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The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 15

February 5, 2013

Holy crap. Part 15. That means about 30,000 words you’ve had to suffer through. You have my sympathies. At the end of Part 14 I bugged out of the Trenton charter school. Where I went to next was in some ways better, in some ways no different. My interview was nothing special except that I was surprised at how impressed they were when I explained a very simple way to write a certain essay that had been an area of great difficulty for their state test scores in recently. Years later I was told by one of the people on the interview committee that, when I left, they said, “That guy knows things that we don’t know.” They were right.

Pleasantville is about 8 miles west of Atlantic City. Not a month goes by, usually, without at least one murder. Not a year goes by without the schools mourning the death of children, usually by gunfire. Also not a year goes by without teachers in trouble for drug offenses or smacking kids and administrators arrested for theft of funds. It is a perfect example of mismanagement in New Jersey, a place where extra money is taken from other towns throughout the state and then sent to Pleasantville so they can find a way to waste it or lose it.

I arrived in Pleasantville in mid April of 2005 and just did my best to finish out the year in order to have a place to call home the following year, and it worked out. My first 2 ½ months that finished the year were inconsequential. I taught a writing class because, in that school, writing and reading were in separate classes instead of one combined language arts/English class. I didn’t care. I had a job. The school was over an hour away. I didn’t care. I had a job. It was a school that caused me to create my favorite saying: If I’m the smartest guy in the room, then I must be in the wrong room. I didn’t care. I had a job.

When September arrived and my first full year at Pleasantville began, I learned that my teaching position had been changed. Instead of writing, I was teaching something called Character Education. It was a “special area” class, something in the direction of art and music, instead of an academic class such as science or math. Once a week kids came to me so I could teach them about bullying, peer pressure, study skills, getting along with others positively, and a handful of other things. Me, someone who had been fired for explicitly discussing sex through school e-mail, fired after being falsely accused of being with a 5^th grade girl, I was teaching character behavior. Go figure.

Less interesting than what I was teaching was who I was teaching with. With whom I was teaching. The other people doing the same damn thing. They were Joe and Kathy, and the only reason I’m naming them is because they’re important in two very different ways, but before I discuss them, I must go back to Dave, who had been my best friend and was also fired for discussing sex and other things in e-mail with me.

Up until this current year, the only way a New Jersey school could fire a tenured teacher was by filing tenure charges, which have repercussions at the state level. What that means is that if a school attempts to get rid of a tenured teacher, then that teacher is automatically examined by the state board of education as to whether or not that person should ever be a teacher again. Ever. So, you’re not just kicking them out of your school. You’re potentially kicking them out of the profession forever. That is what happened to Dave. He wasn’t just released from that school. He would no longer teach ever again. It killed me to think that I was a catalyst in that. He was married, had three boys, and had a lifetime wrapped up in education, and I helped blast it apart.

One of the last conversations I had with Dave was on the very first day of that first full year at Pleasantville Middle School. I called him when I saw five police cars in front of my building. Of course I thought I had already screwed up. Turns out the FBI was there to arrest five of the nine members of the town’s board of education. There was corruption, and the FBI set up a sting operation that proved not only successful there in Pleasantville but had echoes heard in five other towns around the state. It was good to know that at least it wasn’t about me.

Pleasantville Middle School was grades 6, 7, and 8. It was a nice, new building that sat on a former landfill. Constantly there were rumors about strange odors and gases wafting into the building. Constantly there were teachers sent home sick, regurgitating, occasionally diagnosed with cancer. I taught on the third floor, so I was less worried than others. We had a principal who was a good cheerleader, a good hand clapper, a good smiler, but she wasn’t a good principal. She sat down when it was time to stand up and vice versa. We had a connection, having been born and spent early years in the same city in Northern New Jersey. We attended the same college. When her father was ill and in his last year, I steered her towards a fabulous home and hospice care facility, and she was grateful. And when it was time to decide whether or not I received tenure in that school district, she told me, “Figure out what your supervisor wants and do it her way. Do what it takes to make sure you stay here.” I found that odd because whether or not I stayed there was her decision, not the supervisor’s, although the supervisor could make recommendations. That was another trait of hers, pass the buck and let someone else either make the decision or take the blame. She just wanted to show up at meetings, speak, and walk away while people clapped.

Joe and Kathy, the teachers I was working with, seemed like decent people. From there, one went up and one went down. So to speak. Kathy was a sad woman with scraggily long, curly hair that was never once cut in the six years I knew her because, as she said, her husband would not let her cut it. She often confided in me and others about her sorry excuse of a husband, who is one of several people stalking my blog. Do not be surprised if he attempts to leave comments here or even attempts to contact some of you directly. If he does, it will not nearly be the worst thing he has attempted to do to me. He regularly reads what I write and has done some amazingly creepy things to me. A few years ago I was reading blog entries and came across a post about nostalgic toys. I left a comment about the Slinky because I knew an interesting story about how it was invented. Two days later, I found a Slinky in the mailbox, roughly 75 miles from his home. That was creepy.

That first year I spoke with Kathy probably more than anyone else. She was smart and interesting to talk to with a good sense of humor. She had a subtle, dry wit, often making those comments that took you a few seconds to understand, but they were all well worth it. Occasionally, she told me a little extra than she told others. Her husband sat home and smoked pot all day while figuring out ways to scam the state and collect unemployment or disability money. At least once he had intentionally fallen down a set of stairs and caused an ankle injury to collect state money while sitting home and smoking more pot. They had two kids who needed to be fed, dressed, and brought to school. Kathy’s husband slept all morning while she got them ready and then often showed up late to Pleasantville. On more than one occasional she was threatened with being fired because of her poor attendance. The only reason she didn’t get fired was because the union president was so far smarter than the school administration that it was really unfair. If he wanted to, he could have probably talked the board of education into firing themselves.

Kathy’s husband, Rob, was in the process of turning their garage into a “man cave.” For Christmas he bought the family an air hockey table. His rationale was that 25% was his, 25% was Kathy’s, and the other 50% was for their two kids. According to that, it was for everyone. Right.

Kathy had not much of a clue what she was doing and basically waited for me to tell her what I was doing with the character education class so she could just copy what I had prepared. I didn’t mind, although I could have kept my plans to myself and let her do her own work. Oh well. I’m a Libra. That’s how we work. When she came to my room about once a week with another story about her sad husband, I wondered about her goal. Was she trying to get sympathy or maybe hoping to get to know me better? I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter.

Very early in about my fifth school year, after gaining tenure and going back to being an English teacher instead of character education, I was told to report to the principal’s office. She told me I was being accused of sexual harassment by Kathy for allegedly asking her to go out for a drink with me after school. It was also alleged that in teacher meetings I was constantly following her and engaging her in “personal” conversations. I was instructed to avoid her at all cost, not talk to her, and nothing. I wanted to laugh and smash something at the same time. I was greatly confused, but then things became clear.

Shortly before that time, I became very close friends – as had been my unintentional habit – with the union president, “Mike,” about whom I’ll provide more detail in another chapter. Let’s just say for now that Mike eventually became one of my greatest friends, although the current state of that is highly questionable. Mike and others were growing disappointed with the leadership in the building and planned to take action. I was asked to individually e-mail about 15 select teachers to join us in a school improvement committee. We weren’t inviting all teachers because we didn’t want anyone to know who else was or was not invited. I had suggested to the president to invite Kathy because she was smart, but apparently not as smart as I thought. When she left her e-mail open at home one day, her husband pounced on the computer. When he saw that I had sent his wife an invitation to meet someplace after school, he immediately assumed that I was trying to “hook up” with his wife. First, eww. Second, no. Third, I easily proved him wrong when the union president explained. The problem was that Kathy made no effort to help and even fostered some doubt through her silence. Reality was that she was constantly attacked by her husband, and this was a moment in which she could send his anger in a different direction and maybe get a little sympathy for herself. Part of the irony of the situation is that I was a union representative whose job it was to assist colleagues who were either being accused of or were accusing others of harassment.

The day immediately before I had that meeting with the principal, all English teachers attended a workshop. I got there first and sat at a table with one other teacher. There were probably ten other tables in the room, and my table, with about eight chairs total, had six empty. When Kathy arrived for the workshop, she sat at my table instead of any of the nine others. Would it really make sense for her to sit where I was sitting if she really thought I was harassing her? “I don’t think so,” I told the principal, “and I can bring you a witness who was sitting with me.” And I did. And the principal shrugged and said, “I’m just doing what my boss tells me to do.”

That incident went away, but there were residual effects. As stated, Kathy had often been verbally and physically abused at home, and she needed to redirect her husband’s aggression, so she chose me. He started by e-mailing threats and warnings. When I politely told him to get lost, he sought to sue and make money. When that failed, he made it personal. He did the Slinky in the mailbox thing I already told you about. One night I arrived home to find strange marks that turned out to be cigarette burns on my deck furniture. As I was studying the dark gray marks, my neighbor approached to tell me about a weirdo dressed in all black and walking around on my deck while yelling at someone on his cell phone. Luckily, it was a late day for me, and he left before I arrived.

Tony Soprano, who looks a lot like Joe

I mentioned someone named Joe, a fabulous friend with the body of a gorilla and the heart of a kitten – unless you got him angry. If you saw Joe, you might think you were looking at Tony Soprano. But if you knew Joe, then you’d know he was only half Soprano. That Soprano half inside of Joe was ready to unleash hell upon Kathy and her husband, and I had to work to stop him. If I were in trouble, Joe might not be the first person I would call, but he would definitely be the first person who would show up. I hope I know him for a long time, and I’ll tell you more about Joe and others in Part 16.

38 Comments | writing | Tagged: atlantic city, education, fired, harass, harassment, memoir, non-fiction, pleasantville, principal, school, teacher, tenure, trenton | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 14

January 30, 2013

Thirteen parts down but enough to add a special menu on my blog that contains links to the whole series. Thanks again to Ron and Shimon who spurred this idea. In part 14, I get another job which, of course, I will eventually leave. However, this time it is actually my choice to leave.

__________________________________________

After spending an entire school year not in school, I found an educational establishment that was thrilled to include me as part of their staff for the following year. What could be more impressive than The Emily Fisher School of Advanced Studies? It was a charter school, which means you can get government money to run a school provided that you can show a plan, the personnel, the place, and a purpose. A purpose might be creating a magnet school for performing arts in which kids spend part of the day in regular studies followed by theater, music, etc. The Emily Fisher School for Advanced Studies had a purpose: keep the worst of the worst kids that had been kicked out of the City of Trenton’s public schools off the streets. The only “advanced studies” were teaching studying the help wanted ads to get themselves outta there.

The director was a nice guy, and I’ll call him “Daniel” because I likely will not praise him very highly. He had great intentions, but it seemed he didn’t have everything necessary to complete the expectations that he forecast. He was a former attorney, but I suspect he had been disbarred. If so, he won’t be the only disbarred attorney to appear through this series. Staff was to appear in the main building of the school only about two days before students. We sat in a gym well past its prime and still smelling like the sneakers used in the CYO basketball games from about 40 years prior. I looked around at an interesting collection of misfits and castaways, and sitting next to me was a friend from several chapters back – Dave.

If you recall, or if you don’t, Dave was the teacher whom I had been e-mailing when I was chased out of Penns Grove, the school at which the superintendent was snooping through our e-mail. Eventually, the pressure and legal action against Dave was great enough that he resigned from the school run by the fabulous Cheryl Smith, NOT of Cherry Hill, NJ, who had proven herself to be a vindictive and vengeful bitch. Although Dave seemed to have a strong case to avoid being fired, Cheryl stooped lower than low. She went to the newspapers.

Dave’s picture had been in the newspaper with allegations that he was showing pornography to students in his classroom. There were also allegations that he was having sex with students. What is ironic about that claim by Cheryl Smith, NOT of Cherry Hill, NJ, is that she had a family member teaching in that same school. “Tom,” as I will call him, was the subject of whispers about him and female students disappearing after school. It was joked about specifically because he was said to have a very strict rule that he would only get together with seniors, as if that was somehow noble. Actually, his wife was a former student of his. I knew at least three other teachers there whose wives were former students. I found that odd and worth discussing. Dave and I “discussed” it through e-mail that was eventually read by Cheryl Smith. One of our e-mail exchanges went something like this:

Dave: I gotta go. Legs hurt.

