Tuesday, February 28, 1995
It's Tuesday, eight-fifty-seven, and I'm on my brisk walk from the faculty lounge, where I've just voided my bladder, back to my room for second period. My second period aide Tricia (one of my Honors students) stands outside my door with the gathering throng. I lock my class when I leave after first period for this urinary trek; I just don't trust this class with an open and unsupervised room (first period I might; with the Honors, most certainly).
I unlock the door and let them in. Since it is Tuesday, I remind the students to have both drafts of their Vocabulary sentences stapled and out on their desks, and to be reading their novels when the bell rings. That is now only two minutes away (I've made my "run" in three minutes...not bad). I head over to my desk where Tricia is settling down, giving her some of the vocabulary from period one to edit (I'll double-check her work and assign grades later). Then I'm back to the door to usher in the stragglers and repeat my work reminders. As I'm pulling shut the door, the bell rings as Jaime is dragging his feet the few last yards down the hall. Close, but no cigar. I point him in the direction of the office, to get a late "re-admit" slip. "Aw, Mr. Walters," he whines.
"You're late..."
"Just by a second..." but he is already turning around and shuffling back down the hall. And I shut the door behind me and enter the class. Two-thirds filled. The class had 38 enrolled in it (at least, as of Monday, when I received three drop notices: one of a student to first period English 9, one of a student who had accrued more than half a dozen absences so far, and one of a student who still had not entered for the first time). So there should be 35 students here. At nine-oh-one, 12 students are absent, and I still have one no-show on the roster. I take roll, first on my daily grade sheet, putting a dot in the corner of the boxes of those twelve students absent, a slash through the remaining no-show, then I transfer the attendance to the official roll-sheet. I will save the computer scantron roll until later; the roll will doubtless change before the class is done.
I then begin to circulate throughout the class, picking up the vocabulary, making note of those students without assignments, docking them one of their possible five daily grade points for lack of work. As I make my rounds, some students hand me re-admits for recent absences, others meet my eyes when I ask where their missing assignments are, but a majority simply read their novels (as they have been directed to do). Twelve of the students do not have their work. I’m surprised; I actually thought the number would be higher for this class (since we have only seven students earning an "A", three earning a "B", and the rest failing [Looking back now, this is about right: ten students passing, eleven turning in work]).
By nine-oh-five, I have taken preliminary roll and collected half of the vocabulary. I think this is a record for this class. Usually, because of tardies and absences and re-admits, roll and administrative duties can drag on to twenty minutes. And just as I’m about to go down the last chevron’ed row, in walk two tardies, Jaime and Eric. Jaime I knew would be late, he of the whining at the door. Eric I should have known would be late. This is tardy number seven for him (on the fifteenth day of class this term). Both give me their re-admits and take their seats. Jaime of course must say a few words to Albert who sits next to him in the right chevron. Sal, who sits next to Eric in the rear--forward-facing--section, talks to Eric who responds. A great (okay, semi-great) opening now disrupted by two tardies. Now this is more like the typical period two.
I stare at the two of them, one after the other, and they stop talking. I look over at the on-board agenda, and they follow my gaze. They take out their binders, and I move on to collecting the last of the assignments. When I am through with the last row, I head over to Jaime, who doesn’t have his work. That’s two points off for the day so far (one for the tardy, one for lack of assignment). I head over to Eric, who hands me some papers. I take a cursory look, as I have done with everyone else’s. There is a problem: manuscript format.
In my classes, I demand that students follow certain guidelines for turning in work. Work is to be done on white notebook paper, in dark blue or black ink. A proper heading needs to be in the upper, right-hand corner, and a title needs to be on the top line. Skip a line after the title and you’re ready to start the assignment. All of this is meant to create a sense of pride in the appearance of one’s work; without pride in at least the look of the assignment (let alone the quality of the work itself), many of these students are without anything. So I try to instill in them a little pride in the appearance of their work, then in their work, and finally in their own responsibility. But we take baby steps first--manuscript format. If the student cannot follow the simple directions of manuscript format, then I will not accept the work. This they know, and this they have known, since the first day of class, when our first assignment was a proper heading.
Eric’s paper has an incorrect heading. The papers are still in his hand as I look them over. "Manuscript format," I whisper and begin toward my desk, where Tricia can edit the meager stack of papers later in the period.
"What do you mean?" Eric demands, in a voice already too loud, again disrupting the class.
I stop. Turn. Move silently next to his desk. Whisper. "Proper heading." Leave him looking at it. When I reach my desk, I hear a watch alarm go off. I turn.
Eric silences the watch. He mutters something to Sal, showing him the paper. Sal points out something to Eric in the heading. I glance at the clock.
I move back across the room, to retrieve my clipboard and resume administrative duties, now looking for students who have returned from absences and need to sign attendance referrals. Eric stops me not with a gesture or a motion, but with his voice, again taking the readers off-task. "You’re not going to accept my paper because of the name?" he demands.
"We’ve gone over this before. Resubmit the work."
As I reach my clipboard, I look over the class. Most are reading. To get the others back on task, I circulate once throughout the room, making note of those without novels (again a loss of a daily grade point). Neither Sal nor Eric has a novel. When I reach the file cabinet again, where I can work on the past attendance stuff, Eric’s watch alarm goes off again. Nine-twelve, it’s been five minutes. He silences it.
