Thank God my copies are made. Thank God there was a piece of banana bread left for me to devour on my way to work. And thank God Mrs. Remillard didn’t see me on the way in. Maybe she wouldn’t have even noticed but still.
I am suddenly aware that my eyes are closed, that my middle finger and thumb are squeezing the bridge of my nose. My forefinger presses into the center of my forehead. My heart pounds in my head.
Sudafed and aleve in my desk drawer!
I open it and press a tablet from the crinkly packet and then open the bottle of aleve. I wash down the three pills with a big swig of coffee. A little morning cocktail. Damn you, Monday Night Football.
Tunes, need some tune action. I like lo-fi and trip-hop when I’m working. Planning first period is clutch, especially on days like today. If Duvernay comes in asking for my numbers, I’m going to go ballistics. Not today, Duvo.
Dun dun da, rings the computer as it starts up. These old hard drives take forever to start up. Lesson plan, printed copy, where are you? First drawer: wrappers, a Coke bottle, my grade book, Chezarae’s impeccable illustrations of pistols and machine guns. Second drawer: copies from the first and second units and stacks of exit tickets. Shit, Vargas, if the kids don’t show growth this year, your ass is grass, and law school would wonder why you didn’t keep your job.
Finally, the desktop appears. I click on Chrome, type Youtube in one tab and Google Drive in the other. Nothing’s kicked in yet so I pound some more coffee. 8:17. The first beats lay the track; I try to focus. Alright, lesson plan.
4.NF.B.3d – Solve word problems involving addition and subtraction of fractions referring to the same whole and having like denominators, e.g., by using visual fraction models and equations to represent the problem.
Duvernay’s always on me about word problems, and that’s the thing they struggle with the most. Last year when they got their LEAP scores back, I saw Katriel in the hallway crying. “You said I was going to be at basic, Mr. Vargas. You said I was going to pass. And my momma told me if I don’t pass the fourth grade, she gonna carry me back to my daddy’s house.”
I open up my copies folder and flip through the first packet. The last page is just circles and bars. On Saturday, Mr. Cairo let me in to finish making the worksheets. This unit could make or break me and so had to get the design right. Achievement’s a bitch sometimes.
Manipulatives and materials— what you got for me, lesson plan?
Right, the big poster, different colored whiteboard markers. Yolanda, of course, can’t forget Yolanda.
Crayons! Did I forget the new crayons at home?! No, no no . . .
Who else has planning this period and crayons? Flint? No, Flint’s in the teacher advancement meeting. Hollis? No, he’s got kids. Fontaine. Yes, Ms. Fontaine.
I hit the coffee. I hit the water. 8:28. All missions go. I skip to the door, hustle down the steps that lead up to the trailer and slap my dress shoes against the pavement bolting past the other fourth and fifth grade trailers. Kids are coming out of the double doors of the existing brick building. I zip up my commotion, put on a smile and feign professional poise. The line of sleepy kindergarteners slinks along the walkway like a groggy centipede. Some of them wave at me. “Hey Mr. Vargas.”
“Señor, Señor,” shouts Miguel, throwing up deuces with two fat fingers.
“Hey, hey. Buenos días,” I respond watching the kids in the caboose trying to keep up.
Door — Fontaine — crayons.
Halfway down the hall, cold fluorescent light beaming off the oatmeal white wall, pull up to Fontaine’s door. Again I zip up my turbulence. A little jolt from the drugs rattles in my body, and all of a sudden, a torrent of pee balloons in my bladder. 8:31. I knock twice and open her door slowly.
“Ms. Fontaine?” She’s sitting crosslegged and looking at someone. The door opens fully now. Remillard is sitting across the short, round table with green and blue marks on the acrylic surface in several directions.
“Oh, so sorry.” Remillard’ll think I’m unprepared. Can’t teach the lesson without crayons though. Best for the kids. “I’m really sorry to interrupt. I know one-on-one time is very important. I’m doing fractions today. I bought a bunch of new crayons, but I left them at home, and it really gets the kids invested. Ms. Fontaine, could you please let me borrow a couple of boxes please?” My eyes turn to meet Fontaine’s. Vexation rides along her brow. She uncrosses her legs and turns.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Remillard,” I parry, shifting glances.
