Читать книгу Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Diane Gensler - Страница 8

Prologue

Read this bitch!

This was the welcome note I received my first day of teaching September 1, 1992 at a local parochial school in my hometown of Baltimore. I found it sitting on my desk before school started. I was startled. Was this meant for me? If so, why was someone calling me the b word? I picked it up, looked closely at the penciled scrawling, and turned it over.

Jesus is the messiah

and don’t you forget it!

Now it made sense. This was the greeting I received as a Jewish teacher in a Catholic school. Had they never met a Jew before? Did everyone already know I was Jewish? How? Who could have written such a note?

***

I was in my twenties, and all I wanted to do was teach. In pretend play as a child, I would write questions on my chalkboard and make handouts to give invisible students. When my twelfth grade English teacher went around the room and asked everyone what they wanted to be, I told her I wanted to be her!

When I started babysitting at age thirteen, I knew I loved working with kids. The two sisters from my regular Saturday night babysitting job would beg their parents to go out so I could babysit. We had fun choreographing dances to their favorite music and playing a doodle drawing game I created (that years later appeared in stores). My mother compared me to the Pied Piper because children were drawn to me.

Even though I attended a local college while commuting from home, I became overwhelmed trying to keep up with my coursework, including the general university requirements. I floundered that first year, forgetting my original ambition. In my second year, I took an introductory class called “Careers in Education” which reignited my interest in the field. When I stepped int my first full-fledged education class the next semester, I knew I was where I was meant to be. I declared a double major of English and Secondary Education, and my grade point average improved tremendously since I was now taking classes that really engaged me. For my student teaching internship at the end of my education program, I was paired with an experienced, talented middle school teacher who knew how to bring out the best in me. I relished my time learning from her and the time spent with the students.

Once I graduated, this teacher helped me get a job as a long-term substitute in the same school. I taught for several months in place of the permanent teacher, writing my own lesson plans, grading students’ papers, and holding all the responsibilities of the full-time teacher. After the original teacher returned, I did this two more times in two other public schools.

The third time the permanent teacher was to return after winter break. I was so upset about having to leave that on my last day, I was issued a speeding ticket for going 80 mph on the beltway on my way home! I hadn’t realized I was accelerating with all the tears in my eyes.

***

I didn’t realize my passion would cause such turmoil and anti-Semitism in my first full-length teaching job. In 1992 there was uproar in other areas of the United States. Race relations were tense after Rodney King, an African American taxi driver, was beaten ruthlessly by Los Angeles police, causing rioting and political unrest throughout the nation. (Unfortunately history repeated itself in Baltimore in 2015 with the Freddie Gray case.)

The Crown Heights riots from the previous year were still fresh on everyone’s minds. In that section of Brooklyn, riots broke out between black and Orthodox Jewish residents after two black children were struck and one of them was killed by the motorcade of a highly respected Orthodox rabbi. Black teenagers even killed a non-Jew thinking he was Jewish.

Also in the same year, the Catholic Church was reeling from multiple allegations of sexual abuse around the country by priests and clergy. It was estimated that at this point, dioceses in the United States had paid out four hundred million dollars in legal fees and reparations. In October, singer and musician Sinead O’Connor, in an appearance on late night television show Saturday Night Live, sang her song “War” and tore up a photograph of Pope John Paul II in protest.

A little earlier in April, major Italian-American mob boss, John Gotti, was sentenced to life in prison for his crimes. Watching the news story with his mug shot posted on the screen made me shiver as I realized that characters and evil-doers right out of Scarface and The Godfather actually exist in this world. Soon I was to encounter some characters that probably would have liked to use Gotti to “put a hit out” on me!

On the heels of the real-life John Gotti drama came a comedy in the movie theatre that gained popularity. Whoopi Goldberg starred in Sister Act, playing a nightclub singer who witnesses a mob crime and is forced to hide in a convent. She forms a choir with the nuns.

I didn’t realize at the time that I’d soon be teaching in a Catholic school, although the teacher nuns I encountered had all retired from the order. My experience there would be anything but comical.

***

I was finally starting the job of my dreams. I couldn’t wait to get to my own classroom that first day of school. I had practiced what I was going to say to the students so many times that I was probably mumbling, “Good morning, class” in my sleep. I set my alarm an hour earlier than necessary, awoke several times before the alarm, fell back to sleep, and when it went off again, jumped up like a fire fighter responding to a call.

