Day of School, 61

Chapter 25

Day of School, 61

                My advisory has been asking me for the last week and a half to tell them a story about my recent dates, and I’ve decided that today I’m telling them the truth, that I’ve given up on my search. I doubt they’ll care, but I just want to know that there won’t be any stories anytime soon. Still, as they pile into the room and I’m immediately asked to tell a story, and I can see in their eyes that they’re all hoping today’s the day that I finally break my silence - I hate to disappoint them, but I have to. 

        “Sorry guys… there won’t be any stories…” 

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            I’ve accidently, unwittingly just confessed to my students that I played hooky from school before Thanksgiving and that I lied to my principal about being sick �" and now I’ve made them vow a sacred oath that they’ll never again repeat to a soul what they’ve heard - and I’m hoping they take oaths a little more seriously than I do because I’ve told them everything �" about faking sick, being sick, traversing my way alone through that darkened pit of despair before finally coming to the realization that if I want to finish the book, I need to dedicate all of my time outside of school to it. I turned it into a life lesson �" about sacrifice, about hard work and determination. 

            “What’s your book about?” Maya asks. I don’t know why, but the question strikes me in a funny way, and as I stand there, I realize something �" my students don’t know about the book. Strange. Have I really not told them about it?

 It’s one of those moments where time stands still as I ponder this question.

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        Writing is my favorite thing in the world… but I’ve always been strangely self-conscious about letting people see it. I know I can write well, but the thought of letting people into that side of my mind… letting myself be exposed, vulnerable and naked… the judgment, the vulnerability...  As much as I love to do it, it’s been something I’ve shared with very few people. 

I’ve often wondered the root cause of my fears and apprehensions in letting my voice be heard by the world, but I suspect it goes back to fourth grade, when right at the beginning of the year I wrote a short story for an assignment that landed me in quite a bit of hot water. But in order to tell you about that short story and its origins, there’s another story needed to provide context and background knowledge. 

For a short time when I was growing up, my father worked as a caretaker at an old bed and breakfast in my hometown of Newport, Rhode Island �" a house which happens to be on the “Haunted Newport” tours, and is alleged as the site of frequent paranormal activity �" and while I was a little creeped out by the place and never let myself wander too far alone, nothing ever happened on the weekends when I was there. No ghosts, nothing unusual, nothing that kept me up at night. 

One of my father’s favorite pastimes to this day is telling ghost stories, and for all his less than amazing qualities, he does excel as a storyteller and I wonder what he could have done with his life if he had the motivation to write them down. You should know that I don’t scare easily. I grew up with a father who thought that Pet Sematary, Faces of Death, It, and Nightmare on Elm Street were totally fine for a six year old to watch. 

So, one night the power goes out and my dad tells this story �" a true story he claimed, about the hearing the voices of children echoing in the halls it night, babies screaming, about feeling someone else in the room with him one night, hearing the door close by itself, then swing back open of its own accord �" and this story freaks me the f**k out, sends a river of ice through my body and gives me chills and shivers that stay with me through that sleepless night, gives me nightmares for the next two weeks to the point that I pretended to be sick the following weekend so I could stay at my mom’s house, but I was crippled by fear that one day I’d have to go back to that horrible place. 

I suppose that even before Mrs. Cadenazzi lit the fire in me, the passion for writing already existed, and I somehow knew that the only way I’d ever conquer my fear, was to write about it �" and so I did. I wrote a story about ghosts and ghouls, murders and dead screaming children in the night�" not the same story my dad told; a better one �" and by the end I was so proud of my work, and had created such a gruesome, harrowing tale that the real place wasn’t even as close to as terrifying as the one I’d created and I was able to sleep again without nightmares, even in that hell hole of a place. It was legit. It had a cover and everything.

And maybe there are some fourth graders with the wherewithal to recognize that violent murders are not an appropriate topic for a short story assignment about a dream you had recently, but I wasn’t one of them - and I marched into class that morning with my head held high and handed it proudly to my teacher, Mrs. Traibman, and I couldn’t wait for her to read it.

She snatched the paper from my grasp with a snort that I’d onomatopoetically express as “Ceeeeuuuuuuhk” and threw it down onto her desk… and it sat there… and sat there… and sat there…and sat there… and sat there… and sat there….autumn came... the trees were beautiful and people everywhere welcomed fall frolicking, pumpkin spice everything and sweater weather… (with open arms, of course)… we had our first snowfall… I was a little boy at Christmas time… I didn’t get what I asked for…

(What I didn’t know at the time that I handed my paper to Mrs. Traibman, because it was the beginning of the school year, was that she would be undoubtedly and objectively the worst teacher I’ve ever had. She was old, miserable, and I can’t help but think back and wonder if she was drunk half the time. Even though I was only nine I could tell she didn’t give a s**t about her job or her students. She was rude, mean, never handed back assignments, and didn’t give feedback on anything. All she did was sit at her desk, hand out busy work, and bark orders across the classroom. How she was able to keep her job for so many years is befuddling. Whoever evaluated and hired this woman should have been fired.)

