Love in the Classroom: A New York Story

By Randolph James

The five protagonists-Hugh, a veteran administrator dealing with the complacency of a long marriage; Michael, an Irish-American English teacher trapped in a loveless marriage to "daddy's girl"; Marissa, a young Puerto Rican teacher struggling to find love in the Bronx; Andrew, a high school dean/ basketball coach, having forsaken love for a bevy of partners; and Reggie, stalling his lovely fiance in order to have that last fling.

But the primary story of Love in the Classroom: A New York Story is that of the New York educational system and the stories that unfold away from the public's eyes. The incidents are realistic and portrayed in an honest and perceptive way. If you've ever wondered what goes on in the minds of people who make the decisions that affect the lives of children, here is your opportunity to find out. Love in the Classroom is a "must-read" for educators and parents alike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483697666

Randolph James

The author, Randolph James, a native New Yorker, is a thirty-year veteran of the school system, having served as an administrator, a dean, an English teacher, and a renowned basketball and baseball coach in the system that educated him. Mr. James currently resides in Charlotte, North Carolina. Love in the Classroom: A New York Story is a novel about five New York City educators and their search for meaningful and loving relationships as they struggle with the trials and tribulations that they face while working in the world’s largest school system. The story is about New York, its schools, its students, and the bureaucracy that forces individuals to circumvent policies that they perceive to be detrimental to their aims. It is also a powerful love story, touching on the difficulties of finding lasting love in the city that never sleeps.

Book preview

LOVE IN THE

CLASSROOM

A New York Story

A novel by

Randolph James

Copyright © 2013 by Randolph James.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2013916410

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4836-9765-9

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4836-9764-2

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4836-9766-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Cover Illustration by James Denmark

Rev. date: 09/13/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

138860

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For Elijah, Ruby, Lena, and all the other little ones.

I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in truth

—3 John 1:4

The best provision for old age: Education

—Aristotle

To be educated is to be enlightened. It is not only to open doors, but also to close none. It is to seek answers, to look beyond every border, roll over every rock, and read between every line. It is to accept no premise despite the religious dogma or sacred scroll that offers answers that others have accepted. It is to pursue a life that presumes that the answers to all our pertinent questions are not known and, in fact, may never be known. But to be educated is to continue to seek those answers anyway.

CHAPTER ONE

Once you reach a certain age, you think that love is not going to come your way again. You feel that after you’ve experienced the throes of young love, had a number of lurid affairs, and had your heart broken a few times, your wisdom, cynicism, and worldliness will prevent you from reaching that euphoric state in which you become totally infatuated with another human being’s existence.

It then comes as a complete surprise when you discover that you were wrong. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, you find that you had not developed an immunity to love. That is exactly what happened to me.

My name is Michael, Michael Harrington the third. I am a high school English teacher in the New York City school system. I have been teaching for twenty years although I am only forty years old. I began teaching right after graduating from Columbia University.

I am married but unhappily so. Lately, I’ve begun to concentrate on my work, primarily to take my thoughts away from my home life. I’d like to continue with this narrative, but my assistant principal is standing outside my classroom door, and he obviously wants my attention. I get up and walk to the doorway.

Carlton Barrett is a stocky veteran of the school system, and although he has been an assistant principal for five years, he still looks over his shoulder as if a probationary supervisor was assessing his every move.

Can I help you, Carlton?

Well, Mr. Harrington, I’d like to know what lesson you’re in the midst of.

I chuckle. We’ve known each other for nearly ten years now, but when he feels the need to chastise me officially, he dispenses with my first name and uses my formal appellation.

The kids are going over compositions that I corrected last night, I say, as I gesture to the thirty odd high school juniors sitting quietly in front of us. Barrett, however, was not in the mood to be so easily appeased.

Well, you could be doing something more productive than sitting at your desk with your feet propped up, looking as if your thoughts are a thousand miles away. It wouldn’t seem appropriate if a visitor happened to be walking down the corridor.