Me: Take a walk through the high school.

Dave: Yeah. Maybe there is a new senior.

Me: Right. Seniors are okay, but no freshmen, sophomores, or juniors.

Taken out of context, it seems like we were endorsing having sex with high school girls as long as they were seniors. Taken out of context, nobody would know that Dave and I were specifically making fun of Tom, the superintendent’s relative who preyed upon senior girls. We never mentioned Tom’s name because we didn’t need to. In a previous chapter, I mentioned how the superintendent who fired me had brought my e-mails to the police. This was why. This small exchange was enough for my superintendent to suspect I had been having sex with students. It was enough for Cheryl Smith to suspect it too, which then facilitated her ability to get rid of Dave.

Tom, Ms. Smith’s “nephew,” had been reprimanded for getting too close to seniors. That e-mail exchange between Dave and I was a moment for her to take attention away from Tom and dump it all on Dave. Although Dave had a good case to keep his job, things got bad when she pushed his name into the newspapers with allegations of sleeping with students. That’s when Dave gave up, resigned, and looked for a job elsewhere. Once I found the job at the Emily Fisher charter school, I quickly called Dave and sent him up for an interview. He got the job, and we had a chance to work again for the first time in three years in a very low-profile place. Good money, bad atmosphere.

The Emily Fisher School included kids from 6^th grade up through 12^th. Due to my extensive experience, I would teach a small, special education, 6th grade class. I had only five kids in my room, which was without exaggeration as big as a small bedroom with no windows and one door that I had to keep locked because of the random kids that wandered around the building. Of my five students, two had criminal records and parole officers. One was the son of a school secretary. There were two more who I just can’t remember at all. I taught all subjects except art and gym. A good day was only one fight, maybe two. They weren’t horrible kids, but they did have horrible lives. They were misfits and castaways, just like most of the teachers. They wanted attention but didn’t know the best ways to get it and usually resorted to trouble.

In addition to teaching all subjects to these kids, I also had one high school high school English class. There were about ten students with one who would either be added or subtracted or both about once every two weeks. Kids randomly came and went, usually without explanation. Most kids were affiliated with a known gang, trying to join one, or running from them. There were police calls at least once a week, usually involving an arrest. Education was not primary. Preventing injuries was primary as well as learning how to talk to these kids without pissing them off.

One of my students was Jabré, a 12-year old boy who wore an ankle locating bracelet and met with a parole officer once a week for his part in beating and robbing a gas station attendant. He would not think twice to punch most people in the mouth. I remember making him cry, but I don’t remember how or why. Colin was a happy, athletic 12-year old boy on probation because he was in his cousin’s car while that cousin was selling drugs. I never asked why, but I was sure there was a reason that no girls were ever in the class with these boys.

In my high school class I had a nickname: Pop Pop. I took that as a great sign of endearment because I know that “Pop Pop” is a name reserved for a father figure, often a grandfather, in the homes of kids in places like Trenton. I wasn’t rude to them, and they weren’t rude to me. I’ve learned, and Trenton reinforced my belief, that kids will give to you what you give to them. If you are real with them, they’ll be real with you. I gave them time to talk about what they wanted to talk about, but I steered them back to what I needed to talk about. I knew they wanted to read books about gangs, fights, and kids who cursed a lot. I was okay with that because it was still reading, regardless of what was happening. I didn’t enjoy the books, but I enjoyed that they were reading and talking about it.

I was never personally threatened, but I was warned a few times. There was a tall, Hispanic boy who told me one day, “Don’t go in the parking lot after school.” When I asked why, he said, “You don’t care why. Just don’t go.” I watched from a window later that afternoon as he slammed another boy against the police car that responded when the fight started. I thought about going out there to help and going to the parking lot before the fight started. Maybe I could have kept him from adding to his police record, but I doubt it. If I had gone out there, it’s possible he might have been distracted, which would have only left him unprotected for someone else to clobber him.

About halfway through that school year, my friend Dave got a job at a “real” school, and I was very happy for him when he left. I still carried guilt from when he lost the job he had held for over 15 years in Maple Shade, regardless of how many times he insisted it was not my fault. I had not pushed “send” on his e-mail. He had done it all himself. He was right, but I still felt wrong.

Somewhere around February I went for a regular dentist visit. As usual, they took my blood pressure. The hygienist said, “Pretty good. 115 over 90.” I sat up quickly. “Pretty good?! Not so much,” I said. I had never scored higher than 90 over 65. Although 115 over 90 is great for most people, it showed a 25 point jump for me. It was from that school, and I had to get out.

The educational atmosphere was not helped by the people in charge. The guy I called “Dan” who was the top dog in charge of the whole operation showed up on the first day of school in a clown costume. He didn’t care a whole lot about education. He cared about collecting money from the state and keeping kids off the streets. The principal had no background or training in education. She was a tall, African-American, former college basketball star. It was assumed her physical presence would keep kids in line, but that was laughable. I knew the plan. Collect money and hope nobody gets hurt. I complied until my health seemed at risk, not from the kids or gangs but from blood pressure.

I was actively applying to other schools, but those breaks were rare in the middle of a school year. I thought about whether or not I was a “quitter.” I thought about the consistency that those kids needed and how many of the adults in their lives had walked out on them. I thought about all of the teachers whose best wasn’t good enough. I also thought about Dan, who did a nice thing by hiring me and paying me a ton when nobody else would hire me. Those things mattered to me until a meeting somewhere in February.

Someone complained to the state department of education about the conditions in the school. A representative attended a meeting designed for teachers to air any complaints or grievances about the school. It was supposed to be a “teachers only” gathering, but I saw a few people who were planted by the school leaders, and I knew they were there to intimidate the teachers. They were there to be seen, which would send a message that the teachers needed to keep quiet. That’s when I lost respect for what Dan was fronting. Not long after, a break came when I was given an interview and offered a job. After seven months and twenty blood pressure points, April 1 was my last day in Trenton. I had an excellent Spring Break.

Not me, but funny.

36 Comments | writing | Tagged: autobiography, charter school, education, gang, gangs, memoir, non-fiction, school, teacher, trenton, writing | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 13

January 23, 2013

In the last installment of my rise and fall, I was ousted yet again from another school district, mainly because of my own brash behavior but also from slightly unfair circumstances. I could argue that my only “crime” was using strong language in the company of adults. They could argue that I misused school property. When you boil it all down, it’s their house and they make the rules. Although I could have successfully argued through an attorney to save my job for that year, they still would have tossed me out the following year because I had not yet reached that magical first day of my fourth year. Past practice has shown that 99.99% of the time you truly have to break the law before they can fire you when you’re beyond that magical day.

After being fired that past spring, I was still paid through the end of that school year and then collected unemployment compensation during the summer. I then spent another stressful set of months applying for teaching positions and attending interviews, but the interviews were fewer and farther between. What did not help is that I had not yet learned how the evil spinster Cheryl Smith, NOT of Cherry Hill, NJ, was working behind the scenes to sabotage my attempts to gain employment. During that difficult summer, I managed to gain another teaching position in a middle school in a town I will call “Pinelands,” NJ. I have a good reason to avoid saying the actual name of the town, but I can’t tell you the good reason because I have stalkers who like to cause trouble for me. I really don’t need stalkers causing trouble for me because I seem to be fully capable of causing my own trouble.

I got the phone call confirming that I was selected for the job as I was walking up the gangplank of a cruise ship. The phone reception was poor, the signal was breaking up, and I was freaked out because I was not 100% certain that the human resources guy on the other end had clearly heard me accept the job. Luckily, all was well, and I had a great week in the Caribbean knowing that I actually had a job when I would arrive home. “I had a job.” That sounded great, and it would last about as long as an echo.

School was set to begin during the first week of September, and I promptly arrived during the last week of August to set up my classroom. I had a collection of movie posters that I was rather proud of, including an Italian version of Silence of the Lambs, and a very colorful one for the Romeo and Juliet film with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes. I got hold of all my needed supplies, learned the curriculum for the 6^th grade Language Arts classes, and felt fortunate to have about eight computers in my classroom. I attended the meetings and orientations for new teachers and was totally determined to behave myself. I was going to be a good boy. I was a good boy. It didn’t matter.

Not Mr. RomAHn

On the day before students arrived, we had a big meeting with the principal in the auditorium, and I realized that I would be working for a lunatic. On paper, his name was Mr. Romano, but he didn’t like that and referred to himself as Mr. RomAHn. He looked like a skinny Jimmy Smits, talked a good game, but he was a slick salesman. Mr. RomAHn remarked that there were two factions developing in the building. Some were with him and some were against him. He talked about the union’s attempts to ruin his plan to improve the school and that every single one of us had better decide if we were going to be “part of the solution or part of the problem.” He said that a showdown seemed inevitable, and he asserted that “when push comes to shove,” he will prevail and those who choose to fight him will be gone from the building. He even had a small entourage who followed him with clipboards and ready pens to jot down all of the brilliances and inspirations that might unexpectedly cross his alleged mind.

When all staff broke for lunch after the confrontational speech, a nice guy introduced himself as “Ray,” and he was the union leader in that building. Oh great. Union guys. Any time I had gotten near one, bad things seemed to happen. Ray was nice but quickly rattled off a list of the many bad things that were in our future if the teachers did not band together against the Mr. RomAHn. As Ray and I talked, I watched RomAHn walk by and give both of us a glance that let us know he was watching. I immediately felt awkward because I was new, just trying to keep a job, and already I was getting the evil eye from the boss.

Ray informed me about the building being full of mold, teachers out sick for more than a year, and at least one teacher who had died of mold exposure even though RomAHn insisted the building was clean and safe. During the previous school year, Ray apparently had taken a personal tour with a custodian who showed him areas of the most severe mold running rampant through the ceilings. However, that same custodian was replaced during the summer, and Ray could not find the guy no matter how he tried. Ray explained how strong the union was in the district and that they would eventually get rid of RomAHn. They were so strong that they successfully negotiated a contract that included a teacher’s right to wear jeans and flip flops to school. I thought that was a tad unprofessional, but I wasn’t in any position to disagree with anyone. I was a good boy. I was a good boy. It didn’t matter.

Then came the first day of school. I was excited to greet my new students, and everything went very well. Around lunchtime I found a note in my mailbox that instructed me to visit the principal’s office at the end of the day. My quick assumption was that there was a schedule change. As the secretary opened the door to the principal’s office to let me in, I saw Mr. RomAHn go out through a rear office door as the assistant principal sat at his desk. It went something like this:

Me: I got a note saying that Mr. RomAHn wanted to see me. Do you know where he is?

Her: He’s not here.

Me: I just saw him go through that door.

Her: He had to leave. Anyway, you need to get over the superintendent’s office.

Me: Okay. Do you know what it’s about?

Her: No. That’s all I know.

I was not feeling any love. I showed up at the superintendent’s office to meet the big boss, Mr. Mark Cowell. The conversation went extremely similar to this:

Imagine him on the other side of the desk during this conversation

Me: you wanted to see me?

Coward: Yes. You cannot work here. You are released. Please get your things and go.

Me: Why?

Coward: I can’t tell you.

Me: Why not?

Coward: I can’t tell you that either.

Me: So, you’re firing me, but you won’t tell me why you’re firing me? Don’t I have a right to know?

Coward: You might, but I can’t tell you.

Me: Why can’t you tell me?

Coward: I was given information about you that is disturbing.

Me: What information?

Coward: I can’t tell you.

Me: Who gave you the information?

Coward: That’s not your business.

Me: So someone told you something about me, and you don’t like what they told you, so you’re firing me? But the person’s name is not my business? How do you even know that what they told you is true?

Coward: I don’t know, but I trust the person.

Me: What if the person is lying?

Coward: Why would they do that?

Me: Because people do that. If you were me, wouldn’t you want to know what you’re being accused of and who is accusing you?

Coward: That’s not the point. The point is I can’t take a chance on whether or not it is true.

Me: If what is true?

Coward: I can’t tell you. Just get your things and go.

Me: This is insane.

Coward: That’s your opinion.

Me: That’s anyone’s opinion who might be fired because some unknown person said something that might possibly be true but might not be true, and I don’t even get to know who said it or what they said.