… finally we came back from Christmas break, because apparently she needed four months to grade sixteen short stories written by fourth graders, she handed the paper back to me. I’d pretty much forgotten about it by then, but I was so excited to have it back. I couldn’t wait to see what she thought about it. The word “Good” was written at the top with a check-mark next to it and it was the only mark on the page. No comments. No feedback. No corrections. Nothing. 

            All I wanted was for a teacher to actually read it, so I gave it to the other fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Campbell and she was so excited to read it. I watched her eyes cascade down the one giant blob of a paragraph that was six hand-written pages long, and before she even made it through the first page, she gasped, grabbed hold of my hand and marched me straight to the principal’s office. I listened as Principal Deacon attempted to decipher my scrawly cursive and make sense of it through all my errors in spelling, grammar, punctuation, capitalization and syntax (which a great teacher, Mrs. Cad would later rectify). I marveled at the vivid description in my own words - the detailed setting, complex characters, and intriguing plot line. It was s**t, but I thought it was good at the time. 

At some point, I started wondering what I was doing in the principal’s office… was I being given an award for writing the best short story ever…? 

I wasn’t… a few calls were made, my mother showed up, and even with her defending me with passion and fury, explaining that it was all because my jackass father filled my mind with ghost stories and let me stay up all night watching horror movies. As a kid, I was pissed about what happened next and thought it was so unfair, but now as a teacher and seeing potential warning signs of aggression, depression, etc… I get it… 

 I was suspended for a day. That’s right, my darkest, dirtiest secret is out there for the world to see �" I, Mister Thomas, respected teacher, have been suspended from school two times.

The worst part of it all was that when I came back from suspension, I was forced to write a new story, one with a happy ending…  and I swear that since then, I’ve just never let people in. I’ve shared a few things with my mom, and a couple of ideas I had with Elaine �" but that’s it. 

Alright, I have a confession to make. I’ve been suspended three times. In high school, I got caught drunk, smoking weed, and with about twenty beers in my backpack at junior homecoming. My mom didn’t defend me that time, and I don’t believe I saw the light again that year �" but at least it wasn’t cigarettes. 

I’m going to take a chance here and let my students in. They’ll probably judge me, call me a nerd and think that I’m weird - but they already do all of that anyway, so there really isn’t a downside. 

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            “Yo, Thomas,” Rosa Cortez’s voice snaps me back to this plant. “What’s it about?” 

“It’s called The Lindas. It's a dark comedy about a group of five secretaries all named Linda who work in one office and are all in love with their boss, Dave Greene. After one of the Lindas dies, he hires someone named Michelle to fill Linda’s role, then she begins having an affair with him and all the Linda’s turn on her �" and each plots to kill Michelle in their own way on the same night �"“ 

I stare out at my class, and I know they’re expecting more because I’m constantly pausing for dramatic effect, but this time I don’t have any more to give them. “That’s where I’m at,” I sigh. “Right at the end, about to reveal everything �" and I’m just… stuck.” 

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     I’ve opened up a can or worms that I cannot reseal, and I have a thousand pieces of writing advice and alternate plot lines and twists being hurled my way by what seems to be a million different voices at once, but it’s coming from ten students. The bell rings mercifully, saving me from this layer of hell. Rosa is the last student to her feet. She walks up and stands over my desk. 

“You’re going about it all wrong.”

“About what? The book? You don’t think it’s a funny idea?” 

“Nah, that s**t sounds dumb. Maybe a little funny if it’s not all dorky like you, but I’m talking about giving up dating.” 

“It’s just until I finish the book,” I say, but Rosa shakes her head immediately. 

“Remember what you said last year when we read that one book �" when you were talking about muses and inspiration and that s**t…? That’s what you need. Someone to inspire you.” 

Aside from the fact that she’s talking about three stanzas from the Iliad that we never read in class but I do remember mentioning briefly, I find myself rendered speechless �" again like a deer in headlights by something Rosa Cortez has said to me this year �" and I don’t know why I’m so sure of it, but I know she’s right. 

“Thank you, Rosa.” 

“I got you,” she says, and she’s about to walk away but there’s something I need to ask her. 

“Why? Why did you torture me for three years? What happened? Why are you all of a sudden so god damn different? What the hell, Rosa?” 

She chuckles, “You needed someone like me, Thomas.” 

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    Have you ever learned something that completely changed your point of view and perspective on a situation? I’m not talking about something that opens your eyes a little bit, but a piece of information that allows you to see everything in the clearest, most unimpeded light. That happened to me earlier. 

