“Ms. Baker, I don’t have children either, but I have two nieces. And what I do know about parenting, at least from my sister, is that all parents want is what’s best for their children. It would do you well to remember that any time you find yourself ‘arguing’ with a parent. Max’s dad is,” I pause, wanting to be diplomatic about my word choice, “an unsavory character, but he really just wants what is best for Max.”
She smiles that placating smile at me. “Understood, Mr. Flores.”
I find myself supremely irritated at her continuous nonchalance, the fake compliance she shows me. Bristling, and wanting to goad her into productive argument, I choose to start off strong with her unit plan review. “The ease with which you brush things aside is alarming, and it is not the way we like to do things here at PS 2,” I say, and list things off my fingers. “Your irreverent choice of wording when referring to our parent community, the borderline contemptuous way in which you receive feedback, the sloppy formatting and general disorganization of your lesson plans?—”
Her blue eyes flash at me, looking directly into my soul. I realize they skew greener when she is angry. “Wow, those are big words,” she tells me. “Most people would just say I’m a mess.”
My older sister’s voice pops into my head again.Watch it, Ollie. My jaw clenches. “A perfect segue into my next point, Ms. Baker, and let me then use language you are familiar with. The organization of your unit is, indeed, a mess. The final project is a mess.” Anticipating a retort, I barrel on. “The order in which you are teaching concepts is not entirely coherent. You jump from one unconnected concept to another.One day you are teaching a lesson on families, and the next day you are teaching a lesson about South America. Have the lesson follow a logical sequence, Ms. Baker.
“What happened to my ‘excellent’ unit plan, Mr. Flores? You said so yourself earlier. Doesn’t that count for something?” Her agitation is a tangible thing.
“Yes, it is commendable that your ideas are excellent, but don’t think that the work stops there. There is always room for growth.” I take a breath, on a roll now, energized by her reaction. “I also want you to reconsider your culminating project. You give students the choice of several activities, which is admirable, but there is no logical way to grade them equitably. Fix the final project. Create logical, connected rubrics for grading them. Shape up, Ms. Baker. And I warned you this would happen. You’re under a microscope right now.”
Her agitation radiates like waves of heat, and I can't help but revel in the chaos I've stirred. Yet, beneath the surface of my satisfaction, there's a flicker of something else—a pang of guilt, perhaps, or maybe just a twinge of remorse. My sister’s voice, telling me tocool it.It’s okay, she’s telling me.Stop fucking controlling everything.But I quickly squash it, focusing instead on the thrill of the verbal sparring match unfolding before me.
Her voice trembles with barely suppressed fury. Her face is flushed pink, a beautiful color that highlights the smattering of freckles across her nose, the tops of her cheeks. I wonder, for just one inappropriate moment, if her skin turns that color everywhere. “I understand and agree with what you’re saying, Mr. Flores, but do you really have to micromanage myfont size? Control every tiny little thing?Fixme? My students arelearning. You know, not every classroom is the same. Not every teacher fits into your neat little mold.”
Her words sting, hitting a nerve. For a moment, I'm takenaback—the wind knocked out of my sails. But then, refusing to stay down, I steel myself and push back.
“Maybe not every classroom is the same,” I concede, my voice cool and controlled despite the storm raging within me. “But that doesn't mean we shouldn't strive for excellence. Our students deserve the best, and it's our responsibility as educators to give it to them. You haven’t proven excellence to me yet.”
She scoffs, a bitter edge to the sound. “Did you forget about the ‘e’ word you dropped to me earlier, during class? And who decides what 'the best' is, anyway? You? The District office? The city? The standardized tests?”
I hesitate, momentarily thrown off balance by her challenge, thinking about the Superintendent’s arbitrary directives regarding Ms. Baker’s classroom, something I have not yet shared with her. But then, with a confidence born of conviction, I meet her gaze head-on. "We do," I assert firmly. "We decide, together. By collaborating, by sharing ideas, by pushing each other to be better."
Her expression softens, just a fraction, and for a moment, I glimpse the person beneath the tempest—passionate, determined, fiercely protective of her students. And in that moment, the tension between us eases, if only slightly, replaced by a mutual understanding, a shared commitment to this community. Her posture relaxes, as if remembering herself and the hot water she currently stands in.
“I agree with what you said about the organization and the order of my lessons,” she tells me in a calmer tone. “I’ll look at those and move things around.”
I nod.
“I’ll think about the rubric for grading and share my ideas with you,” she continues.
“Just think about it?” I press.
“You’re totally right. Rubrics help kids succeed. But Iwant to make sure it’s perfect for my kiddos, so I’ll share all my drafts with you,” she says, picking up her backpack and moving towards the door.
“Ms. Baker, a reminder. I am responsible for your evaluations this year. Do not give me cause to give you an ineffective rating because of your insubordination. I also know you’re in hot water with those letters to file,” I say, standing.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Mr. Flores,” she says, throwing a wink behind her.
I, again, am left watching her perfect ass walk out my door.
Remember the promotion. Shedoesneed to fit into a neat little mold. It’s the safest way. For meandour students.
Over the next few days, I make it a point to peek in 302 as many times as my schedule allows. For different reasons. I tell myself that I’m making sure she’s compliant, to keep her under the microscope, so to speak. Maybe find a reason to write her up. But if I’m being truthful… really, I just want to watch her teach.
She’s magnetic.
In a matter of a week, she’s tamed that classroom.
One time I walk by, she has the entire class singing a song about getting ready to read. She has Max up front, acting as a conductor, swinging his skinny little arms around, frowning, as he attempts to get the left side of the room to keep time. Permanently grumpy Dorothy is harmonizing (poorly) and bobbing her head as she sings.
Another time, she’s transformed her classroom into a sort of museum. Each “exhibit” showcases a different cultural tradition from somewhere in the world. Each studentis traveling through each exhibit, diligently taking notes in their notebooks,engaged.
And yet another time, her students are rapt with attention as she stands on her desk, doing some sort of jig, which I later learn is traditional Irish step dancing.
I make it a point to stop by after lunch, an infamous period for students, as their little bodies, filled with adrenaline from recess, are crammed into a tiny, silent classroom. Ms. Baker has them all sitting on the ground, eyes closed… meditating?
