Love the One You're With (28 page)

Fooliani has never been a fan of the Board of Education or the United Federation of Teachers union, so you know he relished pushing forward with the charter school plan and giving both entities the middle finger. And I have no doubt that Elvin is serious about providing students with a viable alternative to what is being offered. But Knowledge Hall is a stepping-stone for him; he has his eyes on becoming a major player on the political scene, making a name for himself within the Republican Party, and winning himself a prime job in the administrations of our newly elected Republican governor, George Pataki, or, as he predicts, our next president, Bob Dole. And what better way to do that than to open a school in a Black neighborhood and outshine the others by producing students who can outperform their peers?

It's still too early to tell if Knowledge Hall is actually achieving that goal; after all, its doors have only been open for six months. But in those six months, Elvin has gotten a lot of press (from
Newsweek
to
Both Sides
with Jesse Jackson) and received a lot of hosannas for his courage and chutzpah. As a gesture of goodwill and to prove his dedication, he's waived his salary for the first two years (which isn't really such a big deal since he's a millionaire). And the school's motto—“Your altitude depends on your attitude”—has so caught on that like “Just say no,” it's fast becoming another mantra adopted by the sound-bite-heavy conservative crowd.

Since I believed in his mission (if not his politics), I threw my résumé into the pot when he officially put the call out for staff. What did I have to lose? I was still very much unemployed after leaving
Your World
, and the search was becoming a very frustrating one: the publications that wanted to hire me didn't think my experience warranted the type of position and salary I knew I deserved (I
quit
a job because I was undervalued and underpaid …
hello?
), and the few positions that appealed to me were in different parts of the country, the closest being Atlanta. While they were great opportunities and there was a lot of room for growth, I hadn't lived anywhere else in my life (and I have been spoiled being able to just hop on a train or bus, or just walk, wherever I want to go). Most importantly, I wasn't about to pick up and move away from my family—Pooquie and Junior. Pooquie and I discussed it and he felt I should do what would be best for my career, but I knew he didn't want me to take any of the positions because he knew he'd probably lose me if I did. And the feeling was mutual. I had already tried the long distance thing—and once was enough.

Elvin called me a week later and we scheduled an interview for the next day. Well, you can't even call what I went in for an interview. After introductions were made and some small talk about the weather (“It's rather warm for spring, isn't it?”), our conversation went like this …

“You've done a lot of work as a journalist and editor,” he observed, perusing what I assumed were the résumé and clips I sent. He was even more unattractive in person—a very long thin face, pug nose, a chin that protrudes out an inch, and large eyes that look awful lonely (for some reason, he has no eyebrows).

“Yes, I have.”

“I'm very impressed. I've heard of that publication you were an editor for. It's really made current events hip and kids love it. Do you think you could make them feel the same way about writing?”

This was my chance to impress. “Yes, I do. Many view writing as an insurmountable task, a chore, a bore. I believe this view stems from the rather unimaginative ways in which some educators approach it; as much as I enjoy it, many of the assignments given to me in grade school through my college years didn't make what I was doing or learning fun. I believe the key is to present it as the joy it can be so students can get joy out of it. Seeing how powerful one's own words can be will be very affirming, encouraging students to look at both writing and reading in a whole new light.”

He cleared his throat. “You don't have any teaching experience,” he said rather dryly.

So much for wanting to hear my opinion. “No, but I do have a teaching proposal and a sample lesson plan prepared if you'd like to see them.” I had worked on them all weekend.

“Sure.” He didn't sound too enthused. I had the feeling he only agreed to look it over because I had them, not because he was genuinely interested, I just knew my phone would be ringing in a few hours with the news that I hadn't gotten the job. But I opened up my leather case and pulled them out anyway.

He took them. “We can go over them next week when you come back in to be processed.”

“Pro­cessed?”

“Yes. You're hired.”

I was stunned. “I am?”

“Yes. Unless you've been convicted of a felony or happen to be a registered sex offender”—he finally looked up—“and I happen to know you haven't and aren't.”

But of course he would. Being the ­left-hand man of Fooliani, who prac­ti­cally runs the Gestapo—uh, police department—I'm sure a thorough background check was done on me.

He picked up a slim manila envelope and handed it to me. “This will explain the position, your working hours, salary, benefits. And ­there's an overview about Knowledge Hall, what we plan to accomplish and what we expect of our personnel. Miss Hanson will set up a meeting next week for you to sign the contract and for us to start work on the fall semester.”

I was still stunned. “Oh. Great.” We swapped packages. I ­rose. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

He ­rose to shake my hand. “Thank you. I believe this is going to be a great proj­ect for all involved.”

After I set up another appointment, Miss Hanson buzzed him. “Your eleven-forty-five is ­here.”

“Send her in.”

Miss Hanson turned to a sister wearing a dark blue dress and black pumps. “You may go in.” She did, closing the door behind her.

At first I was ready to dismiss Elvin as being unemotional, somewhat detached, but he was doing what I'm sure he had to do in the very ­high-stakes and ­high-stress world of the markets—make decisions based on your gut instinct that will allow you and your clients to flourish. Time is indeed money and you can't waste either. And he was wasting no time getting his new ship up and running: everyone—the 11:45 he was debriefing, the 11:50 who was waiting to be seen, the gentleman I passed on the way out who announced he was his 11:55, and all those who came before and after—was getting job offers. If what he saw on paper complemented his vision, you were chosen. His clients in this case are the students, and his main priority was that he choose a staff that showed a passion for what they'd done in life; whether he genuinely liked the person sitting across from him during the “interview” was of no consequence or importance (most of us thought he didn't like us during that initial meeting—that is, until the words
you're hired
came out of his mouth). And time and money were indeed factors here as well: folks were predicting the school would fail (the feeling was that it wouldn't open its doors on time) and half of the school's five-year, $25 million budget (stocking it with computers, wiring it for cable television, and ensuring every child has the textbooks and tools needed to prepare them for the twenty-first century) was fronted by outside entities. So while his no-nonsense approach threw me and took some getting used to—he's very much a “team player” kind of guy—I respected where he was coming from.