Coward: I’ll tell you this much. You’re a disgusting person who doesn’t deserve to be a teacher, and I would never take a chance on you. And if I could have my way, you would never teach anywhere ever again. Now please get out!

I was told to go to the union office, but I didn’t bother because I knew it was just a song and dance. I went home rather depressed, slept late the next day because I was told not to appear at the school until after students were dismissed the next day. When I arrived at the school, I was met by a central office administrator who treated me like a criminal by walking immediately behind me and ignoring any questions or comments I had. When I got to my (former) classroom, my Silence of the Lambs and Romeo and Juliet posters were gone. I said, “Are you fucking kidding me? Someone stole my posters?” The “warden” following me had nothing to say. Although it doesn’t mean much, that administrator who was following me would be fired a few years later because he was sleeping with a female teacher whose husband was also a teacher in the district.

After emptying what had not been stolen from my classroom, I stopped at the human resources office to sign some papers. I liked the human resources guy, John. He hired me based partly on a recommendation from a mutual friend, and he seemed like a good guy, someone you’d have a beer with. Actually, he is dedicated to Grey Goose vodka, which I learned from a different mutual friend who wasn’t a mutual friend until about six years after I was run out of town on a rail.

As I was about to leave John’s office, I grumped once more about the insanity of being fired because someone said something that might not be true, and John gave me sort of a sympathetic look. He went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a folder, then sat it on the table in front of me. He said he was going to leave the room, then I was to open the folder. He’d give me a minute, and then he would come back, but I was to close the folder before he returned. I was confused and too dumb to understand completely. He left. I opened the folder. Sitting on top of a handful of papers was a hand-written note. It said, “Mark, call Cheryl Smith. 856-xxx-xxxx.”

After about three years of trying to get jobs, being close to getting jobs, and getting denied or fired from jobs, it was not until then that I realized how Cheryl Smith, NOT of Cherry Hill, NJ, really worked. She had written a very nice recommendation letter for me, knowing fully well I would use her as a reference, and then knowing fully well that she would trash me when someone called her because they were considering hiring me. This is why I have no trouble stating her name here and the town where she does NOT live. This is why I don’t care if she were to read this and complain about anything I may have said because there is nothing that I have said that (1) is not true and (2) if anyone should be answering questions about one’s behavior, it should be her and not me.

It was September. I was facing a long stretch of months not working. Luckily, I had recently met a fabulous, generous woman who was very willing to let me move into her home. If not, I would have been forced out of my apartment and likely would have had to live with my father, only about two hours away from my kids. As for the woman, all I will say is that I spent about a year as her housekeeper before revamping my résumé and eventually finding yet another job in yet another school district.

Positives? I would get paid about $10,000 more at this next job than any previous job. Negatives? My blood pressure would rise about 20 points. Spoiler alert! I won’t get fired in the next chapter.

51 Comments | writing | Tagged: autobiography, education, fall, fired, hired, memoir, non-fiction, rise, sabotage, superintendent, teacher, tenure, union, writing | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 11 of _?

January 7, 2013

Before I begin Part 11, let me first ask you all to say a hearty “Hi” to my ex-wife who regularly reads (or “stalks”) my blog. A few days ago, after I posted Part 10, she called me up, and it went something like this:

6375650-woman-in-horror-looking-at-the-laptop-screen

not my ex

Her: I was going through our daugther’s e-mail and I noticed that thing you write.

Me: Huh?

Her: She gets an e-mail every time you write something. Like she subscribed to your stupid blog thing. And that thing you last wrote was upsetting.

Me: So you read her e-mail? Just like you read her text messages, right?

Her: No, I was not reading her e-mail. I just happened to see her e-mail, and I just happened to notice something. And I wasn’t really reading it, but I happened to sort of see a few things. And you shouldn’t send that stuff to her.

Me: I don’t send anything to her. She subscribed to it, I guess.

Her: Well, you have to stop her from reading it.

Me: I can’t. You’re the one who looks through her e-mail, so you can unsubscribe from it.

Her: I don’t know how.

Me: Me neither.

Her: Well you’re the computer guy. You figure it out.

Me: I don’t go into her e-mail like YOU do, so YOU take care of it. And I’m sure she doesn’t read my blog anyway.

Her: Well, it’s wrong for you to write about one of your friends wanting to kill me.

Me: It wasn’t serious. It was a joke.

Her: Well, your daughter doesn’t know that.

Me: You said she doesn’t read it. You said you don’t read it, but if you don’t read it, then how did you know someone offered to kill you?

Her: Well, I didn’t read it. I just happened to see that one sentence. Also, it’s not a good idea that you write about sleeping with 50 women when your daughter might read it.

Me: You said she didn’t read it. And you said you didn’t read it. So if you didn’t read it, then how do you know that I wrote about sleeping with 50 women? Also, I never said I slept with 50 woman. I said I dated 50 women. Perhaps you should be more careful when you don’t read e-mail.

Her: I didn’t read it, but that part happened to catch my attention. And that’s not the point. Do you think it’s a good idea for your daughter to see that?

Me: Let me ask you this. At one point, you told our daughters that my father and my brother were child molesters, which is a great lie. So which do you think is worse? That you lied to our daughters about her uncle and grandfather being child molesters or that I dated 50 women? Because from my perspective, what you told them is not only a lie but is also much worse than what I wrote that they probably won’t even see unless you’re the one who shows them.

Her: Well, that’s not my point…

Me: Yeah, but it’s MY point. See, I get to have “points” too. Not just you.

Her: Okay, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

Me: Yeah, I didn’t think so.

That’s not the conversation verbatim, not exactly word-for-word either, but the theme and scope are all fully intact. I reminded her that my blog doesn’t have my name on it, and her actual name is nowhere to be found, but she didn’t care because in her disillusioned world, she thinks that random Internet surfers will stumble upon this and know without a doubt that I’m writing about her. Therefore, I will make damn sure that I do NOT post her name, phone number, or mailing address on this or any other blog. Definitely not. No way. And don’t even try to check back soon because you will not see that information here. So relax, Ms. Ex-wife. No personal information seems to be here. Not that I can tell. Looking. Looking. Nope. Not yet. However…

Okay. Enough stupidity. Let’s get to Part 11

……………………..

When we left Part 10, I had again been fired for something unfair, in my opinion. Yes, I was in a strip bar, not a crime, but teachers are treated differently than other people I guess. Yes, I was in an “establishment that served alcohol,” but nobody would have cared if I were a plumber. No offense. Certainly, most people could say that I could have fought this somehow. Unfortunately, in schools, it’s different. Yes, I could have fought this battle, but I would have lost the war. When you have not yet reached that magical first day of your fourth year, you are worthless. That left me facing another summer of applications and – with luck – interviews. Before I left Maple Shade, the superintendent - Ms. Cheryl Smith – NOT of Cherry Hill, NJ - seemed to have done a great favor for me. She sent me a letter that stated that the reason for my release was because there was going to be a reduction in students. On paper, that showed that my release had nothing to do with my behavior or anything. It said I had been a good teacher but was the victim of a population decrease. I thought, “Wow, that was nice of her.” What I was not aware of were the grimy wheels that turn inside the vile brain of Cheryl Smith – NOT of Cherry Hill, NJ.

the actual Cheryl smith

Cheryl Smith is a decrepit, bitter old bitch, a vengeful, deceitful hag who gains personal glory from stabbing nice people in the epiglottis. I was not aware that Cheryl Smith – NOT of Cherry Hill, NJ, had a history of releasing employees, writing a glowing letter of recommendation, but totally trashing them when a prospective employer asked about the candidate for whom she had written the recommendation. I had attended several positive interviews. One was Salem High School, which told me that within a week they would call back the top three candidates. Not even ten minutes after I had left the building, they called and invited me for a second interview the very next day. About thirty minutes later, Salem called again and said that they were sorry but my interview was cancelled. I later learned that they were calling my references, which included Cheryl Smith – NOT of Cherry Hill, NJ, who completely trashed me. When I say that “I later learned,” it would be several years later, but I’ll expand on that in Part 12 or 13 because not only did she kick me out of her school, which she has the right to do, but twice later in my teaching career she tracked me and other teachers down and caused big problems in other school districts. Don’t let that smile fool you.

September arrived without a teaching position, and it felt awful. After 18 years, it was the second time I was sitting home on everyone else’s first day of school. I scoured the newspapers and online sources and found an interesting job that would help me later in my career – reading and scoring the essays that kids write on standardized, state tests. Those same tests that I hate, that have ruined education, were sitting in a pile for me and about six other people to evaluate. Sure, I was a certified teacher with 18 years doing exactly what needed to be done, but what about the other people? Who else was entrusted with making critical decisions that could greatly influence the educational direction of thousands of students? There were a couple of college students who constantly checked their cell phones, an elderly gentleman who kept falling asleep, two women who could not stop talking even if you had sewn their mouths shut, and a guy in his 30’s who barely spoke English and likely would have been screened out of line at most airports post 9/11. No offense.

For about three weeks we sat at a table, plucked essays from one pile, scribbled a score, put that essay in a second pile to receive a second score, and then went back for another one. It sounds rather conceited to say that I knew that I was doing a great job with it, but I had been trained to score these essays over the years. I’m not so sure about the rest of the group. It greatly disappointed me to see who was responsible for scores that could significantly help or hurt both individual students and entire school districts. In New Jersey there is a definitive “passing” or “failing” score that determines if student are permitted to take certain higher-level classes or forced to take remedial classes, thus affecting a student’s ability to continue at a higher level that could also affect a student’s college options. There are cumulative scores that dictate which schools must spend millions on supplemental classes and after-school programs. That absorbed funds that schools might need for sports, arts, and other programs.

I was not happy, but a brief reprieve arrived when I was invited to interview to replace a teacher called to military service in a scrappy town called Penns Grove. While sitting in a lobby awaiting my interview, I read a Time magazine article about legislation called “No Child Left Behind,” (NCLB) a program largely copied from a British plan called “Every Child Moves Ahead.” Though assembled by Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy, NCLB was mainly credited to President George W. Bush. I had just enough time to read some of the details before it was time to meet the superintendent. During interview, I did two things: I greatly impressed the boss with my knowledge of NCLB while trying not to look at the dead squirrel of a wig that sat on the man’s head. It was a challenge. Luckily, the man was a big supporter of Pres. Bush. Although I was not pro-Bush, I was still able to convince him that I was right for the job. A week later, still reading those essays, my phone buzzed. I had a feeling it was Penns Grove wanting to hire me, and I was right. After finishing one more essay and checking my voicemail, I left the building and drove home without caring to tell anyone.

I began at Penns Grove High School in December and had a relatively quiet rest of the year teaching freshmen and sophomores. I took over the school yearbook the next year not just for extra money, not just to impress the administration to keep a job, but also because their current yearbook was about as exciting as a dictionary. I received great accolades for redesigning everything and adding some style, color, and some sharp uses of graphics. The compliments were something I had not been accustomed to hearing because my career thus far had been rather bland.

There were three scary incidents that year. First was when I heard a scream and turned to see students patting out a fire on a girl’s head. A boy later explained that she had so much hairspray and other products in her hair that he wondered if it would light up, so he clicked a cigarette lighter behind her head and found out that yes, it would light up. Second was a problem with an angry student who did not like me for reasons I forget. We got into several disagreements over the course of several months that culminated when he said, “I have a gun at home, and I know how to use it.” I gave the class an assignment so I could type an e-mail to the principal in which I detailed what the boy had said. About thirty minutes later, the principal arrived and asked for the student by name. The boy left with the principal and I never saw him again. I was impressed, thinking that it was a school with integrity and I would enjoy being there. The third problem that was more significant than a kid talking about a gun.

There were two female students whose names I don’t remember, so I’ll call them Laura and Donna. Donna was an excellent student, a quiet girl who did her job, never bothered anyone, and always had good grades. She didn’t have many friends and talked to few people. She was neither sociable nor unsociable, just focused on her grades instead of the total school atmosphere. Laura was the opposite, always involved in discussions, and seemed to know and get along with everyone. Donna wrote poetry, asked if I would read her work, and brought me a notebook full of writing after school. I made some revising suggestions, told her that in a few months we would be covering poetry in class, and that I would be glad to more closely review her writing at that time.