I watch the skin around Fontaine’s ankles as she bends down to reach for the crayons. Remillard sighs and a bead of sweat rolls down my back. Fontaine extends out her arm, handing me the boxes of crayons from several feet away.
“Sherry, you’re a lifesaver.”
She examines me. Was ‘Sherry’ a bad call? I divert my eyes past her, saying, “Sorry again.”
The door closes. Long strides take off down the hall. I am totally here in the clamor of things: several boxes of crayons between both my hands like gemstones, the heat in my body, the synapses firing and thoughts rocketing from lobe to lobe, children’s voices rising and falling, the great weight of my bladder. Something of a smile rises in my face. I push open the door.
Swinging blonde curls are rounding the corner. My body stops just short of hers. “Dupre, so sorry, in a little bit of a hurry.” I catch a gust of the warm October air; it stops me in my tracks. Too much to do, Vargas. I fling open the door to my classroom.
I put the boxes down on the table closest to my cabinet. 8:41 says the clock on the wall. I grab the plastic baskets from the shelves. Fingers are opening up the top to one of the crayon boxes. No, no, just give them instructions for the baskets. On the first table, I put two boxes in a basket, then pick up the stack of baskets and crayon boxes and distribute the same setup to each table. No, they’ll start playing with them immediately if they see them on the table. I pick each one back up and put them on the floor beneath the whiteboard. They’ll see them there and ask, and then I can tell them that they have to follow directions if they want to use them. I prop up the rolls of poster board in the corner near the whiteboard—hope they’ll stay. Now, computer / projector. I run to my desk and take my computer over, plug in the HDMI and hit the on button. It’s firing up so feet scurry back to the desk opening the bottonmost drawer to grab the tool belt and Yolanda, my two secret weapons, especially for the fractions unit. Zing goes the space between my temples—coffee, sudafed, aleve; damn I have to pee. A blue rectangle appears on the projector screen. I skip to the Elmo stand again, hit ctrl + f4, click on the visuals and then turn the Elmo off. In my tool belt I have at least five different colors of markers. I look around. The copies folder is still on my desk.
8:52, I slide the stack of papers in the space under the Elmo. Before my hand even leaves the folder’s smooth plastic plane, I’m smarting to the door. Thank God the bathroom is just outside my door. I hit the light and forget to lock the door. I’m already cocked and loaded. How much do chemical composition and pressure affect erosion on porcelain toilets? The smell indicates a high coffee to beer ratio. “American Standard” is a perfect name for such a concoction.
The faucet shuts off. I look at myself in the mirror. A zit is emerging on my lip.
Showtime, Vargas: no excuses, relentless pursuit.
***
I hear their playful, taunting voices bounce off the metal sheeting of the trailers next to mine. I take my place two tiles from the door with my body diagonal to the wall. The way my classroom is set up, I realized that I can’t stand at the door to greet them on the one side because my back would either be pressed against the wall, in which case if there were a fight during the entrance routine I would lose intervention time because the other children would be in my way, or standing on the other side, my back would be to the children as they take their seats, in which case all hell could break lose at any moment. It took me a while to internalize that good surveillance and strict discipline are the only way to make any real progress, even though that’s what my CMA had been telling us from the start. And I’m like, Yo, Vargas, just listen to what they tell you, dawg. I mean, this long to come to the conclusion to step two tiles back and shift stance forty-five degrees?
The Do-Nows! I rush to grab them, place them on the Do-Now table behind the projector and scurry to my spot. Middle-class values start with a firm handshake and a strong look in the eye.
“Good morning Kayla.”
She mumbles something under her breath.
“Kayla, try again.” I motion for her to return to the door.
“Good mornin Darrell.”
Kayla mumbles something ugly as drags herself back to the door.
“Mawnin Mr. Vargas,” says Darrell. His handshake is limp. I think about correcting him, but Kayla is pissed off leaning again the wall with her hand on her hip.