Besides the great salary (we're paid almost twice the $30,000 base most first-time teachers in the city earn) and perks (you can't beat having all legal holidays off, as well as one week for spring break and a two-month summer vacation), I can now walk to work (I'm sure it must be a bit unnerving, though, for some of my students that their teacher not only lives in the same neighborhood, but on the same
block
). I also love the fact that the racial makeup of the staff is the same as the student body—ninety percent Black. In addition, half of the teachers are also male (to say that this is rare would be a gross understatement—if you run into a Black adult male in a public school in New York, chances are he's a security officer, custodian, or cook). This commitment to diversity would certainly score Elvin major points in the community (for years the Board of Ed has been blasted for its dismal record of hiring and retaining male teachers of color) as well as quell the fear that he only planned to employ his conservative, Republican friends, most of whom are white.

My mother was thrilled that I was returning to the ranks of the employed. My brother was, too—but when he found out what my new career was, he didn't mince words.

“Do you have any advice for me?” I asked him. He teaches sixth-grade physical education.

“Yeah: Don't do it!” He had so many “beat up the teach” horror stories (one kid, unhappy about being benched after he fouled another player in a basketball game, kicked him in the shin so hard he still has a small bruise some two years later) that he started smoking.

I wasn't worried about being verbally or physically assaulted: the hundred and fifty students at Knowledge Hall were hand-selected (i.e., their parents or some other adult knew Elvin personally and had their child's name on the list before it was even drawn up) and are considered the cream of the crop. Most were reading at or above grade level, only a few had received written reprimands because of their work habits or behavior, and none had ever been suspended or expelled. So the chances of us ending up with a rotten apple in this group was slim.

But even in a so-called good school, you're gonna have your problem kids—or, rather, your kids who cause them—and Knowledge Hall is no exception. Jesse Price loves to tease other students when they get a wrong answer. Annabelle Garland believes that because she is the tallest student in the school (just over five feet), that gives her the right to boss others around. And Treena Bloomington and her twin sister, Teena, try to fool us by pretending to be each other. No serial killers in the bunch, just mischievous and crafty.

And then there's Willoughby Grant.

Every class has its clown (most not as funny or as clever as they think they are) and Willoughby willingly took on that title in mine. In fact, he was the jokester in all of his classes. Our first day of school together was reminiscent of the initial meeting between Mrs. Sherwood (Anne Meara) and Leroy Johnson (Gene Anthony Ray) in
Fame
. I had barely slept the night before because I was so ner­vous; not even a pep talk from Pooquie and a “jood luck” card from Junior (he crossed out the
g
) could calm my fears (more than any­thing, I believed my nightmare would come true: I would freeze in front of the students and not be able to talk). But aside from one student smacking gum and another throwing a minor fit because some­one ­else was in
her
seat (she apparently staked out the first desk in the third row in all her classes so she could sit right in front of the teacher), the day went rather smoothly.

But as soon as Willoughby strutted into what was the last class of the day, I knew all of that was about to change. Instead of a boom box, he had a Walkman. But he did have the same chip Leroy Johnson had had on his shoulder. He headed straight for the back, dropped his book bag on the floor, plopped himself in a chair, leaned back, and shut his eyes.

I was going to nip this before class started. I walked over to him. I tapped him on the shoulder.

He jumped. He just stared at me, still grooving.

I pointed to my ears.

He took the headphones off. “Yeah?”

“What is your name, young man?”

“Willoughby. But ­they call me Will.”

“Well, Will, I'm Mr. Crawford, your teacher for this pe­riod. And I'm sure you know that listening to a Walkman during class is against the rules.”

“But class ain't start yet.”

“Class starts the minute you step into this room.”

He shrugged. “A'ight.” He rose and started to walk out.

“Where are you going?”

He turned. He looked at his watch. “It's two-oh-two and class don't
officially
start for another three minutes, so I'll just wait out here till then.” And he did just that.

I could feel a headache coming on.

At 2:05 he returned, headphones off.

I tried to smooth over our previous encounter. “Glad you could rejoin us.”

“Yeah, right.” He snickered.

He wasn't going to make this easy
…

I took attendance and then gave them the same spiel I had two other times that day.

“In every other class you take in this school, you will be expected to solve a problem, memorize facts and figures, and perform a task where there is only one right answer. But in this class, there isn't just one right answer. There are many. Twenty-five, to be exact. Each and every one of you will have a correct response to every assignment because only you have the answer to it. Here, your voice counts, and it isn't my job to restrain or restrict it, but help you find it.”

Willoughby's hand went up.

“Yes, Mr. Grant?”

“Uh, what if we wanna express ourselves with mu-zac?” He grinned, holding up his headphones.

The class giggled.

“I only accept work submitted on loose-leaf paper.”

He shrugged off the response.

“In addition to your regular individual assignments, you'll be producing a newspaper and a literary magazine. You'll be doing a lot of writing
and
reading, so this isn't going to be a class you'll be able to, as I've heard many of your peers say, breeze. An A won't come easy. It's going to cost. And right here, today, is where you start paying.”

“Yo, teach, you ain't Debbie Allen!” Willoughby shouted.

The class burst into laughter.

I had to chuckle at that one myself. “No, I'm not Debbie Allen. But after you had a taste of me, you'll wish I was. She came on television once a week; you'll be seeing me
three
days a week.”