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| My friend Madeline, one of our favorite students, and yes that's a cig hanging out of his mouth |
I will preface my account of the most concerning, trying, and downright shitty eighteen months of my life by saying that I have a flare for the dramatic. That being said, as unrealistic as some events may seem given that this is all happening in the 21st century, my experience at Sarah T. Reed High School is unfortunately authentic. I think it's a standard among us dramatic folk to also see the obvious foreshadowing upon seeing an event, or series of events, in hindsight. I take great comfort in analyzing how event A caused event B or person C was put in my life for reason Y, which was only made clear after event A. If that doesn't make sense to you, I applaud and envy your sanity and lack of desire to see the world so teleologically. Upon even beginning to attempt to analyze WHY a greater power ever found it fitting to send me to teach English at an impoverished, entirely minority high school, my mind immediately jumps to all of the signs, illuminated by hindsight, that told me what a horrible idea it was. The only way I can begin to process the purpose of these eighteen months is to look at each of these "signs," or events, with the composure and sanity it has taken me several months to regain.
1. The Panic Attack
Event number one should really have been the end of my road as a "high qualified" high school ELA teacher. Actually, back track. Maybe the first sign was that I was never even a credentialed teacher, I taught with the euphemism and pretense of someone who might have some semblance of knowledge regarding education, behavior management, or the multitude of other skills necessary to effectively teach another human being a field as essential and complex as English literature. I diverge. Event number one occurred on day number one of professional development, or PD. I was two hours late to my first day of work, having never received actual confirmation or description of my new job. As I sat in that hot room in my high waisted skirt and freshly ironed blouse, among forty people in shorts and "Reed Football" t-shirts, I began to feel a sensation unbeknownst to me in my first 22 years of life. My heart beat increased rapidly, my palms started dripping with sweat, the room began spinning, and I was overwhelmed with the sensation that these were to be my last breaths. These unfortunate symptoms comprised my first panic attack. After a few months on the job these ten minutes of pure fear would become routine, but I wish I had known enough to stand up in my very unnecessary high heels and walk out the door forever. Having a panic attack within the first three hours of your new job is probably a sign that it might not be the best fit, but again, that's hindsight talking. So sign number one was overlooked and instead of just popping a Xanax and then moving in with my parents like the vast majority of my college friends, I sat there staring at the fat man with a Hitler mustache in the corner sentimentally daydreaming that his would be the last face I saw before I died.
2. I'm blonde, therefore I cheerlead
I am petite and blonde. I also have little coordination and am a notoriously horrendous dancer. We had a meeting one of those first weeks about coaching extracurriculars, and I was already rehearsing my speech at home for how I would approach the current speech and debate coach and ask if I could help him out that semester. The result of that is an entirely different event that will require it's own summary. Ms. Peyton is the assistant principal who interviewed me, and I liked her from the start. She had the spunk and pizazz of someone who truly wanted to see change in Reed, the only problem was that she was a glorified cheerleader, and in no way prepared or qualified to lead a failing school. She really liked me, but I'll be honest and tell you that it's only because I had really cute work clothes. (I say had because when my life really started crumbling, to the point where dry cleaning was out of the question, I started getting really creative. Maxi dress with a polo sweater, pencil skirts and boat shoes, you get the picture. She didn't like me as much in the fall of the following year when I wore jeans on a daily basis.) Anyway, because I wore cute clothes, and had blonde hair, it was only natural that Ms. Peyton approach me to be the cheerleading coach of Sarah T. Reed High School. And head of the prom committee. Two things for which I had absolutely no interest, but, being a naive and idealistic recent college graduate, I agreed…to the prom committee. I stared blankly when asked about cheerleading, but that was the first of many stereotypes to be realized during this journey.
3. The Time I Had Sex with Abraham Lincoln
This was actually a rumor at Sarah T. Reed Senior High School. Not only did I have sex with everyone's favorite president, but it was actually caught on tape, and believe it or not, uploaded to Youtube. The kids of course could never find the evidence, it had been flagged as inappropriate and removed. But they saw it. "No, no, that lady really done it! I done seen that lady on Youtube with him!" (big smile as Saint Paul - real name, different story - points to a picture of Lincoln above our textbook copy of The Emancipation Proclamation.) We had this trick while teaching, that when a kid said something really funny, but you couldn't let him know it was really funny, it was suddenly time to erase the chalkboard. So there I stood in front of my class, my back bearing the brunt of the screams hurled my way, while I stared at the board with tears streaming down my face from laughing so hard. The reason this was so funny is because they really thought they had caught me in a scandal. I tried to explain the myriad of reasons why this was an actual impossibility, but to no avail. I really hope that my legacy lives on at Reed as the teacher who recorded myself having sex with someone who died 150 years before I was born, on a device that would not be invented until 80 some odd years after his death.
4. Only White People Have Lice
I bet you didn't know that. I didn't either until I was informed by my students. I was also unaware that apparently I look like I chronically have these tiny bugs in my hair. My student Karrell was concerned that he had the head bug and while itching his head, expressed his concerns, "mannn I think I got lice." Jewel replied, "you ain't got lice.. only white people get lice. see ms lierley standin over there with that lice ass lookin head?" I don't know what a lice ass lookin' head looks like, but apparently I have one. And you probably do, too -- if you're white.
5. Saint-Paul on Chivalry
I've been told by many teachers over the years that they don't have a favorite student. I've always believed them. It makes me nervous to have children, because I wonder if I will then see through my parents' lies in the same way that this experience has enabled me to see through my teachers'. Of course I had a favorite student. His name is Saint-Paul Payne. Saint-Paul read well below a 5th grade reading level as a 12th grader and went to prison as an 18 year old, but he was Reed's heart throb. He wore his khakis higher than the other boys, shirt always tucked in. Saint-Paul's godmother is an angel. I assigned my seniors a research paper in the second month of their senior year, and my second month as a teacher. Saint-Paul's godmother became my boyfriend in the sense that she was the last person I talked to before bed, and the first missed call I had in the morning. One day she finally said to me, "you know, Ms. Lierley, I really do trust what you're doing with the kids and I know you're working hard…but Saint-Paul and I worked all weekend on the research paper and I'm just so confused. How could you just assign them to research anything in the world and write 5 pages?" The assignment was obviously not to write five pages on anything in the world, but Saint-Paul figured it would be easier to place blame on me than admit to his godmother that he had forgotten the assignment - and pages of research that we did in class - at school. I emailed her the assignment, and you can bet that Saint-Paul handed in the best research paper I saw in two years of teaching. It was also probably the only paper that wasn't at least 95% plagiarized. Anyway, while I knew that Saint-Paul spent his weekends doing research with his godmother, his peers bought into the illusion of "Killa Saint Paul Payne." His shirt rebelliously crept out of his belted khakis inch by inch until he was a certified gangsta bad ass by the end of first period. While teaching "The Canterbury Tales," we had a discussion on chivalry. Of course, no one knew what the word meant but after a few basic examples, they got the gist. Saint-Paul summarized the class' reactions with a line that would truly have killed his godmother. "God gave you two arms, Ms. Lierley…So why the hell would I pull your chair out for you?"
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