“Ok Kayla,” I feign a smile, “let’s try again. Good morning Kayla.”
“Mornin Mr. Vargas,” she says rolling her eyes. She pushes in front of Chezarae flippantly.
I raise my eyebrows at him in response. “Good mornin Chezarae.” Damn, it’s hard to put the “good” in front of “morning” sometimes. I watch Darrell grab a Do-Now fanning out the once neat stack of papers. Chezarae’s hand slides into mind. A firm grip calls my attention back to him. “That’s a solid handshake, Chez.”
“Got game, Mr. V.”
And so it goes for another three minutes, greeting each student with eye contact, a handshake and a good morning. I’ve calculated that on any given day a third of them are asked to start again. Those that don’t do it correctly the second time have one more chance before I write them up for disrespect. A couple of weeks ago, Jaheem sucked his teeth at me when I told him to tuck his shirt in as he entered. “Mann, why you always be looking at my pants, Mr. V?”
“Tuck it in please, Jaheem.”
“What’s so important bout my . . .” he began.
Then from the far end of the room, Travanna perked up and said, “Boy, you best know by now that Mr. V don’t play when it come to entrance routines.”
I kept staring at him with raised eyebrows trying to keep stern, but inside the buzzer-beater three-pointer from half court had just swooshed through the net.
In microseconds the memory comes and fades and I realize that I’m now in the two-minute window of relative silence while they at least look at their Do-Nows. My mind swirls and scans for possible oversights in preparation. I forgot to change the numbers on the board. I manage one beeline step towards the board when the fussing begins.
“Boy, I’m a sneek you now,” says Nolan pushing himself out of his chair to stand. He takes a single step towards Danny’s table. Danny closes his eyes, clenches his fists, flares his nostrils, and as I come closer, I watch his chin rise up and his top teeth bite down on his lower lip.
“Step it back Nolan,” I say in adopted Orleanian cadence. He glances at me sideways.
“Step it back.”
“Yeah, Nolan, step it back,” Danny rumbles between his teeth, then muttering, “cause you know you aint gon do nothin noways.”
“Boy, I swear I sneek you.”
“Heads down, everybody,” I command looking around. The majority of them cross their arms and slide them forward. “What happened Nolan?” The rest of them are slowly lowering chin or cheek on hand or forearm but still looking on with unwavering attention.
“This boy sayin I’m gay cause I be holdin Montrell’s hand in the mornin.”
“Stop storyin. I aint say you gay. Jailyn say you gay and all I said was that your pencil kinda look it too.”
From across the room: “I aint say he gay, daas Shamique.”
“Jailyn, head down, not your fight.”
Nolan holds a pencil between his hands but I can’t make out its features. He’s gripping it tight, pushing the point down into the table below him. Danny’s fury is building. His face is turning red. I know not to touch. I know not to get between them. I sidestep into the space between the tables like tiptoeing on eggshells. I reach my arm out to break the tension between them.
“Nolan, come on now. Of course, you hold Montrell’s hand. He’s six years old. I . . .” —remember, they don’t care about you, Vargas— “you’re just bein a good big brother. Come on now, step back. They make fun of everything, not just you.”
“Boy,” announces Nolan searing, “I swear the next time you o your busted-ass cousin call me out my name, I promise to God I’ll sneek you.”
“Nolan, step back. Push your chair back and come through on the other side.” I look to the table behind me to see if there’s an empty seat. No, call Mac, let him cool off a minute. He shoves the chair into the table and snarls at Danny before turning away.
“Nolan, really good job. I’m proud of you for makin a good decision.” I walk over to him and squat down.
“Heads down,” I bark again, noticing several students still looking around. “Down Michelle. Down Malik.”
“Hey, Nolan,” I say in a whisper turning back towards him. “Remember we talked about breakin the violence? Man, you did that. You chose control.” I offer him my fist, but he refuses to bump. A scowl summarizes his overall callous, inert demeanor. “I’m a call Mr. Mac so y’all can take a walk together. Alright?”
He nods his head.
