A New York City Schoolteacher

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Marilyn Horan

                                                In the Classroom           

            In 1977, when the citywide financial crisis was easing, I was finally offered a job teaching English in a New York City school, Bushwick High School, a place with a bad reputation in a dangerous neighborhood.  I had been on the eligible list for five years waiting for an appointment by the Board of Education, and spent that time teaching in an all girls Catholic secondary school.  Except for the first year, which was brutal—teaching Afro-American Literature to a fiercely resistant all-white class of seniors who ridiculed me daily—I loved teaching.  The nuns who ran the school treated me with respect and care.  They provided me with excellent gourmet lunches each day served on white tablecloths, bought me presents for my birthday, and, in general, valued me as a member of their congregation.   However, the pay was low and taking the public school job would double my salary almost to the dollar.  Having recently broken up with a long time boyfriend and needing to pay the rent on my own, I called my Uncle Alfie for advice.  He didn’t hesitate for a moment and told me to accept the offer because it provided health benefits, a much improved salary, a retirement plan, in a word: security.  So, terrified, I reported to my new employment, shaking all over.

            The atmosphere at the public school could not have been more different from that of my previous job.  Upon meeting my chairperson, an unsmiling and unhappy man, I was given five remedial English classes, and a professional assignment which consisted of sharpening three thousand pencils, filing papers, addressing labels, and so forth.  There was a cold, almost military atmosphere about the place, and although my colleagues were mostly friendly, my supervisors, including the principal, were impersonal.  It was as if they were all in the same miserable boat, and I, as the newcomer, was not allowed on board but had to tread water while hanging on with one hand. The first time I handed in my grades I had labeled a set “English 3.”  My department chairman practically threw the sheets back in my face and told me to identify them correctly, “English 3F,” with the admonition to, “Get it straight.” He insisted also that his name, Mr. Kass, and the title “Assistant Principal” be typed on every sheet or test I distributed to my classes.  I got my revenge by occasionally leaving off the K from his name, or abbreviating his title “Ass. Principal.” 

            The students were, for the most part, sweet and responsive, but only after they put me through a crucible.  More than anything else, the kids wanted to know if I was their “real” teacher; if I was going to stay.  Turnover in more difficult schools was great, and the teenagers wanted consistency and a guarantee that going I was going to be loyal to them, by persisting despite their sometimes disturbing antics.  For example, one skinny, homely young man with what appeared to be only one or two teeth, Jerome, in my homeroom class insisted on calling me “ugly” every chance he got.  Sometimes he would do so while polishing a knife with a rag or rolling what looked like a joint from his seat in the back of the room.  “You ugly, Miss,” was his daily greeting.  “Where you come from, Miss?” and “You ever teach before, Miss?” were some of his other comments.  I was afraid of him and had to call upon every nerve in my body to not tremble or show fear in front of him.  One day I had an epiphany.  I realized that, more than anything, Jerome wanted my attention.  I had nothing to lose and in a moment of rash bravery I said to Jerome, “You keep telling me I’m ugly, Jerome.  When is the last time you looked in the mirror?”  The whole homeroom responded with a roar of appreciative laughter, hands clapping and feet stomping, and Jerome burst into a big, mostly toothless, smile.  I felt triumphant.  I had broken down the barrier of fear and created a path of communication with Jerome and the rest of the class that lasted all year.  Jerome never tired of kidding around with me and I answered his questions with crazy answers such as:

             “I came from Riker’s Island.” 

            “Why you was there, Miss?” 

             “Because I killed someone.” 

             “How you killed him?” 

             “How do you think I did it?”

             “You chopped off his head?”

             “How did you know?”

            “Why you did it, Miss?”

             “Well, he was in my homeroom and kept asking me annoying questions.”

            To those who never taught in a school, these exchanges might seem cruel or unprofessional, but learning to disarm students with a sense of humor was the most important skill I developed during teaching.  I could not have survived the two and a half years there without getting into the students’ give and take, playing the dozens, trying to relate to young people who needed a connection.  I looked forward to homeroom every day as a safe haven.  The kids became mine and I became theirs.

            This is not to say that everything was rosy at Bushwick.  Crime was a constant threat to my possessions and to my well-being.  One day as I was standing at my desk, explaining an answer to a student in my English class during the three-minute break, I noticed an unfamiliar young man standing there. I told him I would be with him in a minute.  He then grabbed my hair with one hand and ripped a gold chain off my neck with the other and ran out the classroom door.  The students were shocked and nobody moved for a few seconds, when a large, burly girl, jumped up, cursing, “Don’t worry, Miss.  I’ll get that mother fucker,” and ran after the thief.  She returned a few minutes later, out of breath and unsuccessful in her attempt.  “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll see him around the neighborhood.  I’ll fuck him up.”  “Thank you,” I said, still in shock from the assault. 