There’s that word again: appropriate. People nowadays seem to think that there is one way to behave, one way to look at things, and one way to respond. Appropriateness is not an exact science! What I may think is appropriate and what you find to be appropriate may be completely different, and yet neither one of us might be wrong. In my own way, I responded to Barrett’s words.

I’ve been doing my job too long, Carlton, to be concerned with appearances. I know what I’m doing, and I no longer have the patience to play those little games with people who want me to act the part.

With that said, I turned my back to Barrett, walked back to my desk, and propped my feet back up on the same cabinet. Even though I was perusing a copy of Hamlet, I could feel Barrett’s glare and was well aware of his exasperation when he finally walked away. A few moments later, when I reflected on my behavior, I surmised that what I had done may not have been wise.

He was, after all, my supervisor, and his opinion carried some weight with the school administration. The fact that he knew that I knew that I was one of his more effective teachers may not prevent him from recalling this episode when I needed a favor from him. Still, very little of Barrett’s time was spent trying to improve my methods or alter my disciplinary procedures, problems with which many of my colleagues still wrestled.

It was only last month that a novice in the department contributed to a situation that was disruptive. Theo Desopholas requested to leave his classroom to use the restroom. Unlike Michael, who could readily determine whether a student really needed to use the restroom or just wanted to roam the school halls, twenty-two-year-old and second-year teacher Candy Ramirez had no clue. Mindful of the administration’s edict of limiting the use of the bathroom pass, she stood her ground. Thus, she was aghast when the six-foot-five senior, Theo Desopholas, unzipped his pants, pulled out his penis, and began urinating in the top left hand drawer of her desk.

It was Michael, teaching class in the adjacent room, who rushed out into the hall to calm the twenty screaming students who had scampered out of Candy’s room as if a fire had just broken out. He proceeded to bring the situation to some semblance of normalcy. While Theo Desopholas would later be suspended and prohibited from attending the prom or graduation ceremonies, and his parents were charged the price of a new desk; he was graduated. It took nearly a week to convince students to return to the notorious piss room, and eventually even Candy Ramirez overcame the trauma.

No one bothered to commend Michael for his role in relieving the disquieting situation. As a senior member of the staff, it was just expected of him. Not getting any credit for the countless number of deeds done beyond the call of duty did not bother Michael. However, it was because of those episodes that Michael used his super-teacher status to ignore the typical chastisements of his supervisors. He knew that Carlton Barrett would return to his office and fume for a few minutes. He didn’t appreciate Michael’s insubordination, but there was little he could do about it.

Michael had not always been so disrespectful to his supervisors; but the years had taken their toll. Once he no longer aspired to join the ranks of the supervisory staff himself, he began to see their concerns with political matters, rather than true educational objectives, as hypocritical and counterproductive. While the majority of school administrators were former teachers themselves, they had either forgotten the true purpose of a school or chose to put that purpose on the back burner, choosing instead to concentrate on their own personal rise in the educational hierarchy.

Teachers, not administrators, are the backbone of any school, Michael would say to anyone who would listen. He had no way of knowing that, four years later to the day, he would be taking courses to become an administrator himself.

* * * * * * * * * *

Living in New York City is unlike living anywhere else in the world. You don’t realize this of course until you have travelled to other locales. The uniqueness of anyone’s hometown is of course intimated by the phrase There’s no place like home, and, to some extent, that’s probably true. However, every small provincial town in the world has a commonality of simplicity. It is in that sense that New York is different.

Big, bad and intimidating, you-should-believe-the-hype New York—it is brash, huge, and able to rebound and respond to all challenges. In some respects, it is, as it continually proclaims, the greatest city in the world.

But it is only the greatest city in the world if you are in the entertainment field (sorry Hollywood), the publishing industry, the financial world, the media, or professional sports. It is the greatest city in the world if you are very rich or very poor, an immigrant, or between the ages of twenty-one and forty-five. It is also the greatest city in the world if you don’t have a job, a home, or a family.