A few days later, maybe a week, I received an e-mail to meet with the vice principal. She was a very friendly woman and interesting to talk to because it was fun to hear her occasional Canadian accent. It was not fun, however, when her accent asked if I were having a personal relationship with Donna. Shocked, I asked what could have provoked the question. She said another student, whose name she could not divulge, confided to her about the possibility. When I asked what caused the anonymous student to suggest it, the vice principal could not divulge that either. At that point, there was nothing I could do or say other than, “No, I’m not having a relationship with Donna. She was in my sophomore class and recently approached me after school to read her poetry. That’s it.” The vice principal thanked me for coming to her office. When I asked if there would be any further questions or investigations, she said, “No. You told me you weren’t having a relationship, and I believe you. That is all there is to it.” I wanted to scream and throw something, but I realized that she was not the right person to suffer that, so I left the office and found my building union representative who was also the union president to discuss the matter with him.

I will call him Chuck, the union president. I didn’t know Chuck well but well enough that he had asked me for rides to and from school when his car was being fixed. When I told him about the meeting and the accusation of a relationship with Donna, he said he was already aware of it. What shocked me was when he said that a student had approached him with the suspicion of a relationship, and it was he who had sent the student to the vice principal. The student was Laura, the socially outgoing girl from the same class as Donna. The number one job of a union president is to protect the rights of the union members. I asked Chuck why he did not come to me first with the accusation instead of sending Donna to the vice principal, but I don’t remember his answer. I again wanted to scream and throw something, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. The next day I asked Laura to stay for a moment after class and asked her why she told the vice principal that she thought I was having a relationship with Donna. She said that she saw us talking after school and assumed that’s what was happening. I could not believe how casual she was about it, as if saying, “Yeah, no big deal. I thought you two had something going on because you were talking, ya know? So I told someone.” Without anything else – just seeing two people talking – this little snot made a great assumption that something inappropriate was happening. Then, when she asked Chuck – not just another teacher but also the union president – what to do, he sent her to administration instead of coming to me first.

I was somewhere between furious and nauseous, not sure if I were going to puke or pummel something. The rest of the year was uneventful, but I could not shake the grossness and anger covering me. To deal with it, I spoiled myself that coming summer. I bought a golf membership, played about five days a week, and improved greatly. I was still friends with the teachers from the previous school, and we did a lot of BBQ-ing, bar hopping, and beer drinking.

When September arrived, I was determined not to let the previous year’s events affect me. I would be less outgoing, keep to myself, and do nothing to draw attention. Sadly, it did not work, and – just like a few years earlier – something happened that would not just get me fired during the school year but has followed and affected me to this day.

75 Comments | writing | Tagged: abuse, bad thing, education, ex-wife, fired, high school, memoir, stalker, teacher | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 10 of _?

January 2, 2013

Part 9 ended with my unjust firing via a malicious false accusation. I could have had Ann’s teaching certificate revoked, rendering her unable to teach again, but I was too nice and just hoped it would go away. I lost a job, divorced a wife, and was lawfully yet wrongly torn from my kids – all in about one year. School had been my escape from the pain of missing my kids, but school had been taken away too. Applying for jobs sucked. Interviewing and waiting for a call about a job sucked. Living alone sucked.

At 37-years old I was completely on my own for the first time in my life. I had met my ex-wife when I was about 19, so she was my first and only serious relationship. I had never tried to meet anyone my whole life and had no clue what to do. Naturally, I turned to the Internet. I wasn’t in a good frame of mind to date as my self-esteem was shot. I wasn’t fit to be in a relationship, so instead I went through a man-whore phase for about a year, which on its own would make one amazing blog post. It was like having to hit the bottom before being fit to go back up to the top. I will save you from my trials and errors of dating, but here’s one interesting aspect.

Males like numbers. For roughly three years I kept a few interesting statistics. I dated roughly 50 women over three years. That’s slightly less than 1.5 dates per month. Throughout those 50 dates, it took an average of 1.5 dates before things “got physical.” To put that in perspective, let’s pretend I have two dates. With woman A, we were “physical” on the first date. With woman B, it was the second date. Theoretically over 50 dates, 25 were like woman A and 25 like woman B. According to my experience, women are greatly more relaxed about sex as they get older. I’m sorry, I mean as they “gain experience.” As many of us get older, sex becomes an activity. What do you want to do? Go bowling? A movie? Sex? This isn’t a critical statement, just an observation. We like sex. It’s fun. Provided things are done safely, why not enjoy it? Thus, my respect for women has increased over the years.

Also, in fairness, not every woman was either A or B, either the first or second date in bed. One woman was not “ready” until the eighth date, and she and we were subsequently together for about three years. However, to arrive at an average of 1.5 dates before a woman was ready to get in bed, there would have to be 13 other women who jumped in bed on the first date to balance out the one woman who waited 8 dates. Again, this is not a judgment, it is an observation, and I have more important judgments about dating and sex, but I will save them for another post on another day.

In addition to a romantic struggle was the professional struggle. At the end of part 9, I mentioned going to see the Mississippi River. While driving there and back again, I was periodically checking my voicemail and found a message inviting me to an interview at (thankfully) a high school. Parents of the younger kids were either too demanding or not interested, so I wanted to find – and luckily found – a high school position. Maple Shade is a fairly white-bread, racist town in southern New Jersey, and they were interested in me. Maple Shade is known for two historic achievements. First, they have been in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most bars per square mile. Their second noteworthy moment came during the time of Martin Luther King, Jr. He was on his way from New York to Philadelphia and sent a cautionary word to the police of Maple Shade that he was going to stop at a local pub. When the cops informed the pub, the owner said he would not serve blacks. When the cops told the owner that he had to serve Dr. King, the owner said, “Then we’re closing.” And he did. They closed for the rest of the day instead of serving Dr. King.

Being the “new guy” at work is annoying, especially when you are 37-years old and surrounded by 25-year olds with greater seniority than you. I was sitting in an auditorium on what is traditionally the first day for staff, when administrators make speeches, introduce principals, and present awards to staff for 25 years of service, 30 years, even 40 years in that school district. I then knew I would never get one of those awards. Some schools have athletic fields and buildings named for people whose entire careers were in one town, and it hurt to know that something like that was just not possible for me. I sat and watched, feeling worse with each presentation. Then I heard someone say, “You look like you can use a friend.” That was Tiffany.

Just writing this much has brought me close to tears. I have known Tiffany about 13 years, and although I only see her about twice a year, she’s the closest and smartest friend I have. She is one of the few people who knows my flaws, knows how outstanding those flaws are, and still want to have lunch and talk about a movie. She knows pretty much every creepy detail there is about me, but she is proud to know me nonetheless. When I told her all about my situation with my insane ex-wife, Tiffany offered to kill her, or at least beat her up. (Legal disclaimer: this was not a serious threat. Just for fun. This is necessary because my ex-wife stalks my blog. Yeah, there she is, over there. Say hi to her lawyer too. He looks like Kent Brockman from The Simpsons.) I had only known her about half a year and she invited me to her wedding. Then, when she realized her wedding was on a weekend when I was to have my kids, she un-invited me because she did not want me to miss time with my kids. She was so nice she almost took up a collection for me when she saw how much was deducted from my paycheck for alimony and child support.

She was a social studies teacher who taught yoga, sat in a lotus position on her desk, burned incense, and both taught and demonstrated respect for all races, religions, and sexual orientations. She was often called “gay” because she spent a lot of time defending those who were gay against those who hated gays. Although she was about 25 and I was about 38, she didn’t hesitate to invite me to hang out with her friends. The first time we were ever in a bar together with a group of other teachers, I ordered an Alabama Slammer, a rather sugary fruity sweet drink. She gave me an awkward look and said, “You can’t order that. It’s a girly drink.” I asked, “Then what’s a guy’s drink?” She shrugged as if I had asked what was 2 + 2 and said, “Beer.” I have never ordered another Slammer ever. We became great friends and spent a lot of time talking about philosophical things. She was into Buddhism and pizza. I was into talking and pizza. Before you get suspicious, no – there has never been even the tiniest of thoughts of trying to hit on her. It simultaneously creeped her out and thrilled me greatly when students thought that she and I were dating because we spent a lot of time together. I had learned to never again try dating a colleague. She was and still is more of a sister to me, although my sisters have never heard all of the details of all of my best sex stories.

About six years ago, I almost lost her as a friend. We went about a year without talking, and of course it was my fault. She was pregnant, and an idiot obstetrician misdiagnosed her with a vaginal infection. The medication prescribed caused premature labor, and her son Cooper lived for barely ten minutes. It was a horribly sad event that happened to the nicest person imaginable. There were certain things she was going to do with the body, and I was also too dumb to know to just keep my mouth shut because it wasn’t my business. Instead, I tried to tell her what she should and shouldn’t be doing during that most sensitive of times in a parent’s life. Most of her friends either gave too much advice or stayed out of it. Those – like me – who talk too much were basically cut out of her life. Some, not like me, kept trying little by little to reconnect. Somewhere about a year of not speaking, I sent her a text message on a sunny, spring afternoon. “Nice day out.” Thankfully and luckily for me, she was willing to talk again.

There were two other friends of note, Marybeth and Dean. Ladies first. Marybeth was and still is one of the most innocent people I have ever met. A tomboy who never wears make up, MB coached basketball and softball, putting in hours and effort well beyond what she was paid. MB will never be accused of passing an intelligence test, but she will never fail a lie-detector test and all of her answers will be the best answers possible. She, like Tiffany, is a social studies teacher, but while Tiff is greatly open to all faiths, MB cannot separate herself from whatever is dictated in The Bible. Inevitably, when the three of us get together, three things are always involved: beer, food, and gross stories about bodily functions. It seems impossible for us to gather without the most embarrassing of noises (which doesn’t seem to happen around others, just the three of us) and the grossest stories about clogged toilets, stained underwear, or peeing oneself because a bathroom was too far away. We once visited a friend who was in a hospital for cancer treatments. Even then, we were reduced to laughing tears while again telling the same gross stories in front of a man with stitches, radiation, and IV tubes. She drove two hours to attend a surprise party for me when I turned 50, and I was greatly annoyed that she was invited – not because I didn’t want her there but because I care about her enough that I would never want her to drive that far and that long just to see me.

The third friend, Dean, is difficult to write about because he was another great friend. Sadly, however, we haven’t spoken in about six years, and I have a feeling he wishes he had never met me.

(There’s no way for you to know this, but it has been about 30 minutes since I typed anything. This will not be easy.)

(It’s been about another 20 minutes. Nothing typed but this.)

When we met, Dean was probably the coolest, most-liked guy in the building, and I was unknown. Most people either loved or hated him. He was funny as hell and thought of things that would never even dawn on the rest of us. When it was time for a new Pope, he ran “Pick-a-Pope,” a gambling pool to guess the new Pope’s name. When there was an important staff meeting that was likely to take hours, he created a gambling pool to bet on how many questions would be asked. The catch was that if you asked a question, you were out of the running, thus limiting the number of questions that would be asked. At Christmas, he organized a cookie competition with a panel of judges and cash prizes. He was great friends with the principal and hated by the superintendent. He coached wrestling and football. He organized a yearly golf tournament weekend out in Pennsylvania and brought a margarita machine that not only kept us drunk but kept tripping the electric breaker and casting the building into darkness. When he walked into the best bars in Philadelphia, it was like Norm walking into Cheers. Through a series of unusual events, I became one of his best friends. He hung out with bands and radio DJ’s from Philly. Then, I was hanging out with bands and radio DJ’s. I was single with nothing else to do, and I was having a great time with him.

Dean not only knew everyone, but he helped people when possible. He tried to adopt a student who was abused by his drug-addict mother. He helped people get new cars at dealer cost through a relative who owned a dealership. He was a brilliant mediator when two teachers or administrators were at odds. And he was there to happily take the blame when a guy staggered home drunk at 3am to an angry wife. He would say, “Tell her I kept you out, give her my number, let her yell at me, not a problem.” I was suffering for months from a pinched nerve in my neck and could barely hold a pen or turn a doorknob. He sat me down and cupped my chin and neck in his hands. “Don’t move,” he said. “Totally relax.” Once he sensed I was ready, he did some kind of snappy thing to my neck, and it never bothered me again.