I look over the attendance referrals. Alejandra has returned to class, after her eighth absence. I reach down to pull out her referral, when the door opens again. Sandra, another attendance wonder, saunters in. Her tardy is excused; she had been in her counselor’s office. I make note of this on my clipboard and the roll. I continue with the Alejandra referral, walking it over and having her initial her absences, which she does without argument. I fill out more attendance referrals for those students who aren’t here today and who have more than four absences for the new term; I fill out two new ones today and realize I’ll need to make more phone calls this afternoon (when I’m scheduled for attendance review committee [irony, irony]). As I’m finishing filling out the new referrals, Eric’s alarm goes off again; he silences it. It’s nine-seventeen...every five minutes. As I walk by him, I tell him to silence the alarm and hand over the watch. He mutters that he doesn’t know how, and I tell him that if he can’t, he’ll learn how to do it in the office since that is where he will be heading. He does something to the watch and hands it over. I take it over to Tricia at the desk.
At the desk, I decide this would be a good time to return some papers to students before the vocabulary quiz, so I head over to the file cabinet, where I’ve left the papers. As I pass, I notice Eric, not reading of course since he doesn’t have his novel, and I get this feeling--just a hunch--that the damn alarm will go off in another...three minutes. So I head back to the desk to grab a conduct referral, so that I can fill it out now; this way, if the alarm goes off, I don’t have to waste time filling out the referral, I can just send him down. A preemptive strike. As I take a referral from the desk, the door opens again.
Michael walks in. This student is so tardy, he’s in the wrong class. I have him in my first period class. Third week, and he’s already missing seven assignments and failing. Last term, he was removed from my class because of a "personality conflict": he hated me and I didn’t really care for his attitude in class. This term he’s back, but not achieving at any greater level. He was absent first period, but here he is. He walks over to my desk and hands me his re-admit for first period. I look at it then him. "Mr. Brown," I say, since that is what he wants to be called, "This is an excused tardy for this period."
He looks at me, dull-eyed. "I know, but Ms. Villa told me to bring it here." His counselor, the head counselor (and that is a story all its own), has sent him here. Disrupting my class. Great. I sign the re-admit.
"Thanks." I hand him back the re-admit.
He grunts and leaves the class. Unbelievable. I take the referral and head back to the file cabinet, against which I can write. But before I can get there, the door opens and Jon walks in, nineteen minutes late. He hands me a re-admit. Unexcused tardy. I grab my clipboard to mark the tardy; this is tardy number six, which means I’ll need to fill out Jon’s tardy referral (a copy of which was sent home after tardy number four). I’ll have to do this later, I realize when I look at the clock. Nine-twenty (and a half).
I begin to fill out Eric’s referral. I make note of the number of tardies. I check my grade sheet to learn he is missing five assignments; I make note of that, too, on the referral. I make note of the fact that I’ve already sent three letters home to his parents: the expectation sheet (complete with manuscript format instructions) on the first day of class, the notice of the fourth tardy during the second week of class, and a notice of missing assignments last week. And I am signing my name when--
The alarm goes off. I look up to see Tricia looking at me, nodding.
Timing. In comedy, timing is everything. This I note to Eric, as I peel off the back, pink copy of the referral for my records and hand him the rest.
"Where do I go?" He asks, surly.
"Counselor. And take your watch with you." And I hand him his watch, and he disappears from my room. I look around to see heads quickly bowing to go back to reading. I take the pink copy over to my desk and shove it into a drawer. I can feel the period disintegrating with every passing second. I turn to see the door opening again.
Shit. Gilbert is back. I get rid of one asshole to get another back. Gilbert had been referred to the office last Monday (not yesterday, but a week ago) for insolence and disruption--failure to get on-task and mouthing off when asked to get on-task. He didn’t return during that class period. When he showed up at the beginning of the class the next day, I told him to head up to the office and return with the referral from the previous day, signed by his counselor. He did, an hour and twenty minutes later, escorted back to my open door by a red-coat. We were in the midst of Writer’s Workshop, and I told him to get to work. After I finished helping a student with whom I had been working, I looked up to find Gilbert gone, disappeared, my open door empty. That afternoon, I sent down another conduct referral on Gilbert, checking the "Left class without permission" box and filling out the "Explain above or other" section with a discussion of his previous tardy, his late return, his exit from class, and his failure to turn in work. He has not returned since.
But here he is, back from...his re-admit shows excused absences because of SUSPENSION. Great. I sign his re-admit, check him off on my roll sheet, grab his attendance referral (since his is now up to five absences), and hand it over to him for his initials. He takes one look at it and asks (doesn’t any freshman know how to speak in a hushed tone?), "Can I go see my counselor?"
"Sure," I say. "At lunch. On your own time." And I leave him behind to retrieve something from my desk. It is last week’s progress report that I sent home with every student. Gilbert’s never made it home, since he was never here long enough to get it. I take it, fill it out in more completion (since in the intervening week, he has missed an additional four assignments, not counting today’s vocabulary), and hand it to him, telling him to have it signed and returned to me tomorrow. I turn and look at the clock. Shit. Nine-twenty-five.
Inside I’m about to say, fuck it, I’ll return the work during the quiz. I’m about to say aloud, "Ladies and Gentlemen, come to a stopping point in your reading," my customary opening of class. I’m about to do all of this when the door opens again. I am about to scream.
Michael is back. In his hand is a transfer slip. This period just might turn around. I look at it. Haleluyah. The old class first period is my English Nine. My eyes travel over the sheet. Fuck FUCK FUCK!!! The new second period class is my English Nine. Michael is transferring into this class. It is already the class from hell, its class dynamic poisoned by too many lazy, arrogant, tardy, do-nothings, and now I must take in Michael to the mix. Great.
I sign him into the class and show him to his new seat.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, come to a stopping point in your reading. Take out a blank sheet of notebook paper and a blue or black ink pen. Put a proper heading in the upper, right-hand corner. On the top line put the title: ‘Vocabulary Quiz Three.’"
I look at the clock. Nine-thirty. Thirty minutes into the period. And we are only now starting the class proper.
A typical period two.
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