If you want to find yourself, there is no better place to look than New York City. If you exist, you’ll be there. It is the one place that you can go where you do not have to fit in. New York has a slot for you. Other places demand that when in Rome, do as the Romans do. New York allows you to form your own little niche even if you are the only individual to wear that distinctive cloak! That is a freedom that few other places in the country, not to mention the world, will allow you to possess. The freedom to be different.

But wait. While singing the city’s praises, one needs to recognize that it also has quagmires.

The ability to send a rising individual on his or her way to the top should not be overshadowed by its ability to ensnare another individual in any one of its many traps.

Did you not notice that when we were compiling the list of those groups for whom New York is the greatest city in the world, we did not include everyone? That is because for anyone who does not fall within those parameters, New York is not the greatest city in the world.

New York City is not the greatest city in the world if you are a middle-class working couple looking for a nice, affordable, unattached two- or three-bedroom house for your family. Almost any other city becomes greater than New York in allowing you that luxury. New York will either crowd you into an overpriced apartment or stick you in a row of houses that is attached to yours and looks exactly like yours. The cost of real estate makes it highly unlikely that New York City will offer you more.

New York is not the greatest city in the world if you are six years old and looking for a basketball league to play in, where other six-year-olds play or compete in dance, tee-ball baseball or flag football. Unless you are very rich, New York does not maintain a safe, inexpensive recreation program for your children. The number of recreation centers, YMCAs, or boys’ or girls’ clubs or buildings that house activities for the children of New York is embarrassingly low when you consider the number of people who live in New York. Go to any small town in America, and you’re going to find more accommodations for your children.

New York City’s night life has no equal. You can find almost any form of entertainment on any given night. The city will feed you a menu from around the world at nearly any time of day or night. You can see movies in several different languages, and you can go see a play every other night for nearly a year without seeing the same play twice.

However, after you’ve settled down, selected your mate, had the kids, and bought and remodeled the house of your dreams, New York has little to offer you. How often are you going to paint the town (especially at the prices New York is going to demand you pay)? For the large majority of New Yorkers, going to see a play or eating at a gourmet restaurant is a twice a year activity (if at all).

New York is not the city you would choose to live in if your family’s safety is a top priority. Few of your neighbors would recognize your child or where he or she might live in most city neighborhoods. Encountering strangers on the street is a common occurrence in a New York child’s life. Having a party in your own backyard with children that you’ve known for years is an experience that escapes all but a few of New York’s younger residents.

A large number of New Yorkers, both native and transient, find their professional calling in the city and have vibrant, exciting careers in the city that never sleeps. However, after those careers have come to a close, they retire to a more livable setting in the western or southern regions of the country. Those who remain do so because it is either not financially feasible to relocate, or they have strong ties to relatives unable to relocate. There are still others who stay because they continue to believe that the greatest city in the world moniker still applies. They are wrong. Few of those who venture to another part of the country to live ever return. New York will always be their hometown; it will just not be where they live.

The diversity that New York offers its residents extends to its neighborhoods and its schools. Politically, culturally, and racially, New York is not one city but a group of minicities. The melting pot metaphor that is often used to describe the city is misleading. New York neighborhoods are distinctive, with separate customs, issues, and needs.

The schools, though under the auspices of one chancellor, reflect the concerns of the neighborhoods that they serve. While the mayor of the city tries to find a compromising political resolution to bickering communities within the city, the chancellor of the school system, currently under the political umbrella of the mayor, will allow policies and conditions to exist in one school that he might never consider in another.

The neighborhood that needs an extensive free-breakfast-and-lunch program for its residents does not get or demand the college prep classes that are in demand in another. And the neighborhood that has a high demand for English language proficiency programs for adults will get that demand met while funds are cut for other services. The children who attend school in a low economic community receive a different education than that given in a high-end economic community because their parents have different concerns and place different demands on the administrators who run their schools.

It is not a discriminatory practice, but one that addresses the needs of its clients: the parents. The one question that is relevant is seldom asked. Are the needs of the parents the same as the needs of their children? And if those needs are different, then whose needs should the school system address?