Although he was a great friend and he fought like hell to save my job, it was partly his fault I was fired. He had a former student from before I was hired there who was not very bright. He knew her abilities were limited, but he also recognized one of her few talents and helped her secure a job and start a career at a friend’s bar. After a half-school day because of mid-term exams, Dean organized a few teachers to have dinner where this former student worked in order to encourage her new career. We arrived at what looked like any corner pub and saw the ex-student twirling on a stripper pole and dancing on the bar as men stuffed money into her thong.

I don’t know who told the superintendent or why it mattered. It was after school, not during the school day. We individually entered the principal’s office, were chastised, and received letters of reprimand signed by him and the superintendent who sternly and silently watched. The principal seemed angry but fought laughing because he had planned to go with us but was called into a last-minute meeting. The official reason for reprimand was “visiting an establishment that served alcohol during the school day.” Despite the poor grammar and the fact that teachers and administrators regularly visit restaurants that serve alcohol at lunch, I was fired. Six teachers were involved. Five had the protection of tenure. I did not. After three years, it was another summer mailing applications and hoping for interviews.

Dean did not intend for anyone to get in trouble or for me to get fired. He fought for me to stay, but the superintendent hated him so much that it probably worked against me. A few years later, it would be my turn to accidentally cause him much worse than just getting fired. Much. Worse.

72 Comments | writing | Tagged: autobiography, bar, conduct unbecoming, education, fired, inappropriate, memoir, pub, rise and fall, stripper, teacher | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 9 of _?

December 26, 2012

At the end of part 8, Ann (not her real name, mostly) was going to leave her husband for me as her husband agreed to quietly divorce her – provided she still wanted to do so after staying away from me from early December until after New Year’s Eve. Then, after New Year’s, she told him she still wanted out, and he said he would stick to the agreement, but he asked if she’d wait until after her birthday in early February. What I learned was that it had nothing to do with her birthday. It was a way to buy time for his plan, and it was a good one.

_________________________________

Ann and I hadn’t talked much from January to early February, and I assumed it was because of their plan to quietly split. I was wrong. I found this out one day in class with a room full of students when the teachers’ union president entered my room and said one of the scariest sentences you might ever want to hear: “Don’t get nervous, but two police detectives are here to talk to you.” Can you imagine hearing such a thing? I hope not. “No matter what they say, you don’t answer anything. All you say is that you can’t talk to anyone without an attorney. I don’t care what they ask – you don’t answer anything.”

I was still stuck on the word “detectives.” When I asked why they wanted to talk to me, the union president said, “You don’t know?” No, I didn’t. “Well, you better get down there. Principal’s office.” I walked in, had a seat, and saw my principal – whom I liked and liked me too – and two unfamiliar, grim faces. I can’t remember their exact questions, but I’ll paint you a picture:

“Sir, are you familiar with (a 5^th grade student we will call) Mary?”

“Yes. I mean, I can’t answer any questions without an attorney.”

“Are you having a relationship with Mary?”

“Are you fu- I mean, I can’t answer anything without an attorney.”

“You’ve been accused of having an inappropriate and criminal relationship with Mary. Is there anything you’d like to say about that?”

“Officer, I really, really wish I could answer that, but I can’t without an attorney.”

“So you don’t deny that you’re having a relationship with an 11-year old girl?”

“That’s not what I said. Yes, I deny that, but I can’t answer your questions without an attorney.”

“You just answered that one.”

“That wasn’t a question. I was correcting something you said that was wrong.”

The principal interrupted. “Officers, this is a very unfair situation, and I would like you to leave. He’s obviously not going to answer anything without an attorney, so do what you have to do but do it somewhere else.” And they left, and the principal apologized. He then told me that he had no choice but to send me home for the rest of the day and that I was not to come back to school until an investigation was complete. I was suspended with pay. I was being accused of having a sexual relationship with a child.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I asked the principal.

He hesitated. “Over the weekend, Ann and her husband went to the police and told them you’re having a relationship with Mary.”

I fell into a chair. “That’s insane,” I said.

“I know it is, and I’m sorry.”

“Has anyone talked to Mary and asked what she has to say?”

“Actually, I did about an hour ago. She said, ‘That’s the most disgusting thing she ever heard.’ So that’s good,” said the principal. “I know you didn’t do anything, and it greatly disturbs me that Ann and her husband would do this to you. But go home. Try to relax. You know you didn’t do anything, so just enjoy some time off.”

I went back to my classroom, got my stuff, and left. The kids had already been sent to lunch, so I didn’t have to face them. That would have been difficult. I left the building and was home for only about two hours when the phone rang. It was one of the detectives.

“Sorry to bother you, Sir. I thought you’d want to know that we finished interviewing the student and her mother, and we’re convinced that you did not have an inappropriate relationship with her. Sorry to bother you.”

It was probably the most frightening two hours of my life. My mind had no choice but to calculate all of the dominoes that would fall from just being publicly accused of doing something with a female student. I had no choice but to imagine how my kids would react, my family and friends, and my co-workers. And also my own students with whom I had worked all year. Then I got a call from the union president.

“I heard it’s all over. They know you didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But I still don’t get it.”

“Ann and her husband told Mary that they wanted her to accuse you of doing something with her. Touching her, anything. She wouldn’t do it, and they told her that if she didn’t, then they were going to tell the police that Mary had told them that story but that now she was afraid to admit it. They told her to just admit it to the police and she’d be okay and her mother wouldn’t even have to know.”

“That is insane,” I said. “I can’t believe she would do that to me.”

“I know all about you and Ann. You know her husband hates you. It’s his plan to get you fired,” she said. “I’m sorry to say this, but it worked. You’ll be fired. You can come back to the building and get all your stuff when the kids are not around, and you’ll get paid through the end of the year.”

That hurt. Hurt a lot. I had not done anything wrong, but an accusation against me was enough to dismiss me, and there was nothing I could do about it. The next board of education meeting was filled with parents demanding to know what happened to me. The kids were pissed that I was gone. The parents were pissed that nobody was talking to them. Understandably, the parents heard rumors about me and the student. Because I was gone for good, the parent assumed the worst, which makes sense, but the board of education needed to explain to people that, although I was gone about 6 months early, I had not done anything wrong. Parents asked why I was gone the rest of the year if I hadn’t done anything wrong. Logical question, to which the board could only say, “He didn’t do anything, but we had to let him go.” Also at that meeting, they took a vote, and Ann was fired too. I was told that I could likely sue her for sexual harassment because she had made the accusation following the ending of a relationship, but I decided I didn’t want to get involved in things like that. Looking back, maybe I should have.

Secondary to the accusation against me was finding out why Ann would go from wanting to leave her husband for me to wanting to accuse me of such a horrible thing. What I later learned was that he told her that if she didn’t go along with his plan, she would never see her son again. She said, “Are you threatening to take my son away from me?” He said, “No. Worse.” She took that as a death threat, which makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that she believed it and wanted to stay with someone who would make such a threat. However, a death threat is nothing to take lightly.

About two months later I was hitting golf balls at a practice range, but not the same practice range at which Ann’s husband was part owner. It was a range less than a mile from my home. As I’m hitting golf balls, I see a guy strolling up in cowboy boots and a hat. It was Ann’s husband.

“Why are you stalking me?” he asked.

“I’m not stalking you. You’re stalking me,” I said. “I’m allowed to be here, and I’m not bothering you.”

He walked away. A few days later there’s a knock at my door. It’s a cop. I give an eye roll, muttering, “Oh no. What now? What else could go wrong?” I thought.

I was served with a subpoena that said I had threatened Ann’s husband with a golf club. He claimed that he attempted to talk to me peacefully and that I picked up a golf club, held it in a menacing and threatening way, and that he had to flee in fear. I suppose when one hits golf balls with a golf club, one might hold the club in a menacing way, but you would only feel threatened if you were the ball. Ann and her husband wanted to serve me with a restraining order, forcing me to stay away from them or risk being fined and/or suffering jail time. I find it hilarious that they were asking for an order of protection from me, like the one that my wife had deceptively obtained against me. I had to either show up in court and explain my side of the story, or the order against me would be granted. I did not want to pay for an attorney to defend myself against such garbage.

On paper, I’m one bad-ass dude. I spent the rest of the summer collecting unemployment compensation, playing golf, and interviewing for a new job. On one of those summer days I wanted to see the Mississippi River. I bought a new car, drove two days there, met a woman in a bar who allowed me to sleep at her place, then I drove back.

About a month ago I went to Mexico for a week. On the way back I had to go through customs. After stamping my passport, the officer said, “Sir, please come with me.” I was brought to a small room with a few benches at which sat people of various races, all looking equally confused. I watched an officer searching through several suitcases. After about ten minutes, someone called my name and waved me over to a desk.

“Where are you coming from?” a man with a badge asked.

“Mexico.”

“Travelling alone?”

“I was with a friend.”

“Do you know where your ex-wife is right now?”

“No idea. Why do you ask?”

“Just have to make sure you’re not travelling with her. That’s all. “Is it true that you have an order of protection against you?”

“Actually, I have two.” I smiled. Couldn’t help it.

“You can go. Sorry to bother you.”

- 30 -

69 Comments | writing | Tagged: accusation, detective, divorce, memoir, order, police, principal, restraint, school, separation, student, teacher | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 7 of 12?

December 10, 2012

If you are my kid, i prefer you do not read this.

When last we visited “The Rise and Fall of Me,” I was six years into the best job of my teaching career, and it was about to explode. Well, not explode. Fizzle and sizzle, like a fuse burning on the way to part 8, where the first of several bangs will occur. Here, Part 7, is the fuse.

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not me or anyone i know

Family is big to me because I was a very introverted kid who did not take the time to enjoy the daily moments with my brothers, sisters, and parents as much as I should have. I went through typical teenage angst, and I separated myself from the others at my address, and it was stupid. When I was about 16, they went on a great vacation to New York to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame. My family is big with baseball, but I didn’t go on the trip because I wanted to be a cool 16-year old with the house to myself, have some friends hang out, sleepover, fun stuff. What actually happened was that I ate a lot of frozen pizza and probably masturbated a lot. Occasionally I see pictures of that week, and it reminds me to stress the whole “family” thing with my kids. They’ve heard quite often how I messed up and don’t want them to make the same mistake. When it’s vacation time, we’re all going. Nobody stays home, nobody makes other plans unless it’s something unavoidable. And if that’s the case, we reschedule our vacation.

So, I was in a lovely town with a great job, married with a beautiful daughter, and I could lean out my classroom window and see the ocean to the east and the bay to the west. Problem was that my wife’s family lived about 90 minutes away over towards Philadelphia. Almost every weekend we packed up the car with baby accessories and drove over to either her parents’ or her sister’s house. They were great people. Won’t say “are,” but I will say “were,” and I didn’t mind at all visiting them. Every weekend. Ahem. Three out of four weekends a month, 90 minutes there, and 90 back again. As a teacher, I had a ton of paperwork to do. Every weekend. Finally, I had a brilliantly stupid idea.

“Honey,” I said, “instead of driving back and forth every weekend (because your friggin’ family won’t make an effort to drive over and visit us, even though we have a baby to truck back and forth 90 minutes each way, 10 pm, dark road, deer everywhere, almost every weekend) how about we just move closer to your family?” Why wasn’t someone around to kick me in the mouth? “Honey, since I’m a teacher, I can probably find a job over there somewhere. I’d rather do that than drive back and forth, 90 minutes, each way, every weekend.” (STFU!) “Honey, what do you think?” For family, that’s why. That, and I’m an idiot.

not my actual house, but very similar

We found a nice Victorian house in a Norman Rockwell kind of town, Pitman, NJ, and I’ll write a post about that on another day. The house was right across the street from the school that my kids would attend. I was always jealous of kids who lived that close to school, so I hoped my kids would love being there, and I think they did. For some kids it feels kind of special to walk out of your school and there’s your house, right across the street. Or when you’re having a hard time in math, you can look out the window and see your house. I think that’s comforting for most kids. It was perfect. Giant walk up attic, good yard for a swing set and tire swing in a strong oak tree. It was truly a gift, but it came with a price. That price was – instead of driving 90 minutes, back and forth, every weekend – driving 90 minutes every day, twice a day, there and back again, five days a week, for about a year until I finally found a teaching position much closer to the new home. I survived the drive because I was doing it for family. No problem. Priorities. Yes, I left the house at about 6am, which many people do, and I was getting home about 7:30pm, which many people do without complaint. Unfortunately, it’s easy to look back and see that I should have kept doing that instead of taking a new job in a new town, Franklinville.

