THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX BUT STAY INSIDE THE GRID

By Emma Black
Taken from Twentysomething Essays by Twentysomething Writers, edited by Matt Kellog & Jillian Quint.
Published by Random House Paperbacks, New York.

August
“I don’t get paid for two months.” That’s what I should tell the parents during our first
open house. “The school board holds our pay to make as much interest as possible for the
system. I won’t see a check until October first.”

Instead, I speak of my qualifications, classes taken, honors received, expectations for

“We will concentrate heavily on the writing process,” I tell them.

“What about math?”

“Hands-on, reinforced with abstract, ability-level acceleration ...”

“What about conducts?”

“Individual responsibility for participation ...”

I'm proud of my answers, confident of my capability to surpass No

Child Left Behind.

“You don’t seem to know much of anything,” says one frowning mother.

The muscle behind my eyebrows isn't yet fitted for the teacher stare. I’ve been practicing
it, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, flexing my forehead. It throbs at this interjection.

“You don’t seem to know much of anything,” she says again.

“If you have a more specific question, I’m sure I can find an answer.”

“Bobby couldn’t read problem number three from his homework last night. It was badly
copied.”

“Yes, our copier is broken. That reminds me, if you have printer paper to donate, that’d
be great. The school has asked teachers to buy their own paper.” (Here, also, I should tell them
I don’t get paid for two months.)

“My child was very upset about not being able to answer number three.”

“Do you have the paper with your?”

“We’ll go over it tomorrow.”

September
I learn my children’s strengths and weaknesses, what makes them feel comfortable,
what makes them succeed. I stay thirty minutes after school to go over long vowel sounds with
one student.

In return I become “Ms. Dude,” “Emma,” “Hey Teacher Lady.” Slowly, my slowest
learner begins to read. A child who once began each day screaming now finishes his work, all
his work, sitting under my desk. We are ahead of other classes by two units.

Because I’m a first-year teacher, I am given forty-seven mentors. They all have plenty
of advice. I rotate my one and only daily thirty-minute break among them.

“They talk to you like a friend. This is unacceptable. Demand respect!” advises one.

“You cannot let a child sit under your desk,” asserts another.

“Keep a journal for documentation in case you get sued,” warns a third.

My favorite, finally, from the fourth: “You have to put your foot down.”

I tell mentor number four, who is three times my size, that I am twenty-two years old
and weigh a hundred pounds. My foot doesn’t make much noise. He doesn’t laugh.

I have learned that no one in the education system has a sense of humor.

I think this until I get my first paycheck.

November
I've become used to the interruptions caused by assemblies for special causes.

Cartoons for March of Dimes takes an hour. Afterward, everyone agrees that a thousand
elementary school students sitting in a dark auditorium is not a good idea. Lunch for Leukemia
takes two hours: one for lunch, one to counsel parentless children. A project for Heifer
International steals some of my sanity, as my student from Sudan leaves the assembly fearing
her family will eventually die of starvation.

“Maybe it’s the way you pronounced ‘heifer,’ ” says mentor number five.

“I don’t care about cows!” I scream.

I take half a day off to learn to love the bovine.

One student has written on his chair: ‘Never leave again, Ms. Black.”

“Next time use paper,” I tell him.

I ask, “Why is my desk upside downs”

“Principal wouldn’t let Daniel sit under your desk,” says an honor student.

“If I flip it over, I’m not technically sitting under it,” Daniel says.

“Humm,” I say.

We spend half an hour relearning to sit quietly in our seats.

My shyest student speaks out for the first time all year. He raises his hand, not his eyes,
and very eloquently tells his desk, “Seriously, next time use paper.”

Mentor number six reminds me this is not a laughing matter. She says so in the teacher’s
lounge while feeding construction paper into a lamination machine. This makes me slightly
uneasy. She leans closer. The machine hisses and steams, and her glasses fill with fog.

“Respect,” she says.

March
We plan for the standardized test, only the standardized test, for a UP month, with no
break.

All extra, non-test-related classes are bumped to two-thirty P.M. The test’s new open-
ended grid requires six hours’ practice a day. In this open-ended grid, children are to answer
mathematics questions in their own words, with their own methods, using solely the system set
up by the Alabama Reading and Math Test Committee of No Child Left Behind.

THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX BUT STAY INSIDE THE GRID, I post in big letters
over my chalkboard.

My students rock back and forth in their seats furiously. “I hate math,” one mumbles.

“All work and no play,” chants my back row.

“You are not taking the SAT seriously,” says mentor number seven.

And the children sing: “Rhombus... cha-cha-cha... Right angle... cha-cha-cha...”

April
The test results come back, and we kick ass.

We write so much in the new grid that children are pulling out magnifying glasses to
read their conclusions. We fill those multiple- choice bubbles so beautifully, I want to frame
them.

“This is easy,” says my back row.

We begin writing research papers in MLA style. We use math books from the grade
above. We are the only class that still has time for science and social studies. My children are
succeeding. I have never been so proud.

I’m laid off, during lunchtime, on my birthday.

It’s nothing personal. The Board of Education fires all nontenured teachers at the end of
each school year to keep from paying benefits over the summer. A very pleasant security guard
gives me the certified letter and tells me not to cry. He smiles and quickly walks away with
handfuls of layoff letters to deliver.

The next day is graduation—at a church. Under normal circum- stances, I would object
to my students hearing of Paul and chanting prayers during public school events. However, I’m
busy dividing my time between the bathroom and the kitchen, preparing food for fifth- grade
graduates and guests while dry-heaving what's left of last night’s party. I wait tables on
weekends for extra income, so my restaurant coworkers threw my birthday party with the theme
‘It’s okay, you can always wait tables!"

“Remember the words of Lazarus” squawks the loudspeaker from the auditorium. A
pulsing begins beneath my eyebrows as diplo- mas are dispersed.

“Becky Andrews receives our first diploma,” reports the loudspeaker. “Becky is
receiving an award for citizenship.” Gap. Gap.
 “Frederic Alexander is receiving ‘Most Improved.’ Clap. Clap.

Someone finds chicken salad to apply to white bread. The smell sends me back to the
restroom.

When I return, Mark Reynolds is receiving his honors—first-chair trumpet, honor roll,
and Earth Day participation award. “Congratulations, Mark.” Clap. Clap. Clap.

Parents will come for food when we reach the end of the alphabet.

I’m getting nervous. I stack the sandwiches higher.

Suddenly, there’s knocking on the locked doors from parents too hungry to wait for the
end. Someone brings out a melon ball, and the sweet, slimy smell of a growing fruit tray pulls
at my stomach. Someone else combines sherbet and fruit juice. Cracker adorned with cheese
cover a tray.

Finally, it’s all over. I’ve survived my first year of teaching.

I learn later, through the teacher grapevine, that my class received the school’s highest
SAT scores. As a grade level, we rose ten points.

August
I am not rehired. It’s cheaper for the school system to find another first-year teacher to
fill my position.
I have changed systems, changed schools. Replaced Heifer with March of Dimes,
purchased a new journal for legal reasons, and hoped for tenure.
Still, I have taught twenty children. This year I will teach twenty more. I have brought
students from sounds to sentences to stories. I have explained multiplication, shown them where
they are on a map, taught the difference between warm and cold fronts. I have listened, and
heard stories I cannot for legal reasons share. Seen details that others have missed. Overlooked
details to see my students. I am proud of what I have heard, of what I cannot share, of what I
have shared.
So, if teaching is such a gratifying experience, why do so many teachers leave?