            When I reported this to the principal, he said, “This is your fault.  You shouldn’t wear jewelry to school because you make yourself a target.”  Lesson learned.  “the princple he sit on he fat ass all day smoking herd,” was the beginning sentence of a student’s letter--a response to a prompt on a NY State literacy test.  When one of the English teachers read the essay aloud during a group marking session, the entire department cheered, agreeing with everything the unfortunately dyslexic student said.  Intense dislike for the administration created a strong sense of camaraderie among the teachers and was fodder for many a raucous and hilarious lunch period.           

            Another time in the middle of the lesson, I reached down to get a book from the desk drawer.  There between my feet was a hand.  I jumped. I looked over the desk and all I saw was gigantic tumbleweed of black curly hair.  What the heck was it?  I couldn’t imagine.  “Class,” I said pointing to the hair, “what is that?”  Suddenly the mass of hair, a huge Afro, jumped up and revealed a skinny little kid, about thirteen, under it.  He looked at me long enough for me to see his severely crossed eyes.  He sprinted out of the classroom in a flash, leaving my students and me stunned, mouths open.  What the heck just happened?  We later found out that this kid had already stolen another teacher’s purse using the same technique of sliding down the aisle on his belly, slowly and stealthily, reaching under a desk to grab the purse, all the while unnoticed by anyone.  I later had to identify him and testify against him, frail and cross-eyed and scared, in court.

            While I was tutoring remedial reading students for an important upcoming state test, someone slashed all four of my car tires.  I was distraught and questioned deeply my decision to be a teacher.  All of my dedication and this is what I get?  The next day, as I walked down the hallway, I heard, “Psst…Ms. Horan,” and a student told me the name of the tire cutter.  I walked another few steps and again, “Psst…Ms. Horan,” and again I was told the name of the guilty one.  This happened about six times before I got to my classroom at the end of the hall.  I felt that I had allies in the school; I had students who cared about me.  The slasher was brought down to the dean’s office, handcuffed, and taken to the local precinct.  The police officer who remained to take my statement, kept shaking his head saying, “I don’t know how you manage to come back day after day to this job.  I wouldn’t do it for a million dollars.”  This same sentiment was expressed to me by a Vietnam vet and by a Navy jet fighter pilot.  By the way, all of the sixteen students who attended the tutoring class passed the state examination and I felt great satisfaction.  The students did, too.

            Throughout the years all my stories of work were much more interesting than the stories other had to tell about their jobs.  People always asked me to tell them what crazy/fun/scary things happened in school since they last saw me. They still ask me to repeat my "stories," and the fascination others have for what I did on the job suggests to me that other people's jobs are really boring.  In addition, I took pride in the fact that I persevered in a profession most people wouldn't even consider or without a SWAT team on hand.   I felt especially proud and maybe even a little bit swaggering with "toughness" that I had a job that would make others quake in their boots.

            Additional reasons that being an English teacher was satisfying are:

1.  People, especially teachers in the lounge, always ask for your help when they are stumped on a crossword puzzle. 

2.  Secretaries and other school personnel seek your advice about grammar, word usage, and spelling.  “Affect/Effect” is the number one stumper followed by “use to/used to,” “than/then,” “a lot/a lot.”

3.  Whenever acquaintances or friends write to you, at the end of the letter they apologize for their spelling and grammar, knowing you are always on the lookout for mistakes. 

4.  When people speak to you, they often ask you to excuse their accent, Brooklyn or otherwise.  Sometimes they blush and stammer and self-correct their pronunciation.

Being an English teacher can sometimes be a heady experience.

            It never failed that throughout my 36 years in the classroom when I asked my students how many of them were considering teaching as a career, the class would laugh and hoot derisively.  “Yeah, we want to work for crappy salaries and get insulted by snotty teenagers,” they said.  So I liked to ask them what they wanted to be when they grew up.  It’s amazing how many future brain surgeons, lawyers, professional ball players, actors, and rocket scientists were sitting right there in front of me just biding their time, chewing gum, applying more lip gloss, and playing video games until their fabulous, glamorous, wealthy, and exciting new lives started. They didn’t realize what I knew: teaching is a great job.  I made a decent salary, had and still have great benefits, and am currently enjoying the pension for which I worked decades.   I helped many students both in and outside of the classroom, spent countless hours discussing literature and its lessons with young people, enjoyed the adolescent sense of humor, made lifelong friends, and, as a bonus, even met my husband. Uncle Alfie didn’t steer me wrong.