I went from the beach to the farm. Franklinville, NJ. Farmers, rednecks, hunters, klansmen, klanswomen, and klanskids. It was a throwback, but not in a good way. You remember the teachers who screamed, threw books, ridiculed kids for getting a math problem wrong, and broke yardsticks on desks? Franklinville had some of them. You remember back in the 70’s when some schools would pass out cups of fluoride for the kids to rinse their teeth for families that couldn’t afford toothpaste or dental visits? Once a week we had fluoride delivered for rinsing and spitting. Over ten years prior it had become illegal to make kids write 100 times “I must not talk during class” and other repentant statements – but it was a daily event in Franklinville. I heard rumors of students being spanked, but I was never sure. I instantly became the smartest person in the building – and as I’ve said before – if I’m the smartest person in the building, then I’m in the wrong building.

This was 1997. Most schools had “departmentalized,” which means each teacher was responsible for one subject and kids circulated to various classrooms for other subjects every 45 minutes or so. Instead, in Franklinville, teachers were still responsible for everything: math, English, science, social studies, health, Spanish, etc. So I was teaching fifth grade everything, which was dropped by almost every school district – except Franklinville. There’s more to say about that, but in a later post about education in general. This is about me.

Let me give you a brief summary of things that went wrong in Franklinville:

not the actual kid, or deer

- A kid came late to school one day, had blood all over his boots and pants. I asked him what happened. He said there was a deer in the yard that morning, and his father told him to go get it. He did. He was 11.

- Many teachers had pickup trucks with gun racks in the back window. Several would change into their camouflage outfits in their classroom and head right into the woods after school.

- I picked up the classroom phone one day and had to tell a student that he needed to leave right away. One of the pigs had gotten loose from the yard and was running around town.

- The principal verbally abused an older, female teacher in the cafeteria in front of a room full of kids during lunch. When I whispered to another teacher that what the principal was doing was just way wrong, the other teacher said, “No, it’s okay. That’s his aunt he’s yelling at.”

- Parents were removed from D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) graduation because they were drunk.

Combined with that were personal issues. The wife refused to go back to work. The agreement was that we would cut expenses and save $10,000 to help pay bills prior to having a child so she could stay home and raise the baby, and this would continue while financially possible. However, when it was not financially possible – mainly because of the pay cut by working in farmland instead of a beach town and buying a huge Victorian house – she refused to return to work. This forced me to get a second job. So after teaching from 8am to 4pm, I then drove to a part-time job from 5pm to 8pm. Then I’d get home at about 8:30, just in time to give the baby a bath and put her to bed. Then I’d spend an hour or so marking papers, planning for the next day. Then I’d get to sleep about midnight. What a week. Oh, but the weekend! The wife slept all day, and I watched the baby all day. I regret no time with the baby. She was as perfect as I could hope. Beautiful inside and out, a brilliant kid, but I needed some downtime. I was burning out. I was a family guy for sure, but I was burning out. My school was primitive and my home was a sweatshop. Yeah, unfair comparison, but it’s all I got right now.

Things at work were – for me – not bad because the principal loved me. I was always on the edge of technology, and he knew that computers were slowly but greatly boosting education. I could build them from scratch, fix them, maintain the network, install software, and run workshops to educate teachers on using them in the classroom. The guy made sure I had anything I needed. He wanted me out of the classroom just to take care of all things computer related, and that might have been a good thing, but I would have missed the kids too much. The kids, the interaction, the learning was everything. Getting notes from parents telling me how much their kids loved my class was a gift, and it was sorely needed because things at home were getting more and more difficult.

Resentment grew with my wife because of her refusal to work and her insistence that she needed more and more “beauty” sleep. To this day, she still takes unfair amounts of sleep. Her parents have a shore-area home that was messed up by Hurricane Sandy that hit the shore area a few months ago. While most of her family have made several trips to the house to clean up and prepare for rebuilding. The only problem is that she sleeps the entire time while the other three do all the work. She’s a lazy slob, cut and dry, and unfortunately I unknowingly facilitated it.

During our last year together, I kept telling her how I needed a distraction, and outlet, something to do to reboot myself. A block away was a tennis wall. I said, “Give me an hour to go hit tennis balls against the wall.” She said, “Great, but take the baby with you.” I said, “Give me an hour to go to the driving range and hit a bucket of golf balls.” She said, “Great, but take the baby with you.” I grew up playing hockey, and I wanted to join an adult hockey league. She actually gave it a shot, let me try. When I got home after the first game, she said, “Sorry, not gonna work. You were gone too long and the baby needed you.”

What also didn’t help was our social life. We didn’t have one. We used to see movies every week, but not anymore. We used to go to parties, and we used to host parties including some great ones at Halloween, but no more. I totally accept that things change after you have a baby, but most people – sane people – occasionally get a babysitter. Not us. “It’s our baby,” she said. “We raise her. Nobody else.” It got so bad that our teenage niece unexpectedly showed up on Valentine’s Day and chased us out of the house for dinner and a movie while she watched the baby. She was and still is a great girl, and she was smart enough, even while just in high school, to see that we were headed down a bad road. So we go to a Valentine’s Day dinner and a movie: Saving Private Ryan. Foreshadowing.

Those of you in relationships know how exterior stressors can affect the internal relationship. There were discussions, disagreements, arguments, escalations, and even fights that got physical. I recall at least two occasions in which we argued literally until the sun came up. I then had to get ready for school while she rolled over and went to sleep. The second time that was about to happen, I got smart. Somewhere past midnight I came to the sudden realization that she was right. I admitted it, then I went to sleep. The next day, however, I made sure to let her know that she wasn’t right, I wasn’t wrong, but I was in need of sleep.

Things were already fragile enough, and then my wife had a miscarriage. Though my reaction was sincerely an attempt to soothe the situation, it could be called that of a “typical” male: the baby wasn’t developing properly. It was going to have developmental issues. It’s your body’s way of saying, “It’s not working out. You should start over.” As logical as that was, it didn’t work with her and likely not with most women. Perhaps that’s a sexist statement, not sure, but it made me seem like an insensitive douche and drove the emotional wedge further between us. I tried to focus on my family, specifically my amazing child who was reading at 2-years old, thanks to her talented mother/teacher.

You’re correct if it seems I’m avoiding talking about my children very much. I want to keep my kids out of this and make it more about me. I don’t want them to have any reason to think they were the cause of anything that went wrong. My new school was a depressing comparison to the beach school in Lavallette. My previously solid marriage was weakening from a combination of work stress and my wife’s insistence that she no longer work and that I get a part-time job. It was an incendiary situation. Then someone lit a match.

______________________

Next chapter: Boom!

88 Comments | writing | Tagged: career, children, divorce, education, family, idiot, marriage, memoir, miscarriage, non-fiction, teacher, writing | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

The Rise and Fall of Me – part 6 of 9ish

December 2, 2012

Slight review – My first year teaching was at Freehold High School in the Freehold Regional High School District, a collection of five high schools working in one system. For the second year I was transferred to Howell High School, also in that district. For my third year I was splitting time between both schools with classes at both Freehold and Howell. It would be my last year in that district.

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The English Department at Howell was a great unit with an excellent leader, a former Marine named Dennis Cleary, but unfortunately for me he resigned at the end of my second year. Had he still been there for my third year, I might also still be there. Dennis was loved by teachers and hated by administrators because he did things his way and he did things successfully. He knew how to respect people who respected him and how to help people who needed it, even when they didn’t ask. He never stopped smiling because his career had been good, he bought a vineyard in California, and he was going to make his own wine in his retirement. As soon as he was out the door, the building administration went to work. The assistant principal Rose Traficante hired one of her best friends, a rather manly woman by the name of Maryann Banks, to dismantle the English Department. By the end of the year, everyone from Cleary’s English troupe was either transferred to another school or released. In New Jersey public schools, your job is protected if you make it to your fourth year in one school district. I was one year short, I would be gone in June, and there was nothing I could do about it.

In a well-run school district, the board of education will not fire someone unless the school principal and department supervisor can prove that they’ve worked with the targeted teachers in order to help them improve and avoid being released. In a poorly-run district, they’re happy to get rid of you and save a few bucks by hiring a new person who will be about three years down on the salary ladder from where you were before they kicked you out. This was not a well-run district. In fact, they went out of their way to get rid of me, and it bothered me that it was never directly explained why. I don’t mind if someone doesn’t like me as long as they can at least state so in a polite way. If you think I’m bossy or pushy, just tell me and be prepared with examples.

Before a teacher reaches that magic fourth year and getting a pretty much iron-clad lifetime position – also known as “tenure” – the school board can fire you for absolutely any reason or no reason at all without any proof or evidence at all. They can just say, “We don’t think you fit well in our school.” For me, they wanted to at least have half a leg to stand on, and that starts with finding flaws in job performance. Usually those flaws are found during observations, when an administrator sits in your room for a full period, takes extensive notes, and writes whatever the hell they want. I’ve read observations for teachers in which not only was the wrong name on the observation form but everything described was not only inaccurate but impossible. Those impossibilities are sometimes just typos and clerical errors, but that is enough to disqualify a poor evaluation. For me, my job performance was fine, but they still found a way.

Teachers with tenure usually get one or two observations a year. Non-tenured teachers get at least three. My first one that year was about a week before Christmas. My second one was the very next day, and that wasn’t a coincidence. After the first observation, the supervisor gave me a bunch of recommendations for things I should do differently. She came in the following day, too soon for me to have made all of her changes, but she gave me a very poor evaluation because of exactly that – I had not employed her recommendations. On the day before the holiday break, she told me that I would be gone at the end of the year. There’s a “stocking stuffer” for you.

My teaching day was split, with Howell for the first four classes and Freehold for the last of the usual five class periods for high school teachers. When I asked about monthly staff meetings at Howell, I was told to just attend meetings at Freehold because everything was the same since it was all the same school district. That didn’t stop the supervisor from downgrading my evaluation on the basis that I never attended any staff meetings at Howell. Sneaky bitch that Ms. Banks. I tried to defend myself at the “Soooo sorry to see you go” meeting at the end of the year with the principal and supervisor, but it didn’t matter. My representative told me ahead of time not to waste my time putting up a fight. When they want to cut you loose, they can do it without a reason. And they did it. It was my first time being fired but not the last.

One last note about Howell: I had an interesting discussion one day with the principal, a very smart but slick guy named Matt Herman. It was right about when all high schools were hit with a statewide test called the HSPE – High School Proficiency Exam. I didn’t know much about it, but Dr. Herman said, “This new test is going to ruin education. Just you wait and see.” In a later chapter I’ll explain how right he was.

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The following year I was unable to secure a full-time teaching position, but I was able to snag a job as a replacement for a teacher who was taking the year off to have a baby, also known as “maternity leave.” That was at a middle school in Hillside, NJ. Here’s how Hillside was described to me: “If you can make it out of Newark, you go to Elizabeth. And if you can make it out of Elizabeth, you go to Hillside.” So it was about on the third level of bad cities in the state. It didn’t take long to find that out.

The teacher I replaced was a well-loved grandmotherly type, so it wasn’t going to be easy for a short, big-mouthed white guy to replace her. Skipping ahead, I can tell you that I was asked to stay another year when that teacher announced she wasn’t returning, but I turned them down.