Back in the 1950s when New York City’s schools were politically independent from the mayor’s office, the answer to the above question was debatable. However, former mayor Giuliani was able to convince the state legislature to hand the reins of the school system over to the mayor’s office (Note: This happened just about the same time that the system overwhelmingly became one serving minority students.), and the schools have been in the political arena ever since. The needs of a nonvoting, underage student body are seldom the foremost concerns of politicians.

The pee incident, while fading from the memory of the school’s administrators, reared its ugly head periodically in the form of snide remarks, jokes, and inappropriate comments by the students and the staff of Franklin Pierce High School. Michael Harrington was in the teachers’ cafeteria when veteran teacher Stuart O’Reilly gave his comments.

Ain’t the first time a kid thought to relieve himself in the classroom. The burly sixty-two-year-old member of the teaching profession was extremely adept at putting many of the stories that teachers told in the cafeteria in perspective. Scratching his straggly two-day-old beard, the unkempt senior of the teaching staff (Veteran-tenured teachers usually were immune to the proper attire that younger staff members were encouraged to adorn.) was always ready to speak. The frayed food-stained shirt that barely covered his midsection was ignored by the wearer and his colleagues. His words, however, were heard by all seventeen teachers sitting in the faculty cafeteria.

Back in 1985, in a middle school in Brooklyn, a twelve-year-old black girl got up from her seat, went to the trash can near the front of the classroom, pulled down her panties, and proceeded to shit in the can. That’s what happens when you let novice teachers try to determine if a kid’s request to go to the restroom is legit or not.

Although Candy Ramirez, sitting at the opposite of the cafeteria, realized that she was the novice that O’Reilly was referring to, she chose not to attack the veteran teacher and instead raise her voice to blame Theo Desopholas.

That little girl in Brooklyn was just a child; Theo is nearly twenty years old. He should have better sense than to expose his privates in front of a room full of his classmates!

Michael spoke up.

But that’s exactly the point, Candy. Why should a twenty year old man have to ask for permission to relieve himself? Prisons and schools are the only places where human beings have to ask permission to go to the john. Next year when he is in college, he’ll simply get up and leave the room when the need arises.

Rebecca Mortimer, one of the few administrators who ate lunch with the regular faculty, refuted Michael’s position.

Michael, you know we can’t allow that. Twenty percent of the student body would spend more time in the hall than in the classroom.

So, refuted Michael, we cater to the lack of discipline and immaturity of the twenty percent rather than allow the large majority to exercise the human dignity of being able to decide when their need to go to the bathroom supersedes instruction. It’s as if we forcing them to remain children.

Ha. It was O’Reilly again, emphasizing his disdain for students, parents, and the school administration.

They are little animals and we are more like animal trainers, babysitting them while their parents are at work. The school administration tries to make like education is the top priority when in reality they are more concerned with control, order and maintaining the status quo.

O’Reilly glared at Rebecca Mortimer as he spat out his words.

Michael did not like O’Reilly, but he realized that he agreed with him, at least on that point. Education was not the top priority of the school system. It was not concerned with developing intelligent, open-minded, inquisitive individuals.

The ringing of the bell that signified the end of the fifth period lunch session brought the discussion to an abrupt end, and the teachers began filing out, scurrying to their next class. Candy Ramirez caught Michael at the door.

Thanks, Michael.

For what?

For sticking up for me. You pointed out that it is the rule that is flawed, not me. How was I to know that Theo’s request to use the restroom was legitimate?

Michael slowed his pace and responded to her.

Well, Theo has sense enough to know that he just should have walked out of your room and went to the bathroom. He could have dealt with the consequences of leaving the room without permission at a later time. He was just being a dick.

Still, the school must know that a situation like mine was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s the policy that is faulty.

Michael nodded his agreement and was about to head off in a different direction when Candy grabbed his arm and extended an unexpected invitation.

Michael, I‘ve heard that you play chess. Well, a group of my friends are getting together on Friday night for drinks, cards, and chess. I’m not part of their regular chess group, but they’ve invited some new people, and women are supposed to invite men, and my best friend said I could only come if I brought two guys with me. Mark Bloom of the Social Studies Department has agreed to come, and I would really appreciate it if you came too. I’m sure that you would enjoy yourself.