    I decided that today was the day I was going to finally call Rosa's mom to tell her how proud I was of Rosa’s growth and maturity and let her know how impressed I’ve been with her work and attitude. It was long overdue, but I’ve been putting it off because Rosa’s mom, Carla Cortez, is… well, let’s just say she’s a piece of work. The apple didn’t fall from the tree. 

Like Rosa, my relationship with Carla Cortez did not start off on the best foot. We met on the first day of school in 2016, the first day I was a real teacher and the first day of this beautiful journey - and perhaps the most tumultuous day I’ve ever experienced. 

If you recall, coming in at number one of my favorite all-time Rosa Cortez moments, was September 4, 2016 when no more than four hours into my first day as a teacher - Rosa stood up, walked across the room, and seemingly unprovoked, punched Keven Torres in the face during after-lunch advisory. Day one! While trying to sort it out and sending Rosa to the dean, certain I was going to be fired before I even collected my first paycheck, she walked calmly towards the door - turned back to me, looked me straight in the eye and said “Fuckface Thomas. Why don’t you eat s**t and die?” She lifted her arm, extended her freakishly long middle finger and waved it all around - then kicked the nearest desk, creating a domino effect of crashing desks and the ChromeBooks on them.

I wasn’t fired - instead, at the end of the day I was forced to endure the torture of my first parent-meeting ever - with none other than Carla Cortez, who has all the charm and destructive power of a landbound tsunami. She looked pissed as she stared at me, her arms folded, and I sat there as she calmly told me how despicable we were, how disgusted she was, how Rosa wasn’t to blame - and threatened to pull Rosa from the school, which for three years after would have been one of my three wishes if I ever stumbled across a magical lamp with a genie inside. I’m paraphrasing. 

“This is egregious,” she said, glaring back and forth between myself and Dean Sullivan. 

“Calm down Miss Cort-” 

“Oh no you didn’t just interrupt me,” she fired at Dean Sullivan. Apparently most moms don’t like being interrupted while coming to the defense of their children. She didn’t really have a leg to stand on, but she fought with as much passion as my mother did for me - and many more obscenities. 

“How dare you?” She asked, directed rage-fueled eyes at both Dean Sullivan and I. Neither of us answered for a while. I was a new teacher - my lips were sealed and not because I wanted them to be. I was scared shitless. 

“Look Miss -” the dean began, but was immediately cut off. “Don’t say a word.” 

 Dean Sullivan didn’t realize that like my mother, Carla Cortez also asks rhetorical questions to give you the illusion that they want you to begin speaking - but the floor was hers.

“It’s not Rosa’s fault. She would never hit anyone. You’re lying. I’ll pull her out of this school. I swear it. I’ve already had enough of this...” 

I thought back on all that I learned in college - none of which even remotely prepared me for this moment. Then I made the mistake of opening my mouth.

“I watched it happen Miss Cortez,” I said. “She punched a student right in the face ten feet away from where I was standing.” 

Carla Cortez went silent. She tilted her head to the side, lowered her brows, smiled… but there was fire in her eyes, and she asked, "Who the f**k are you?"

“I’m -” 

“I don’t give a f**k who you are,” she snapped, pointing her ridiculously long pointer finger in the space between my eyes. “I don’t want to hear you say another word.” 

I didn’t say another word. I sat there in silence as Carla Cortez introduced me to several new and creative forms of the word f**k that I hadn’t heard before - unknowing that I was standing on the front lines of a three year war that would wage from that day onward. 

And like Rosa, things just continued torpedoing in the years that followed... 

But, today I decided none of that mattered. Rosa’s doing great in class, and despite knowing that the call could have led one more in a long line of bloody struggles, I made it. After hearing Carla’s voice, a calmness to it, a change like I’ve seen in Rosa - then hearing her words, now everything is clear. 

“Thank you for calling Mister Thomas… I’m proud of her too. She’s been different since we left him, Rosa’s father… Everything’s been different.” 

Hard as I try to be cognizant of these things, I often forget about, or can’t see the struggles my students face outside of school. Between 8 and 3 on school days, I know where they are, who they’re with, and that they are safe and protected - but outside of those hours, the troubles they face are real. Some of them are homeless. Some have parents in prison or live with aunts and uncles because mom and dad aren’t around. Others, like I’m now clear is the case of Rosa Cortez, have abusive parents. They’re kids - they can’t control what happens to them outside of school most of the time, so they lash out in the safest, most stable place they can. It’s not their fault. Behaviors in school are often reflective of these situations beyond their control. 

Rosa was right. I did need her, not only to show me that - or for her odd moments of clarity and wisdom, but to prepare me for every situation that lies ahead. I’m a better teacher, hell, a better person - because of her.