That year was the only time I ever had a student bring a gun to school. Well, the only time of which I’m aware. I’m sure there have been other times, but those kids kept them hidden and nobody knew. Although I’m not certain, there’s a good chance the kids who weren’t caught with a weapon were smart enough not to bring a rifle. Not the kid in my class. He walked into the room with a backpack on and the barrel of a small rifle sticking in the air like an antenna. I was amazed the kid had made it up to the third floor of a school with nobody seeming to notice. I watched as he strolled to the back of the room and hung up his backpack on a hook in a long coat closet before taking his seat. First, I sent a kid down to get the principal. Then, I walked to the closet, took the backpack with the rifle, and carried it up to my desk. When the kid saw that I had his rifle, he panicked, ran to the window, and climbed up on the ledge. It was one of those older, more traditional schools with the tall, narrow windows. He put one foot on the outside ledge. I yelled, “Wait!” Everyone froze. “Look down,” I said. “You see a red car?” He shook his head. I said, “Okay. Class, take out your homework.” The kids were shocked that I was ignoring him. He was shocked but also sad and returned to his desk. Wasn’t long before the principal arrived to escort him away. Never saw him again.

By this time, my wife (future ex-wife) had graduated college and was also teaching, but it wasn’t a major problem when I told her I wasn’t going back to that school when June arrived. I applied to many other schools and was very lucky to land the best teaching job I ever had, which I would then hold for the next six years until, like an idiot, I walked away from it. Yeah, I’ll explain, don’t worry.

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There are two main reasons you’ve likely heard of Seaside Heights, NJ. One is for the stupid TV show Jersey Shore and its cast of idiots. The second reason is Hurricane Sandy and the devastation it brought to the expansive boardwalk there. You’ve likely seen the image of the rollercoaster in the ocean. I spent many summers working on that boardwalk during my college years. Just north of Seaside is Ortley Beach, a small town full of hotels, motels, and bars. North of Ortley is Lavallette, a lovely little town that just happens to have a great beach. Take away the beach and it seems like any other small town with a handful of great restaurants. Joe Pesci has a home there. When I left Hillside, I interviewed in Lavallette, and things went well enough that I was called for a second interview, but there was a tough decision to make before that interview.

I had relatives with a summer home in town, and my uncle spent many summer nights at a local bar with most of the members of the board of education. Seemed like a no-brainer to call up Uncle Ray, let him know that his bar buddies were interviewing me, and he’d take care of the rest. The problem was that my uncle was kind of an Archie Bunker type. You just never know when he might shoot his mouth off about something. The guy was always great to me, but I wasn’t sure how well received he was by the bar buddies. What if he just happened to piss someone off on the day before I called him? I decided to keep quiet and either win or lose the job on my own. Luckily, I won. On the first day of school, two board members walked into my classroom and said, “Why didn’t you tell us you were Ray’s nephew? It would have saved us all a lot of time.” That’s a double-edged sword with public education. Lots of teachers, maybe 50%, get their job because of who they know and not what they know. I can’t complain. It has worked in my favor on a few occasions.

I grew up going to the beach for a week, sometimes two weeks every summer. I waited a long time every year to have my nostrils filled with that unmistakable ocean air when we hit the bridge that reached over to Long Beach Island, and at some point I promised myself that I would do whatever I could to be able to smell that ocean every day. Working in a school only one block from the ocean was pretty close. It was a wonderful school, nice kids, great teachers, all in one building that ran from kindergarten to 8th grade before sending students to another town for high school. To this day, I occasionally go to their website and read the staff directory to see the people I worked with, great people, friendly, helpful, everything. Some of the staff are now former students, and I like to think I had something to do with their choice to be a teacher. I sometimes think about taking a drive and visiting, but then I’d just feel really sad for having walked away.

One person who is no longer there was Roger Caruba, the best principal/superintendent I ever worked with. When I had a run-in with a parent because I had the “audacity” to give her the first B of her educational career (it was 7^th grade), this mother wanted me tarred and feathered, but Mr. Caruba told her that I had the final say, and if it’s a B, then it’s a B. When I learned about the heat he was taking from the parent, I offered to change the grade to an A, but he wouldn’t let me. When I wanted to expand the school newspaper into a classroom assignment and make it a regular part of the 8^th grade English curriculum, he said, “Great. Let me know how it works out.” And when the angry father of one of my female 8^th graders came into the school wearing a gun on his hip, Roger was there to greet him at the door.

The following year – huh, what? Oh, right, yeah – the angry father with the gun. Okay, fine, but there really isn’t much to it. It’s a beach town, and most kids go to the beach on most warm afternoons when school lets out. One particular day, a girl walked past her father in her bathing suit, which was small enough that it showed some kind of a mark on her shoulder. When her father, a prison guard, asked how she’d gotten a bruised shoulder, she flippantly said, “My teacher hit me.” He immediately called the principal and stormed to the school in uniform, including the gun. I was told he was coming but not why he was coming, so I really wasn’t prepared. I practically pissed myself when the principal arrived in my room first and prepped me for the meeting. I had absolutely no clue what the man was talking about, and I explained as such when he squeezed through the doorway into the room. He demanded answers, I had none, and you can be sure I did not like that my non-answers only angered him more. His daughter was at his side, perfectly quiet, until the father turned to her and asked her again how she got the bruise. She then, rather sheepishly, admitted that it was not me who had hit her but her boyfriend. The father turned to me and said, “Oh, sorry.” And they left, and that was all the apology I was ever given. And for the next three months I had to look at that little bitch of a kid and think about how her father seemed ready to shoot me, and after her little bitch lie was on the table, all he had to say was “Oh, sorry.” I asked the principal to remove her from my class, but it wasn’t possible because the school was so small that there was only one class for each grade level, so there was nowhere to move her. Kyla Graham. Little lying bitch, and I don’t care that I didn’t withhold her name.

My teaching career was great. I was the baseball coach, in charge of all of the school computers and network, having run most of the cables throughout the building with the help of a custodian. I had various other roles that brought in extra income so I really could take summers off – because most teachers work all summer, contrary to popular belief. I loved the school and the town. I had my first child, a beautiful daughter who is now at Boston University, and we had enough money for my (then) wife to stay home with the kid for a couple of years. Just when everything seemed great, I made a dumb-ass decision that sent everything to Hell.

46 Comments | writing | Tagged: career, education, fired, freehold, high school, hillside, howell, job, memoir, teacher, teaching, tenure | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

The Rise and Fall of Me – part 5 of 8(?)

November 19, 2012

To review the end of part 4, I finished my first year teaching without really having a clue of what I was doing. The second year didn’t get any better.

_____________

The Freehold Regional District was a total of five high schools, no elementary schools. Manalapan, Marlboro, Howell, Freehold Township, and Freehold Borough were the five high schools in five towns, each town having their own, separate elementary school system. Within the five high schools, teachers were regularly shifted around without having any say in the matter. After my first year in Freehold Borough, I was moved over to Howell, an upper-middle class town with a world-class golf course within walking distance. Teachers often ran out of the building at the end of the day, grabbed their golf clubs from the trunks of cars, and headed over to squeeze in as many holes as possible before dark. I was moved without an explanation, but it didn’t matter though because I was happy to be employed. Many years later I learned about an unwritten practice called “Pass the Lemon,” in which schools will move problem teachers to other places so as not to have to deal with them for more than a year. It happens with principals too, but in this case it likely could have been the reason for my move. Regardless of the reasons, I was happy about it because I was working with a much more user-friendly staff and made a few good friends but also a couple of enemies.

First and foremost was Bob Wheeler, a very happy, round, premature-gray haired guy who could talk about movies for hours, and we did. Since I was thin and balding and he was round and gray, we were usually referred to as “Siskel and Ebert.” It was business as usual for a teacher to get up and leave the faculty room, roll his or her eyes, and mutter, “Siskel and Ebert are at it again.” We argued and debated many films but also agreed on one very important thing: seeing a bad movie was better than no movie at all. We both taught English, so we spent a lot of time together and, I think, we even shared a classroom. Bob influenced where I bought my first home, in Lakewood, NJ.

Someone who did not admire Bob was a social studies teacher, Frank Sninski. Frank didn’t like Bob for one very important reason. They were both Vietnam Veterans but with very different approaches. Frank spoke often about his war experience, even bragging about the number of enemy soldiers he killed. Bob did not kill anyone, at least not that he was aware of. Bob was so against violence that he did not hesitate to tell how he often shot at cocoanuts in the trees instead of where the enemy was hiding. He said he would only shoot at a person if that person were openly charging at him. Frank felt that Bob’s attitude might have cost some Americans their lives, and he’s likely correct, but it wasn’t for me to decide. Frank was rather sadistic at times. He wore a very large college ring and would occasionally turn the ring so the stone was on the inside of his hand. Then he’d stroll around the room and pat kids on the head with a little extra strength and an audible “knock” on the skull. Frank didn’t like Bob and didn’t like me either, probably because I was friends with Bob. Frank was obsessed with the JFK assassination. Every year around mid-November he’d facilitate an assembly in the auditorium during which he’d show – frame by frame – the Zapruder film on a large screen and explain the details of what happened, according to the Warren Commission. Frank held to the theory that it was an inside job and not the work of one wanna-be Communist. I tend to agree with him, but that’s not important.

Aside from teachers, there were three notable students from my second year of teaching, two of whom I can remember names, but I’ll start with the boy whose name escapes me. I noticed in his creative writing that he spent an unusual amount of time describing females. He used many words to detail their physical appearance as well as their clothing, and I had to remind him to get to the story and spend less time on the visuals. It didn’t appear important at all – until the day it mattered – that he sat right behind the one high school cheerleader in class. She was the stereotypical pretty, blonde, and dumb cheerleader, which we all know only exists in movies and TV, right? One random day I was lecturing a sophomore class about The Scarlet Letter when I noticed the boy behind the cheerleader. He had loose-fitting sweatpants on, and he had his hand in his pants, and he was masturbating. I can’t imagine my first thought, but my second thought was to keep everyone’s attention on me. He was in the back left corner of the room, so I moved to the front right corner. I let my voice grow a little louder and got a little demonstrative. Instead of having the kids take turns reading, I started reading aloud and made efforts to act out what was happening in the story. I know I looked silly, and the boy looked sillier, but the last thing I wanted was for others to see him. If they did, and if they freaked out, it would have scarred this kid for life. He’d be talked about and ridiculed to no end. I don’t know if he deserved it, but I just knew that I had seen something like it before, and I didn’t want history to repeat. In one of my earlier entries I mentioned a kid who was falsely accused of masturbating in school, and it totally changed the course of his life, so I thought about that and kept all eyes and ears on my until finally the whacking boy reached orgasm and collapsed on the desk in exhaustion. Kids turned around and looked at him, not realizing what had prefaced the collapse, and they asked him if he was okay. He looked at me. “Can I use the restroom?” I wanted to say, “You should’ve thought about that ten minutes ago,” but of course I just sent him out. Later that day I told his guidance counselor and never heard another word about it.

Another student, also sophomore, was a wide-eyed, innocent kid named Ricky. He liked to work on cars and tried hard to make friends, but he only did well with cars. He didn’t have great grades and often missed his homework, but he was a good, genuine nice kid. People made fun of him sometimes because his eyes always seemed to be popping out of his head. Ricky tried hard enough to make friends that he’d do almost anything anyone asked. Later that year he went to what was probably his first party, and popular at the time was something called “huffing,” when you’d fill a bag with gas from something like a whipped cream can or spray paint can, inhale it, and basically get a dizzy and temporary high. If you inhaled too deeply, it could stop your vital functions. That’s what Ricky did while just trying to fit in. He passed out, and other kids just thought it was a case of a lightweight who couldn’t pace himself. They figured he’d wake up eventually, and they just stepped over him and pushed him to a corner, not realizing he was dead. Obviously, that’s the worst part, but what fueled me further was the reaction in school.

It’s common for schools to bring in grief counselors when a student passes away or suffers something traumatic. After Ricky’s death, kids were visibly upset and crying in school, seeking to leave class and meet with these counselors, but it was all phony. These kids just wanted to get out of class and get a little attention for themselves. Not uncommon are copycat deaths, in which other kids see how much attention the deceased is getting, and their own instability drives them to commit suicide even though they’re not around to actually get the sympathy. That didn’t happen, but what did happen was me yelling at students for their bullshit act. I told a room full of kids that absolutely none of them, not one of them even knew Ricky’s address or even his birthday. I told them they were all just little shits who wanted to gain a little attention from Ricky’s death and that if any of them even cared one ounce about him, they’d have stopped him from huffing because they would have known the boy probably never drank a beer in his life until the night he died. Then I challenged them to go ahead and be one of those copycat kids, to go kill themselves, find Ricky on the other side, and go apologize to him.

