There is a process with which students are placed into the Honors program. I helped devise it in my third year of teaching, my second with the 2H’s at PeeVee. Before, any parent who wanted his child in the Honors program could push that change through... students had the notorious "right to fail" and the infamous right to slow down the other students in the class. But now we have a process in which students are recommended then tested before being admitted into the Honors strand. It doesn’t work perfectly, but it works.
Until some idiot counselor comes along and tries to countermand it.
In the winter of my fourth year at PeeVee, a counselor, Harold Zwick (Zwick the Dick he was called by students and teachers alike), sent a young lady into my last-period Shakespeare class with a note to inform me that he had put a new student (the bearer of the note) into my English 2 Honors class. I asked the girl a few questions and learned that she did not have an Honors English class at the school she last attended (just last week, across the country). This fact coupled with two others--those being my 37 students in the class presently AND the fact that she had not gone through the screening process--made my decision easy.
I wrote on the back of the transfer slip that I wouldn’t--make that couldn’t--accept the student into the class because of the two "other" reasons (the class cap[acity] and the process); I stapled the note shut and sent her back to the Dick.
He came in person to barge into my class to tell me that I would accept the student into my class. He left without allowing a reply.
I went silently apoplectic. My Shakespeare kids could see me fuming. I couldn’t really function. For the first and only time in my teaching career, I stopped class, shoved in a video-tape from the BBC on "Acting Shakespeare," and let the Electronic Lesson Plan flow as I penned a letter to the Assistant Principal in charge of Educational Services.
My most brutal prose comes quickly and nasty when I’m pissed. And I was bordering on the ballistic. It didn’t take long to hand-write the letter. By the end of the period, it was finished. I excused the class, went to the copy-room, Xeroxed two copies, and headed to the office, where I slammed one on the desk of Zwick the Dick and hand-delivered the original to the Assistant Principal.
This rail-thin woman with an agenda had always been a fan of what I’ve done in the classroom (since it supported her agenda and made her look good) so she let me vent. Of course, I was half-way through my rant when the Dick tried to barge into her office. She told him to take a seat outside. I finished my rant. Without pausing to say a word in response, she called in the Dick. She immediately asked his side of the story.
He accused me of many things. First was not allowing this girl the chance of succeeding in my class--since she had the "right to fail." Second was hurting her feelings by refusing her entry to my class. But last was the most bile-generating: I was keeping her out to keep my class-load down, the implication being that I was lazy.
I exploded. I had never yelled at a professional elder before (and I have only done it once since... hmm, both counselors... hmm... connection?). But I let him have it. I informed him that the chances of her success were slim since after nearly fifteen weeks of class, the students were finally getting into the groove of things... and these students were Honors students with an Honors background, neither of which applied to his counsellee. Secondly, if her feelings were hurt, I did not do it. I asked questions, then answered the transfer in a note that was stapled shut and sent back to him. If he had read the letter to her, then it’s his own damn fault the girl’s feelings were hurt. And finally, if I wanted to cut down on my class-load, I would have been harsher on the 2H entrance essays that I evaluated the spring before, and I certainly would not have spent ten hours on campus two Saturdays earlier helping students in individualized writing conferences. I ended by telling him that if he wanted to be self-righteous, then he’d better be right and righteous first.
His face was frozen into shock. He stormed from the room.
The Assistant Principal turned and looked at me. A smile crossed her face. "A little anger, Mr. Walters?"
I didn’t know if I would laugh or cry. My face was red and ready for either.
Her smile widened further.
I blushed further and a smile crossed my lips. "A little, I guess."
"I wouldn’t expect a Christmas card from Harold."
I didn’t receive one, either. To this day, he barely speaks to me.
I’m over it.
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