Half the people in school don’t even know that I’m married. Other than Andrew, my best friend, I don’t socialize with the faculty. I don’t intentionally keep my marital status a mystery, but ever since Nancy and I started having problems communicating, I just don’t mention her in general conversations. I doubt that Candy would have invited me to a party as an extra male if she had known that I was married. Although I felt like I would be deceiving her by not mentioning it, the idea of going to a party to play chess interested me, so I said nothing.

I told Candy that I would think about it, but by Wednesday that tentative yes became a full- fledged yes. Even then I told her that I’d come but that it was more for Chess than socializing. She laughed and said that that was okay. She just needed me to come along so that there would be an adequate number of men at the party.

Despite all of that, when Friday finally came, I got on the phone and told Candy that I wouldn’t come unless Andrew could come too. Andrew is the school’s basketball coach, and he also plays chess. I was worried that I wouldn’t have anything in common with anyone at the party, and Andrew was my insurance against that possibility. Not surprisingly, Candy agreed.

For everything that Andrew and I have in common, there are just as many areas in which we differ. We are both high school English teachers, but he is an Afro-American, and I am Irish-American. We are both die-hard basketball fans, but he runs track to stay in shape while I am an avid swimmer. And while I am a one-woman man, I can never keep track of Andrew’s lady friends: they are too numerous and varied. We are both over six feet tall, but he is a bit more muscular than I am. My close-cropped red hair contrasts with his shortened afro, and his smooth brown skin makes me envious. I have more than a few freckles; they always give people the impression that I am younger than I actually am.

In keeping with his playboy image, Andrew drives a sharp blue sports car. Initially, he balked at my suggestion that he drive us to the party, reasoning that he might make another romantic conquest at the affair and would not be able to take her home with him if he had to drop me off too. However, after I agreed to take a taxi home, if that occasion should occur, he relented.

He picked me up fifteen minutes late (Another one of our differences: I am always on time, and he is habitually late.). I have always walked around the corner to meet Andrew when he comes to my neighborhood. I’ve never wanted him to see my extravagant house. I know it’s silly, being that he’s my best friend and all. I know he’ll ask me about it one day, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. And even though I had half expected him to be tardy, when the little blue sports car pulled up on my street, I commented away.

Jesus, Andrew. I suppose you’re going to be late for your own funeral.

Sorry, man, but I had a difficult day.

I don’t expect it was any more difficult than mine.

You don’t work in the dean’s office.

For the past two years, Andrew has been relieved of his teaching duties. Instead, he has been assigned as the school’s acting head dean. He has a little office in a corner of the school, and he spends his days resolving conflicts that arise between students. He also decides on disciplinary measures for any infractions of school rules. I did not have to wait for him to elaborate.

"At about ten-fifteen this morning, my secretary escorted this large, bearded, muscular man into my office. You could tell he was working man; checkered flannel shirt, an old pair of jeans, and heavy duty work boots. He grabbed the chair opposite my desk and pulled it closer, obviously intending to speak to me frankly. I spoke first.

‘How can I help you, Mr. Stanisky?’

‘I have a problem, Mr. Carter. I want you to help me solve my problem.’

He spoke with heavy foreign accent, and although I couldn’t place the exact origin, I knew that English was not his native tongue. I surmised that it was Polish, but he quickly corrected me.

‘I am a proud Russian man, and I came to America to do better for my family. I work hard, obey the law, and stay with my own kind.’

I nodded, and he continued.

‘Yesterday afternoon I come home early, and I am half block from my door, and I see this Puerto Rican boy coming out of my yard. I yell for him to stop, but he run the other way. Then I go upstairs to talk to my wife and daughter.’

The disdain with which he pronounced Puerto Rican was evident. It foreshadowed his next statements.

‘My wife said, third time this week, he walk Sarah home.’

‘And Sarah, I take it, is your daughter,’ I interjected, writing her name on the pad in front of me as I spoke.