“Hey Nolan.” I quiet my voice to an even softer whisper. “I want to hold onto your pencil until the end of class just in case I have to write Danny up.”
Nolan hands me the pencil. “Wait right here.” I stand up. “CEOs, get your fast finisher packet out. Keep workin on the . . .” De’Shay is leaning back in her chair. Our eyes connect. I give her that classic teacher look. She slams the chair down on the floor and propels herself up as it hits the floor.
“Uh, now watch me whip. Now watch me nae-nae. Watch me whip. Now watch me nae-nae.”
“Cheeya,” says some indistinguishable voice.
“Man, that’s old school,” says another.
Now several other students have joined De’Shay moving back and forth between the whip and the nae-nae. “Cheeya.” Nolan is still pouting beside me. Danny’s eyebrows are raised in attention. Utter calamity floods me, seething and bulging under my skin. I feel my eyeducts grow heavy. My throat locks up in rage. Don’t lose it. My eyes close. I want to throw up my arm, bend my knees and palm an invisible basketball—let it all loose and just give into the nae-nae. Just let me nae-nae!
Do it, Vargas, nae-nae. Pray to the nae.
No, been here before. The one minute of props you gain means months of fighting their appeals for you to drop the Dougie for a hot minute when they get tired of multiplication drills.
I know from the sounds of things that at least three more girls are out of their seats whipping and naeing.
Ok ok, three phrases for despair: (1) All the world’s a stage; you just play a part. (2) If all hell breaks loose, stay centered no matter what. And number three is something about acceptance, but I’m already dialing Mr. Mac because whoever came up with them never worked in New Orleans public schools.
“Vargas asap.”
The wheelie cart for the projector has a cabinet underneath. My pores teem with heat. I open the door to the cabinet. I grab its only contents and lay it on the Do-Now desk behind the cart. I clap my hands as loud as I can three times and hold it up.
“Oh shee,” says Lisette, warning the others around her to sit down.
“Oh shit,” says John in response.
Woodreion sits down. Kevin sits down. Jada sits down. De’Shay is silent but still in the whip.
“Sit yo ass down ’fore the man blow the foghorn,” Woodreion commands De’Shay. The class is silent, and I find that my hands are on my hips. The door creaks open. The sound hangs there in the silence. Mr. Mac is smooth and always finely groomed. He’s not a big guy, but he’s got presence.
“Yes sir?” he asks stepping in and surveying the room.
“De’Shay needs to practice her apology to her classmates with you. Then she needs to call her mother and explain how she instigated a dance party in the middle of class. She’ll come back to give her apology before the end of the period, and she’ll serve a detention on Wednesday. I need you to take Nolan here, talk with him if he wants to and let him cool off for ten minutes or so. Roger?”
“Roger.”
I nudge Nolan forward, saying, “Lord, have mercy” and shaking my head a little.
Mac chuckles and says, “Come on De’Shay.”
The three of them shuffle out.
“Reset,” I announce, unpursing my lips. Several of them click their teeth. “I’m going to call each table to sit crosslegged on the red line outside with eyes towards the door, hands to yourself. The first person to go out is the last in line, just like we practiced. Not a word.”
I call the table farthest from the door and walk towards the entrance. Some of them mutter low disgruntlements as they file out, dragging their feet as if they were burdened with heavy weights. When the first table has gone, I put one foot on the second step and one on the first, giving me total perspective of the classroom and the walkway. They begin to take a seat on the red line of plastic tape I rubbed into the pavement a month and a half ago. As the next table files out, someone mumbles the classic “Man, I hate school” and another the classic “Know that’s right” in response. But by now my skin has grown tough, and I don’t need daily accolades to know that I’m fighting injustice. I just got to keep calling table by table and keep shifting my eyes from the single line of crosslegged kids in blue dickies and grey collared shirts to the ones shuffling out and the ones waiting to shuffle.
Game, Vargas: dribble, cross, baseline.
Now my feet shuffle up before them. I cross my arms for dramatic effect. Shall we have our come-to-Jesus-talk now or find the cross back in the classroom?
Has to be now, could lose them back inside.
