He shows me the rest of the school with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been asked to untangle a bunch of cables and then change a duvet cover. We are somewhere on the third floor (the “Penthouse”, as he reminds me) when he looks down at his watch. “The third grade teachers should be freefor this entire period. You will take the first half of the period to meet with the team, see if you’re all on the same page. Then we’ll take you to the classroom you’ll be teaching, and the team and I will observe you do your demo lesson. Okay?”
I feel like squealing and clapping my hands, but I don’t believe acting like an unhinged three-year-old is in my best interest. I respond with a “sounds great!” and a smile instead. It feels like this is a momentous occasion, standing on the precipice of a rare and fantastic thing, finding such a school, one aligned with my teaching values. All the students I saw were working with their hands, in groups, having deep discussions. I can see myself thriving here, grumpy principal or not. I dream about the ways that I can finally have a real impact on students and my community, teaching kids to think critically instead of creating robotic machines only capable of regurgitating facts.
A cell phone rings from Mr. Flores’s pocket. He looks at the caller ID, looking even more annoyed than before. “Good morning, Superintendent Daniels,” he says, answering it. “You’re downstairs? I didn’t realize you were coming.” He shoots me a quick look. “I’ll be down in a moment,” he says, and hangs up.
Maybe I won’t have to see him again for the rest of the day. Lina seems to like me. Maybe she’ll finish the interview.
“Follow me,” he orders. I follow him to a classroom down the hall, labeled “301”. He opens the door, and I see that a handful of teachers have already congregated.
“Hey ladies.” Mr. Flores gives the team a look belonging to the smile family. “My favorite grade team.” They all wave. One teacher rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “This is Georgia Baker,” he continues. “She’s here to interview for 302.”
I wave enthusiastically. “Hey everyone. It’s great to meet you. I’m really excited to be here,” I say, smiling at each of them.
There are four teachers there, ranging from young-ish to middle-aged. The one furthest on the left looks the oldest, dark-skinned and stunning, hair in twists, wearing a loudly patterned dress. The next one looks to be the youngest, pretty in wide leg jeans and a white t-shirt, blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail.
The last two sit closer to one another. One is an olive-skinned woman, obviously pregnant, wearing a skirt down past her knees, a long-sleeved blouse stretched over her belly, panty hose and feet in plain black flats elevated on a chair in front of her. She is adjusting what looks to be a delicately highlighted, chestnut brown wig on her head. The man to her right is dark-skinned and handsome, with a wide nose and mouth, and wearing a similar blouse in a deep emerald silk, cropped, wide legged pants, mini gold hoops in his ears, and platform loafers (are those Prada?) on his feet. The two of them have their nails painted in the exact same shade of navy blue, the man’s nails accented by a number of rings on his fingers.
“I’m going to leave you here,” he says to me. He looks at the rest of the team. “You guys get started, okay?”
“Ten-four,” the woman furthest to the left says.
He turns on his heel and walks out.Byeee.
I take a seat at one of the empty desks, closer to where the elegant man sits, placing my backpack down in a chair next to me. He sniffs politely, looking in my general direction.
“Oh, that smell is definitely my backpack,” I apologize. An eyebrow raises. “I had a Morning. My demo lesson materials fell in garbage juice,” I tell him.
He hums.
“Hey Georgia,” the woman with the twists on the left begins. “I’m Tamika Stewart. I teach general education, class 303. I’m also the grade team leader for third grade.”
“All hail,” says the man on the right. Tamika throws her pen at him.
The next woman, the youngest looking one, waves. “Hey, I’m Mia Roberts. Also gen-ed, class 304.”
“Chaya Ackerman,” waves the pregnant, conservatively dressed woman. She gestures at the man seated next to her. “And this is my co-teacher…”
“Emmanuel Jean-Baptiste,” he cuts in. “We’re the Queens of 301, the Integrated Co-Teaching classroom. Chaya’s the special education teacher in the room, and I’m the gen-ed teacher,” he tells me. “Welcome to the Penthouse, Garbage Juice.”
“Nice to meet you all,” I say, and we begin.
We spend the next twenty minutes getting to know one another, our conversations punctuated with questions about our communication and work habits, our teaching styles. The team asks me questions about my experience (“this is my seventh year”), if I’ve ever taught third grade (“yes, for two years”), my ideas about teaching and learning (“project based, hands on, student centered, culturally responsive”), and why I am leaving my current school three weeks into the school year (“I hate my school; I saw there was opening here; I emailed AP Sanchez as soon as I saw.”).
The team quickly learns that I am not some sort of teacher fraud, a journalist going undercover to run an exposé on the misery of the American education system. The questions get more entertaining.
“What’s your favorite Takis flavor?” Emmanuel asks very seriously.
“Fuego, obviously,” I respond.
“Biggest pet peeve in your classroom?
“Ooo. Desks being at all different heights. The borders on the bulletin board not being flush with the edge. Closet doors left open.”
“Preach,” says Tamika.
“Kids leaving their snacks in their desks,” says Chaya.
“Never again in a classroom of mine,” I tell her. “After a critter incident during the Math state tests, my kids know the penalty is death or dismemberment.”