The last student is probably the most regrettable moment of my 25 years in the classroom. It was the last day before our Spring Break. I often talked about what was happening in the news during class but not with essays, just with friendly discussions. There was a murder case in New York in which a teenage girl was invited into the neighboring home of two or three boys. They attempted to rape her, but instead they killed her when she put up too much of a fight. They hid her body in their basement while authorities and volunteers searched the area for a few days, only to eventually find the body. Although the boys denied any involvement, they later confessed. So, just before Spring Break, I talked about that case and begged the students, especially the girls, to be careful during their week off. During that week off, concert tickets went on sale for the band Bon Jovi, which was just becoming one of the most popular acts in the world, never mind the country. In the local news was a story about a girl who was waiting overnight to buy tickets when they went on sale in the morning. In the middle of the night, a guy shows up and tells some kids that he has tickets already, bought them in Pennsylvania where the rules are different and the tickets had been on sale the previous day. All anyone had to do was walk over to his car and he’d sell them the tickets. A girl waiting was naïve enough to believe him and followed him, only to be raped at knifepoint. Beyond sad, but I made it worse.

The following Monday, after the break, I stood in front of the class and lectured them again, asking if they’d seen the story and shooting my mouth off. “Didn’t you hear what I said last week? Didn’t I tell you to be careful where you go and who you go with? Look at this story about this poor girl and what happened to her. Blah blah blah,” and on I went, all the while semi-noticing one girl with her head down. I figured she was tired, partied too much during the break. After class, she got up and left like most other kids, except one girl who stayed behind and looked at me confused. “Didn’t you know?” she asked. “Know what?” “Didn’t you see Jen with her head down the whole time you were talking? She was the girl who was raped.” I don’t think I ever felt more stupid, not before or since, as I did at that moment. Of all the things I’ve ever done that I wish I could take back, that’s likely at the top of the list.

Probably the only bright spot, aside from the friendship with Mr. Wheeler, was a trend that began and lasted to this day. I noticed that there were certain kids who occasionally would come to my room after school, at lunch, or at random times during the day just to sit in my room, talk, or do nothing. The troubled kids, the ones who were often in detention or cutting class would want to bring their situations to me for my opinion or just a sympathetic ear. For some reason the bad kids looked at me as someone who could help or at least just listen. It likely started when I overheard a conversation one day about hockey. When I threw in my two cents, they were surprised to find out that a teacher knew anything about their sport. When I told them I had been playing since I was about 10-years old, they were impressed and asked me if I could help organize a school hockey team. That wasn’t possible, but a club could easily be done. Not ice hockey as that was too expensive, just street hockey, sometimes called ball hockey. We had an unofficial school team and played pick-up games a couple of afternoons a week, nothing official, but a bunch of kids staying out of trouble after school. After the games, we’d hang around and just talk about anything, and it was the only bright spot I had felt. They weren’t bad kids, they just needed direction, something to do, a focus or purpose. Nobody paid attention to them. I didn’t realize back then, but it was a clue to what

was going wrong with education. Schools were focusing on information and tests instead of focusing on kids. They seemed to forget that kids were people, not just names in a gradebook.

The plan was to expand the school hockey team and get a teacher in the other four schools in the district to organize a team, and then we could have a five-team high school hockey league. I would have coached the Howell team, and I say “would have” because at the end of that year I was transferred back to Freehold, and I bet that’s not a surprise.

______________

Up next – the part when I get fired. Nobody dies, but someone gets slapped.

41 Comments | writing | Tagged: at risk students, disaffected, drugs, freehold, high school, hockey, howell, street hockey, students, suicide, teacher | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 4 of 6-ish

November 18, 2012

To review the end of part 3, I graduated college and obtained a teaching certificate. That’s when the trouble started.

My First Year of Teaching

I went on a handful of interviews for teaching positions after graduating college. From what I was told, everyone wanted to be an English teacher, but I couldn’t imagine why because, for me, English was about the most boring class I could recall. All that sentence diagramming and grammar drilling was annoying, but I had no way of knowing how well that would eventually pay off. What I didn’t know were two things: 1. Most teachers love to kill time. 2. It was easy to kill time in English by just giving an essay to write. Something going on in the news? Write an essay. Something locally? Write an essay. Hand out lined paper, sit back with the newspaper, and wait for the bell to ring. Today, it’s even easier because in addition to assigning essays, you can also just show a movie. English teachers can get away with that more than anyone, but that doesn’t stop other teachers from showing movies too.

In my daughter’s school, they’re watching movies constantly. In math recently they were watching Finding Nemo. In her Ceramics class they watched The DaVinci Code. Totally true. Years ago, it was only in English/Language Arts/Communications class that we showed movies regularly because of how they correlated and illustrated the books we had read. We’d read Romeo and Juliet and then watch West Side Story, things like that. Most English teachers I knew would read a book and then watch the movie version. I’d ask them, “Why show the same movie? You’re only telling the same story twice. Show a different movie that’s related in some way.” That’s just one of many reasons why most other teachers did not like me.

Of all the interviews, the only one that counted was in the Freehold Regional High School District, offices in Englishtown, NJ. I interviewed in mid August and was one of three finalists, but the job was given to someone else. Roughly a week later, the woman who was given the job had to give it up in order to move across the country to be with her sick, elderly mother. The guy who was second for the job had already taken another position, so they were stuck with me and I was stuck with a career path for which I was clearly not ready.

Freehold Borough High School

How amazing it was that my first teaching position was at the same high school attended by Bruce Springsteen. I sought out a few older teachers to ask about Springsteen’s time at that school. There was an art teacher who not only remembered specifically how Bruce would sit in the back of his classroom and pick at his face, but the guy had kept all of his gradebooks in his time there and brought one in for me to see Springsteen’s name and grades scribbled on those familiar pages of green and white bars and columns. A science teacher recalled how Bruce would cut class and sit with a guitar beneath a giant tree in the middle of the U-shaped school, playing and singing, and nobody bothered him. The school had since closed the U into a box through needed expansion, and sadly the tree was no longer there.

On my first day in the building as an employee, prior to the first day for students, a group of new teachers were touring the building with one of two vice principals when we heard the glottal voice of a large man in shorts not quite his size yelling “Dick! Dick!” The vice principal looked at us. “Anyone named Dick?” For reasons I don’t need to explain, I’ve never known anyone with my first name – Richard – who preferred the name Dick, so I didn’t imagine the large man was referring to me, but he was. The loud, overinflated man was the English department supervisor, Bob Leonard. Nice guy with sausage-thick fingers and a slightly effeminate drawl in his voice. He had very little interest in what I was actually doing in the classroom because he was hanging on from the days when students did what they were told because their parents made sure it happened. Those days were fading, especially in towns like Freehold where more attention was paid to muscular instead of mental performance.

I had a rookie principal, tall and mild mannered with a slow, deep voice. Frank Penn was very easy to talk to provided you showed the respect his title deserved. I only recall seeing him upset one time. It was shortly before Christmas (aka “winter holiday”), and Mr. Penn brought in a Christmas tree to help decorate the main office. He started to assemble it early one day, but as first period approached, he asked the three office secretaries if they wouldn’t mind finishing the project. One of them rather rudely looked at him and said, “We’re Jewish!” Thus declaring she would not assemble the tree, nor would the others. Penn looked at them oddly. He didn’t intend to insult anyone’s religion and only wanted to bring a festive look to the school. I imagine he might have insulted them more if he instead asked, “Ladies, since you’re Jewish and likely won’t assemble the Christmas tree, can you find some Christians to finish it up? Thanks.” The ladies were not wrong in their refusal to build the tree, but they were wrong in their response. Usually, it’s not what you say but how you say it. They didn’t say it well.

As for me, I knew nothing about earning respect, and I earned none. I earned so little the I was actually punched by a student, and a girl at that, but there’s a circumstance here. Her name was Joann, and she had a black eye. I knew she had a boyfriend who was an angry bastard, and I correctly suspected he had punched her, but I didn’t yet know that when I saw the eye. Her explanation was that she was brushing her friend’s hair, the brush got stuck in a knot, she pulled, the knot slipped, and she ended up punching herself in the eye. I did the wrong thing. I kept pushing. In my own stupid way of trying to help, I called her a liar and told her that I’d bet anything her boyfriend knocked her a good one. Eventually, with all my bothering, she extended an arm and popped me in the middle of the chest. I had a decision to make, and my plan was to get her in a great amount of trouble for hitting a teacher until another teacher intervened. He called me up and asked if I was really going to pursue the matter against the girl, and yes, I was. The gentleman explained to me a few things about the student’s background, homelife, and whether or not I was reacting to the embarrassment of being punched as opposed to what’s best for the student. I thought about it more, about the role that I played in it, and whether or not I deserved to be punched. Nobody deserves to be punched, but the punch certainly would not have happened without be being annoying – so I decided to drop the issue.

There are three other notable students to discuss, and one is “Froggy.” Let me start by saying that I only knew Froggy about two years before he died. I had to look at him several times when I first met him in order to totally understand what I was seeing. Froggy had a disease called “ectodermal dysplasia,” the result of which is that he did not have working sweat glands which causes the body to age rapidly. His hair was very thin and sparse, his teeth not well, and his skin looked like that of a wrinkly elephant. His voice was also affected, thus the nickname Froggy. What was amazing about him was how positive a person he was despite knowing he likely wouldn’t live beyond 17, but I guess he had already dealt with it a long time ago, and it was more of an issue for others who met him, like me. He was a great baseball fan, knew everything about the New York Mets, and possibly liked me more than he should have because he thought I looked a lot like Mets catcher Gary Carter. I had him in class freshman year, and he died about three years later. He was the first student I had who had died but unfortunately not the last.

There was another student in the same class as Froggy, but I sadly can’t remember the boy’s name. I can picture him as well as anyone – blonde hair, wire frame glasses, average size. What wasn’t average was how he reacted the first time I called on him to answer a question and he had no answer. He froze up and turned red. When I tried to talk to him about relaxing and not worrying about not having an answer, he turned purple. Other kids got involved, rubbed his back, and spoke softly to him while I stood in the dark. I later learned that he had a serious condition in which he would easily get nervous and embarrassed, which would then tighten his chest and practically stop his heart. I knew nothing about it, but that was back in 1987. Today’s rules and laws would likely have me well aware of him before ever meeting him. Probably. Unfortunately, he died about the same time as Froggy, and it wasn’t a happy time at that school.

not actually Thomas Battle

The last memorable student that first year was Thomas Battle. He was a sophomore in my freshmen class because he was not a great student and had failed English the previous year, but not a great student doesn’t mean not a great person. When the class would get a little loud and out of control, Thomas would straighten them out. He’d stand up and tell them to “show some respect.” His exact words that I never forgot. I didn’t deserve respect yet, or at least I hadn’t yet earned it. Back then, education classes in college did not spend much time on classroom management. Thomas was a star on the football team, and it’s very likely that his coaches instilled that “respect” idea within him. I always wanted to thank him for what he tried to do, but to thank him would have been to admit that I had no clue what I was doing. I did not want to admit that, but I also did not like not acknowledging his attempt to help. Last year, 25 years later, I was at my younger daughter’s high school graduation and listened as they announced names of students, and I heard “Thomas Battle.” I looked up and saw one of the very few black students in not just the school but the town. I realized now I didn’t mention earlier that the Thomas Battle in my class was black, as were most of the kids. When I saw this Thomas Battle, I immediately did some math. Back in ’87, my Thomas Battle was about 15 or 16 and would now be about 41. The kid at graduation was about 13, so it could easily be the son of the student I had. I looked for him in the parking lot after graduation and saw a guy who looked a great deal like the student I had, but I didn’t approach him. I have no idea why, but I wish I had. Fortunately, I can easily find out if that student is still in school in town, which would likely mean his father would still be around for me to find and ask if he’s the same Thomas. I hope he is, and I hope I have the guts to approach him and say “hi” and “thanks.”

________________________

Up next: Good People and Getting Fired

-30-

44 Comments | writing | Tagged: classroom, freehold, graduate, high school, regret, respect, student, teacher | Permalink
Posted by brainsnorts

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The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 15

The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 14

The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 13

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The Rise and Fall of Me – part 5 of 8(?)

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