‘Yes, so you understand. Now, Mr. Carter, I am not a man of, how you say, prejudice, but I stay with my own kind. I have nothing against the Puerto Rican people, but they not like us. They smell differently, and they do not work hard. I do not want my daughter to see this boy at my house or at this school.’

At this point, I stood up, came from behind my desk, and opened the door to the outer office. I asked my secretary to send for Sarah.

‘It is not what I want for my children,’ Mr. Stanisky continued. ‘I work hard for better life for my children. Sarah cannot have Puerto Rican boyfriend.’

‘We have over fifteen different nationalities in our school, Mr. Stanisky. We encourage our students to treat everyone the same, regardless of where they come from. I would not, and could not, ask Sarah to treat a Puerto Rican student any different than she would any other student at our school.’

Mr. Stanisky’s discouragement following my response was evident on his face, but he said nothing. The awkward silence that followed was interrupted by a knock on the door.

‘Come in.’

Sarah was a tall young lady with shoulder-length brown hair. She, too, wore jeans; but, unlike her father’s, hers were designer jeans, a sign of the times. She wore a paisley blouse with short puffed sleeves.

‘Sarah?’

My secretary walked in behind Sarah and handed me a folder, as is customary, containing Sarah’s latest grade report and a cumulative copy of her attendance record. Her grades were above average for a seventeen-year-old high school junior, particularly in Math. Her attendance record was fine, but I made a mental note of the fact that she had been absent at least one day in each of the past three weeks. I addressed her directly.

‘Do you have any idea why your father is here this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is the young man’s name?’

‘But he hasn’t done anything wrong. He just walks me home. It’s on his way home.’

‘No Puerto Ricans live in our neighborhood,’ her father volunteered.

I repeated my question.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Juan’

‘Juan what? I know you know his last name.’

‘Juan Fernandez, but he hasn’t done anything to be in trouble for.’

‘He’s not in trouble,’ I shot back, ‘but he should be made aware of your father’s concerns.’

‘He knows that my father doesn’t like Puerto Ricans.’

Mr. Stanisky stood up and shook his fist at his daughter.

‘I do not, not like Puerto Ricans! They just different!’

‘There is no need to shout, Mr. Stanisky. I will speak to the young man. Sarah, how long have you known Juan?’

‘Since last February. He was in my English class last term.’

‘Do you have any classes with him now?’

‘No; we just have lunch together period five.’

I took a short breath and a thirty-second pause. The scenario that had students from different backgrounds dating each other was a phenomenon that was becoming more and more noticeable in recent years, something that was inevitable as certain schools became more integrated. Yes, you could still see the divisions in the average school cafeteria, where students still sat in predominantly homogenous groups, but students were fully integrated in classrooms, on teams, and in most other school activities. It took courage for the first few integrated couples to walk the halls arm in arm, but it had now become old hat. I had even busted up a few heavy petting sessions between students of different races behind stairwells.

Watching other staff members observing this phenomenon often gave me an insight into their perspective. Unfortunately, the look of disgust on the faces of more than a few of my colleagues was often because of the difference in the students’ races rather than the nature of the behavior itself. A reflection, I suppose, of different generations.

Finally, I addressed Mr. Stanisky.

‘Mr. Stanisky, I will inform the young man of your wishes. I will tell him not to visit your home unless you have a change of heart and invite him. I will also tell him what is expected of him in terms of his behavior while he is here in school. But you must understand that we have little control over him once he leaves the building. That is something that you, your wife, and your daughter will have to discuss. I do not agree with your thoughts on this matter, but I do understand what you are saying.’

‘But you will speak to this boy and tell him that I am angry. You tell him that Sarah is not for him, that he should find a nice Puerto Rican girl. Do you think I should tell him myself?’

‘No, Mr. Stanisky. School policy prohibits a parent from speaking to another student unless that student’s parent is present. I assure you that I will convey your feelings to the young man.’

‘I say again, Mr. Carter, I do not want trouble. Sarah likes this school, she do good here, but she will not stay if she sees Puerto Rican boy again!’"

At this point, I interrupted Andrew’s narrative.

"You know that this type of