in September...find yourself a new guy.’" Both Aimee and I knew that Leadership Team members would be going through some intense in-servicing during the summer to prepare them for the task ahead. Her head bobbed a little. "If I knew that, on June 16, I was gonna love my job, be absolutely sure I’d be back in September, I’d have run for the Team. But that’s not the case."
"You know, even I was thinking of not running. I’m burned out on this, too, Bill. But how would it look if the WASC chair suddenly said, ‘Sorry, guys, but I don’t believe in the process enough to be a part of it’? It’d look like shit. I couldn’t do that. But now I’m afraid I’m going to be alone in this."
"Who else is running?"
And we went over names. Some very good people. Other focus group chairs. Solid reform-minded people. But not Mary. And not me.
"Fuck, Bill. We need you."
"Well, that’s not going to happen, my friend." I tried my best Paul Reiser. Not a response. "Look, a few years ago, when I wanted to leave PeeVee, I put myself in a position where I felt obligated to stay an extra year. And I really got bit on the ass that year. I hated feeling that way. I’m not the kind of guy who can abandon ship, just bail, when he’s got responsibilities. And let’s face facts: If I run, I’ll be elected. So I’m avoiding responsibilities now, so that if I need to make a move, I’ll feel at ease to do so. I can’t let myself get bit on the ass again."
"I understand that..." she let it hang in the air, let it fade, as she picked up her stuff.
She headed out the door, and I followed. Outside, she said, "Well, this has been uplifting..."
I hate moments like that. I get very honest. I say things that I usually want to keep inside, safe. "Look, Aimee, the bottom line is this. It’s fucked the ballots had to be in last Friday. You know what a fucked week that was for me. If it had been today, things might... naw, would have been different. This has been a great week for me. Period two is starting to come together, I hope. I’ve been enjoying teaching again. I had a student come back, tell me how great I am, lifted my spirits. This week has been good. I’d have accepted the nomination this week. But last week...
"Let me tell you this: I can do just as much, maybe even more, from the cluster groups. Grass roots stuff. You know I’ll support you through the process. I’ll be your foot soldier. I can carry out the plans out in the trenches. I can influence in the field."
"That does nothing for me right now."
I tried.
She started to walk off. "I hope you feel like shit tonight, Walters."
"I’ll cry all the way home."
She looked over her shoulder. "Lucky for you, it’s a short ride. See ya on Monday." I couldn’t tell if she was smiling.
"Have a good one." It sounded hollow. I meant it. But it sounded weak. And for the first time I felt like I was jumping ship.
No, I had to stand firm. I was doing what was right for me. I can’t live my life for the school anymore. I have my own life to live. I’m doing the right thing.
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