Several weeks before, I had chosen a white, floral skirt suit, an outfit I considered to be a combination of regality and professionalism. I felt I could have been running for President of the United States or having tea with the Queen of England. I had worn this outfit several times to religious services at my synagogue. Pink flowers, leaves and long, intertwining stems ran rampant over the white short-sleeved, puffy-shouldered jacket and matching straight skirt. In hindsight, I may have appeared as one big sapling from head to foot.

I was finished with roommates and lived happily by myself in a top floor apartment on the outskirts of the city. After a twenty minute drive to school, it was 7:00 a.m. when I pulled into the parking lot in my parents’ hand-me-down silver Dodge Aries sedan. The season had changed to fall, the sky was clear, and there was a slight breeze. I was so excited I was coatless and oblivious to the crispness of the early morning hour. I secured the parking spot closest to the door, since I was the only car in the front lot.

When I turned the handle of the front door to the building, my exhaled breath clouded the air, as I was relieved to find it was unlocked. I noticed the front office was vacant, although the lights were on. I felt comforted that somebody else, even if it was a maintenance person, was in the building. I continued through the lobby, turned right, and proceeded down the long, dark corridor that led to my classroom. The school was organized with the younger grades down the hallway to the left, and the older grades down the hallway to the right. I was teaching sixth, seventh, and eighth grade English Language Arts, and my homeroom class consisted of sixth graders. My room was a distance down the hall.

I passed the unlit classrooms of the third, fourth, and fifth grades. All it would have taken was for someone to open one of those doors and shout “BOO!” and I would have run screaming back to the front door. If the symphonic music with the chanted Latin lyrics from The Omen was playing and cobwebs and candlebras adorned the hall, the place would have been ready for Halloween. There was a light at the far end of the hallway past all the classrooms. Its source was from a connection to another building with which I was unfamiliar, but I was grateful for the illumination. I told myself to walk toward the light. Ironically, I found out later it was a hallway that led to the church.

I carried my brown leather briefcase with a combination lock that was a college graduation gift from my aunt and uncle. I was happy to finally use it. It contained my grade book, seating charts, lesson plans, unit plans, handouts, and transparencies. I had already prepared for the next few months using materials I had taken home. It didn’t take me long in the weeks ahead to realize I needed to graduate to something larger in order to carry all the paperwork I amassed.

I walked down the last small set of stairs and arrived at my classroom on the left. I swung open the door, turned on the lights, and stood there taking it all in.

The room looks terrific! My students should feel welcome, and we should all feel comfortable. I love my bulletin boards that I put so much time into creating and putting up myself. I love the room arrangement. I’m ready. This classroom was meant for me. It was designated to no one else but me. Here is where in the coming months I will be making a difference in children’s lives. Here is the place that I will spend most of my waking hours. Bring on the kids!

The school had been in existence since the 1950s, but some classrooms were added later and then refurbished in the eighties. You could tell the school was a combination of old and new. My classroom looked upgraded from a public school classroom because it had mauve carpet (albeit not lavish or lush but rather worn and faded), a long row of windows which overlooked a small expanse of lawn, a separate section of hooks for coats and backpacks behind a painted pink cinder block wall, a relatively large walk-in closet on the far side of the room by my desk, and a separate exit door in case of emergency. I had already grown accustomed to the sculptured head of the Virgin Mary mounted like an animal trophy above the chalkboard at the front of the room. (No offense intended here; it’s just that it felt really “in my face.”)

I had been in the school almost every day in the weeks prior for faculty meetings and planning time, so I had plenty of time to decorate and arrange my room. A day or two before, I had written on the blackboard my objectives and directions in my careful, precise script. My overhead projector and transparencies awaited on a cart in the front of the room facing the pull-down screen. My handouts for the day were stacked neatly in my closet and ready to go.

Standing in the doorway, I glanced around the room. Then I noticed the index card on my desk.

Someone is certainly sending a message, I thought. Someone definitely doesn’t want me here.

I kept staring at the note. When the fog in my head cleared a little, I became offended over being called a bitch more than about not accepting Jesus Christ as my savior. It looked like a child’s handwriting.

If a kid wrote this, what could have prompted it?

I couldn’t be angry if it was a child, because that just shows blatant ignorance. But even if it was a child, ultimately the sentiment would come from an adult. And that thought made me angry.