Jones’ trailer is right beside us. Sorry 5th graders.
“This?” I hold up Nolan’s pink and purple pencil. “A color makes someone gay? You think a color defines you? Look at me. Most people think I’m Mexican because of the way I look. I was born in Alabama. My mother is Colombian and my father is from Honduras. But most people think I eat burritos and tortilla chips every meal and that I hardly speak English. You want someone to call you out your name just because you’re black or mixed or redbone? So why you got to call someone gay because he has a pink pencil? Who made pink a girl color anyway? And so what if he gay? That’s not your business anyway. This is not how CEOs act. CEOs don’t get distracted by stupid stuff. CEOs don’t lose track of the big picture. They always keep their goals in the front of their mind. We have a big goal. Who can tell me our class’s big, audacious goal?”
They look at me between apathetic or lackluster eyes. “Tyrielle, what’s our big, hairy, audacious goal for this year?” She shrugs a single shoulder.
“Oh I know you know it, people.” I pause, hands on my hips again. “Tyrielle, come on now.”
“Man, Vargas you be blowin me.”
“Tyrielle . . .”
“Pass the LEAP.”
“That’s right. Pass the LEAP. How are we going to pass the LEAP if we’re worried about the color of somebody’s pencil? Math aint easy y’all, but it’s your ticket to success. Do you want to be fussing and fighting about stupid stuff your whole life? Nothing wrong with dancing. I love dancing, but the classroom’s not the place. And y’all want the latest shake to take away your chance at being somebody? Y’all can all be CEOs, all of y’all, but you gotta walk the line. You gotta come to school, follow the rules, sit in your seats, shut your traps and tuck your shirttails in. You gotta learn what you gotta learn, like it or not, and one day, you’ll be glad you did. One day, head of some business somewhere, makin your little dough, and you’ll be like, ‘Man, I’m glad I finally got my head straight and just did my work.’ I’ve told y’all that when we ain’t right, we got to go back to basics. So . . .
“What’s the C stand for in CEO, Samisha?”
“Chief,” she snuffs.
“Each one of y’all can be chief, big chief, and nobody gets to be chief without hard work. You think that Mrs. Remillard got to be chief without workin hard? Mrs. Remillard got to be chief and she right here from Central City.”
“What’s the E stand for, Danny?”
“Zeckutive,” he sighs.
“Executive. You have to put it into play. You have to execute. You have to make the decision if you want to play around and end up in fourth grade for the second or third time or if you want to get it done.
“And O, what’s the O stand for, Darrielle?”
“Stand for ‘Out,’ cause I’m tryin to get out this class.”
“It stand for Officer, Mr. Vargas,” says Charles heroically. “These little chillren don’t be listening. You best be trying to get out the fourth grade. I done made eleven and I aint trying to be here another year. And hol’ up Mr. V. I know what you gon say. Officer means ‘duty’.”
I nod my head. Now, heartstrings, soften tone: “Right, officer means duty. This is y’all’s duty. This is what you’re supposed to do. For God sake, do it.” A sigh, maybe just for effect, probably real, too hurried to tell.
“Now stand up and listen for directions.” Nolan and Mr. Mac have exited the old library and are walking towards the fourth and fifth grade trailers.
A cry sounds from the middle of the line. I find it.
“Jaheem always be stepping on my foot.”
“I said sorry.”
I nod.
“Listening,” I enjoin, narrating my expectations. “Go in, take your seats and work on your fast finisher packets until I say pencils down. Whispers only if you have a question. John, what’d I say?”
A blank stare.
“Carlos, what’d I say?”
“Um, do the fast finisher. And, um, yeah, um, we can whisper.”
“You can whisper,” I clarify, “to your neighbor only if you have a question. Stand up. Silent. Inside. Hands to yourselves.”
They begin to file past me. I move backwards towards the two wooden steps. “Tyrielle step aside please.” She takes another step forward. “Tyrielle.”
“Uh,” she grumbles grabbing onto the wooden railing and pushing off of it with disdain.
“Nolan, you feelin better?” I ask as he comes past.
