By Vera Feldman
At 43 I embarked on the most exciting, risky, and exhilarating journey of my life: I enrolled in college to fulfill my lifelong dream of attaining a bachelor’s degree, coincidentally at the same time as my twin son and daughter.
Having dropped out of college to get married and have a family, I was now a mature and highly motivated student. I loved learning and drank in knowledge with a thirst I did not know I possessed. I especially loved the classics — reading Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey — and learning about tragedy, heroism, triumph, and courage. As I listened to my young classmates talk to one another about getting good grades and preparing for a future career, but never talking about what they had learned, I thought that in some respects college educations were often wasted on the young.
When it came time to choose a major, I settled on Education. Having worked as a secretary to help pay for my three children’s hefty private school tuitions, I was tired of pushing paper and longed to do something creative and worthwhile.
As a student in the Education department of a city university, I was immersed in a cocoon of idealism. I learned theories of child development and the importance of promoting self-esteem. The professors advised us to disregard basal readers containing prepared lessons in favor of “Whole Language,” which was more a philosophy of education than a method of teaching. We were taught that a teacher’s role was not to impart information, but rather to facilitate learning.
The last year of the program consisted of part-time student teaching. I did my student teaching in two of the finest schools in Brooklyn; first at the Berkley-Carroll pre-school, then at a public school in Park Slope where I interned with an experienced and highly regarded second-grade teacher.
Most of the children in this second grade class were bright high achievers from middle-class homes. The teacher, Mary Ellen, divided the class into groups and worked with the slower children while a paraprofessional worked with other groups. Sometimes the most advanced students worked in their own group, supervised by the teacher. The class ran like a well-oiled machine. I observed, taught a unit of my own, and wrote copious notes about every aspect of the process.
Unfortunately, my education and student teaching experience did not prepare me for the reality of my first teaching job, where I experienced a culture shock almost as great as when I arrived in the United States as a new immigrant from Israel at the age of 13.
In September 1995 I was appointed to an inner-city public school, and given a first-grade class of 35 children. It quickly became apparent that about 10 of my students had severe emotional problems, and needed help that I was not trained to provide.
My days consisted of precious little time spent teaching reading, writing, math, and too many hours trying to prevent rampant stealing, improper sexual behavior, and vicious attacks on children by other children.
There was a boy whom I will call Javon (I changed the names of all the children I wrote about to protect their privacy) who ate his homework assignments daily. With a face devoid of expression and an empty look in his eyes, he told his classmates, “I am going to cut your fucking head off.”
Michael, whose eyes darted around the room constantly, stole anything that was not nailed down. His shirt often bulged with accumulated booty; he even took food from the garbage.
There was angelic looking Johnny, who proudly showed me a picture of his mother standing against a prison wall, and told me: “That’s my mommy. She’s in the hospital. She is coming home soon.” Johnny’s favorite activity was jumping on the desks and beating other children senseless. When I asked him why he would hit another child, he smiled and did not say a word. His father promised that he’d “fix Johnny and bring him back as good a new.” I knew what that meant. But I also knew that telling Johnny’s father that beating a child doesn’t “fix” anything was a waste of time. It was his way of dealing with his son.
There was Dequan, who at the age of six already knew more about sex than his teacher. He touched the girls in class, and told them that he wanted to “sex” them. This behavior concerned me, and I took him to the principal. When she asked him what it means to “sex” someone, he explained graphically and knowledgably.
There were also children who came to school clean and shiny and eager to learn. They were my motivation for coming back every day.
Then there were the parents … Most of the parents worked hard and did their best for their children. But there were others, like the mother who, when I called her at 9:30 in the morning and identified myself as her son’s teacher, said, “What the fuck do you want?”
Every day was a battle in which the children and I were losers. Almost every lesson was disrupted. Even the relaxing daily activity of reading a story to the children as they sat on the rug was stressful because of fights and interruptions.
The classroom was not chaotic and I did my best to keep a roving eye on the children at all times. But that didn’t stop Dequan from managing to touch girls inappropriately, Johnny from beating up his tablemate for no apparent reason, Michael from stealing a classmate’s belongings, and Clayton from taking off his socks and throwing them across the room. The disruptions, which were constant, distracted the entire class.
At the end of each day, I came home drained and so upset that all I could do was sit in front of the T.V. and watch mindlessly for about an hour before being able to speak civilly to my family. I felt like a failure for not being able to control a room full of six-year-olds. When I thought about Mary Ellen’s second-grade classroom in Park Slope, it seemed like a dream — a utopian fantasy that could never be recreated in my classroom.
Dequan’s penchant for touching girls inappropriately continued in spite of my vigilance, and every time an incident occurred I reported it to the principal’s office. A month and a half before the end of the school year, I received a letter file from the principal. It stated that my inability to control my students, I was directly responsible for boys molesting girls in the classroom. From that day until the end of the school year my performance was scrutinized daily. I was advised by the principal to find another job, and preferably another career. I fantasized regularly about quitting before the end of June, but never seriously considered it. In spite of the difficulties, the children had bonded with me, and I didn’t want to abandon them.
At the end of that spirit-killing year, I was determined never to set foot in a classroom again. I yearned for the days when, as a secretary, I worked in a quiet atmosphere, did not have to raise my voice, and had employers who respected and appreciated me.
Having settled on a leave of absence from teaching instead of cutting the cord completely with a final resignation, I confronted my fears about teaching the following September by working as a sub. Although I was apprehensive the first time, as soon as I entered the classroom I felt at home. The following year I got a teaching job in a religious private school where the environment was ideal — with small classes, a full-time assistant, and support from the administration. However, the salary was very low, and medical benefits were not fully covered. I was reluctant to leave, but financial considerations prompted me to seek a higher-paying job with comprehensive benefits.
I decided I wanted to work for the Board of Education with all the benefits it offered, but not as a teacher. I remembered what I liked about being a secretary, applied for certification, and became a school secretary.
I am in my mid 50s now, and work as a principal’s secretary in a New York City public high school. Dealing with a diverse student and adult population is a challenge, and one of the things I like best about my job. But there are times when I look back and think of the great effort it took for me to go back to school, attain a college degree with honors, and begin a new career in mid-life. In those moments, I can’t help feeling a twinge of regret that instead of being inside a classroom where learning takes place, I am on the outside looking in, pushing paper once again.
Vera Feldman is a writer and a former teacher. She is currently working on a mystery novel. Ms. Feldman lives in Brooklyn, New York.