I didn’t have long to ponder this because I was interrupted by Mrs. A, the teacher who taught English Language Arts directly across the hall. They called her my “teaching partner” because she taught the other half of the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades, not because we were assigned to work together. When we were introduced, I was told she taught the above-average students, and I would get the students who were lower ability.

Mrs. H, the religion teacher and a former nun, had stopped by my classroom in one of the first weeks of school.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m good,” I answered. I was glad someone cared enough to check on me.

“Do you know why you got all the low kids?” she asked.

“No,” I answered. I hadn’t thought about it.

“Because Mrs. A doesn’t want them. She always teaches the higher students. She’s been here a long time, and the principal gives her what she wants.”

“Oh,” I responded, unsure of what to say to that.

“I think I heard her once call them ‘the bottom of the barrel.’ She doesn’t want to teach them. Just thought you might want to know.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

She whisked herself down the hall before I could ask her anything.

Wow. The bottom of the barrel? How can you ever say that about any child? Each child is unique and has something to offer. I love all kids. How can a teacher even utter those words?

Mrs. A seemed nicer than that. She did have the more advanced students though. I didn’t want to make any harsh judgments about her. She seemed to be an accomplished teacher, and I had to work with her the whole year. I didn’t want to be prejudiced against her at the very start. Although I couldn’t see how the religion teacher would fabricate such a story. I would just have to ignore this comment for now.

Mrs. A was a tall, slender, redhead in her forties, her face sunburnt from time spent gardening in her backyard. She told me she found it relaxing to spend time digging in the soil. In my mind I could see her like Wilma in “The Flintstones” Hannah Barbera cartoons, thrusting her raptor-footed trowel into the ground, heaving it over her shoulder, and covering Fred in dirt.

Her hair was pulled back with a large clip. It looked effortless but professional. In spite of her youthful appearance, I considered the hairstyle a modern version of the old-fashioned schoolmarm. When we had met for the first time, she had flashed her broad, sparkling Cheshire cat smile.

“I saw your light on, so I came over,” Mrs. A explained.

I was surprised to see her, as it was still very early and I thought I was the only teacher in the building. She asked what I was holding in my hand. It was several minutes after I found the note, but I hadn’t moved. I was still standing in front of my desk. I showed her the card.

She took it from me. As she read, she scrunched up her face like someone who just smelled a rotten egg. She turned the card over, read the back, and then re-examined both sides.

“Somebody left this on your desk?”

“Yes,” I answered nodding.

“Why would somebody do that?” she asked rhetorically. “The handwriting looks familiar, but I can’t place it.” She paused. “I’ll take this to Mr. Z.”

She strutted off in her medium-heeled sandals and pearl necklace to the principal’s office. I wondered why she didn’t suggest I take the card to him. But then I figured it might be better if I didn’t have to deal with it. I assumed she was trying to be helpful.

I later asked her what the principal said.

“He said he would keep the card and investigate.”

Investigate? That sounds like a week or more of lost time. Doesn’t this demand immediate attention? Shouldn’t he come out of his office and deal with this now? Perhaps he could call an assembly and discuss this situation with the entire school. Do they not care that a brand new teacher is being harassed? How were they planning on investigating? Were they going to interview students? Were they going to do handwriting comparisons? Why would you let this wait and let the trail go cold? These thoughts were now screaming through my head.

As far as I knew, no one was on the case. A few weeks later I asked Mrs. A about it, and she told me that she hadn’t heard anything. When I told her I was thinking of talking about it directly with the principal, she said there was no need. But I did ask if he had learned anything when I was in his office several months later over another matter.

“I haven’t discovered anything,” he answered with a tone that said to back off.

For the remainder of the school year no one mentioned it. I inquired again toward the end of the year, and Mrs. A told me she still hadn’t heard anything. I regretted having shared the incident with her at all.

Eventually the truth came to light on one of the last days of school. I was able to face the perpetrators, at least those of the juvenile kind. It was the adults who concerned me more, for they had made my entire school year miserable. Never have I felt as though I faced so much anti-Semitism and prejudice, especially in an institution that declares itself to be so spiritual, loving and accepting. Looking back, in some ways I was rather naive from the start. I believe the juvenile wrongdoers eventually regretted their actions and truly learned to be tolerant of all cultures. The adults, however, did not seem to learn that lesson.