“Yeah, Faaargas, I’m good,” he assures me with proper Orleanian pomp and swagger. Mr. Mac is standing behind me for backup. Malik, last in line, stops before me and surveys me from head to toe, then shakes his head a little and says, “This school crazy, huh Fargas?”
I close my eyes and sigh, totally speechless. Mr. Mac chuckles.
Malik heads inside, and I peer in after him.
“Ok, Tyrielle, come here please.”
“Aw Lawd,” she gripes out of the side of her mouth as she takes hold of the railing once again. Inside, Taylor is sharpening a pencil, though she knows it’s against the rules. I turn back to Tyrielle who is now resting her cheek against the banister.
“Tyrielle, it’s disrespectful for you to talk to me like you did in line.”
“I didn’t do you nothing,” she snaps lifting her head.
“You said that I was blowin you. That’s disrespectful. If I make you mad, you can tell me before or after class and we can figure it out, but in front of everyone during class is not the time, you understand? It’s an insult. You’re going to serve a detention if it happens again. ‘Work hard. Get smart. Be nice.’ That’s our motto. Don’t forget the ‘Be nice’ part.”
“Man, Mr. Vargas, ‘be nice’ is for White people.”
My hands open up in plea. They lower and rise, calling attention to my body as I raise my eyebrows.
“I mean, I know you is Spanish but you act White.”
“ ‘Perspective,’ Tyrielle, what’s it mean?”
“I ont know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She sucks her teeth, pulls her body around the railing and walks up the stairs, then pushes past the frontmost table. As she does, Mr. Mac walks into the sunshine and turns his hands out. “Ah, days like this, mm, make my heart soar. Hey, Vargas?” he asks turning back towards me.
“Mac, gotta go.” Don’t got time for the folksy stuff.
I stop in the doorway. A big breath fills my lungs. In the top right corner of the board are written the definitions for ‘perspective’ and ‘audacious.’ We talk about them at least twice a week.
9:41. Forty-nine minutes to teach one of the hardest GLEs of the year.
I dash to my supply table beside the whiteboard. “Let’s do this,” I say slipping my hand in Yolanda’s rumpled sleeve trying to wake her. She looks at me and I nod.
“Pencils down, fast finisher packets away. Take out fractions unit packet. No delay,” I command sharply.
They shuffle their papers. The obedient ones are already taking out their binders. I begin to count to hurry up the laggards. “Ten – nine – eight . . .” Mac, of all the places you could take your sunbath, outside my window is the worst. “. . . four – three – two . . .” The kids are already distracted.
“Good morning ladies and gentleman,” says Yolanda in her perky voice as her hair of yarn swings from one side to the other. “Today you have the privilege of learning about one of my favorite, favorite of favoritest math challenges. Boom-chicka-boom-boom. Say it with me, Boom-chicka-boom-boom.”
“Boom-chicka-boom-boom,” they reply in a moderate shout.
“What?”
“Boom-chicka-boom-boom.”
“Now stop, waaaait a minute. Let’s review. Y’all know I like cookies.” I draw a big circle on the board while Yolanda’s pink, felt mouth hangs open. “We can divide the cookies into many different sizes, y’hurrd? I can divide it like this.” I draw. “I can divide it like this.” I draw another line. “And like this. But what happens when we need to subtract or add a part to another part that’s not the same size? Well this right cheeya is a job for CEOs. Aw Lawd. That’s why I’m a let Big V explain the technical side of things, and then when it’s time to help out, I’m a be back for y’all, y’huurd? Now take it away Vargie.”
Yolanda takes a rest on the marker tray as I rev up the engines of direct instruction. High stakes, baby. Vargie’s coming for ya.
Mr. Mac chuckles from afar, and I hear his muffled voice speaking to someone else. Drives me crazy that I’m busting my ass and he’s just chitchatting. But, hey, sacrifice, that’s the price of justice.
“Eyes forward, tracking the speaker. Now, remember common denominators are the key to . . .” I walk up one side of the class and down the other before coming back to the board to give my first example. Good surveillance, strict discipline—CEOs in the making. Cheeya.
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