Reason 156

     He sat staring at the broken drum. 

    He knew there was no money to replace it.

    He knew he didn't want to be here any more. 

    What he did not know is which student broke the drum.

    He was the fifth band teacher in three years, one of whom--his friend William- didn't even make it to the end of the first quarter. To be fair, Will had quit during Covid, so that one didn't count in his mind. Will was s a fellow jazz musician that Li had worked with in college. He had quit over administrative issues. Since William had been teaching online, he was unaware of what the student population actually was. 

    Now, at 27 and in his second building, Li should have known better than to apply under those circumstances. He just wanted out of where he was, thinking nothing could be worse. He had blindly applied to every open position. Nothing could be worse than the hell he had endured for the last two  years.

    He had been wrong.

    William had come into conflict with district policies on grading, which he found to be insulting and racist. He had no issues with the building admin, or with the students he was teaching online.

        Li knew immediately that the kids showing up to class online were not going to be the majority he would encounter in person. The live majority were talkative, restless, addicted to their phones and relentlessly rude to teachers. He thought he could handle it, then the Tik Tok "Hot Lick"challenge destroyed their small bathroom and flooded the hallway. 

          But he came back the next day.

         Then his car was vandalized.

          He came back the next day.

          Kids used racial slurs in every exchange with him. 

          He kept coming back.

          He stared at the drum. It was worth more than a month's salary, and they had simply beaten it to death. What he couldn't figure out, was how this happened? He had been in the room all day. At what point did they snap the struts on this thing? How did they kill both the resonant heads and top heads, as well as punch a hole right through the center without him seeing or hearing the attack?

            He sat looking at the destroyed instrument, trying to convince himself that he had somehow left the room unattended. Maybe he had forgotten to lock the door? But his office was off of the band room, he would have heard it. 

            He sighed, a tear slipped from his eye as he gently bundled the drum up and left it silently in his office. He scribbled a few words on a peach sticky note, picked up his trumpet and left the office. As he locked it behind him, he placed the sticky note on the door.

            It read simply "Reason #156".

            He sobbed as he drove home, feeling like he had been beaten in a boxing match. When he got home, he went to bed.

   

    

Fiction: Reason #127

 

        Principal Mark sat in his office with the door closed.

        He liked being called "Principal Mark",  and he loved being an elementary principal. The worst thing  that had ever happened, until this morning, was...nothing. Nothing had ever really gone wrong in his building. Kids brought their Epi pens and never needed to  use them. A few scrapes and the occasional fourth grade bully, but an appointment on his couch for a stern talking to was generally enough to stop that behavior. Of course, throughout the 20/21 year, there were issues with Covid tests, and parents refusing to comply, and coughs and sneezing and students who were compromised, and a staff of dedicated teachers who were exhausted. They had to create two separate lesson plans every day, one for the students online and one for those in the building. They were rock stars, and he showed them his gratitude in every interaction they shared. He knew they were all truly in it together. His staff called him a leader, not a boss and this year he had subbed in many classes, and expected to do so in many more. The sub shortage was just one more delightful ripple of reopening after a pandemic. Or, as some would say, while the pandemic was still raging on.

        This morning he was posted at the bus line entrance, ready to greet the kindergarteners who rode in on the bus. He felt they needed to see him when they disembarked, and he would always smile and give them a thumbs up. Pre Covid, they'd received high fives from their PrinciPAL, which he liked to emphasize. As they disembarked, he smiled at each one and made sure they saw him. There should have been nine of them on the #5 bus, but he counted ten. They all looked at him and gave him a thumbs up as they started toward the building. Before he could move to stop them and count again, a car pulled up between the buses. A women emerged and ran toward of the smallest children who had just stepped off the bus. She scooped up the child and, holding her, turned and began hurling obscenities at Principal Mark. In that hysterical moment, he realized he was not her "pal".

        He stood doing his best to decipher what was being said. It seemed that the child she was holding was the younger sibling of  one of the students, and had gotten on the bus with her brother. How or why it happened was not as important to the parent as yelling at the principal for not being at the bus stop to manage the students, and for not driving the bus or in some other way being physically responsible for the child. Who was a younger sibling of one of the students.

        The hysterical mother screamed at Principal Mark while walking toward the bus, where she screamed at the bus driver. Frightened students huddled at the entrance while teachers looked to him for guidance. He indicated they should go ahead and walk their students into class, remaining as calm as possible. The older sibling of the hysterical mom followed his class into the building, not looking behind him for even a moment. His teacher put a protective arm around his shoulders as she walked him in.

        Principal Mark walked to the #5 bus to see if he could defuse the situation. The mom was clutching her child on one hip and waving her other hand at the driver,a woman in her sixties, who happened to be a retired teacher, expounding on the sub par public school system. Mark gave her a few feet of clearance, hovering and waiting for her to recognize him. When she did, she whirled her free hand back and punched him directly in the nose.

    He did not react, he simply turned and walked straight to his office, where he now sat with an ice pack on his nose that the gym teacher had kindly located for him. At 38 he was a young principal. He had a degree in chemical engineering, but turned his career toward principalship after substitute teaching for a year in an elementary school.  He loved the kids, and he loved the teachers. In recent years he had begun to become wary of parents, something had shifted around 2015. Of course post Covid, he was only one of a handful of principals left standing in the district. They'd also lost their Superintendent and thirty percent of their teachers. But he had held on.

    As he stared at framed Master of Education diploma, a small plastic ice pack with the district logo stamped upon the cover pressed to his nose, he wondered why. Why had he held on? He sighed deeply, opened his lap top and began the incident report.

    

Fiction: Reason #152

 

    He thought he'd already been through the worst of it. As a science teacher who is also the Chess Club sponsor, he had little to no patience for a principal who was a former football coach. A principal that the coaches called "Coach" and all the female teachers avoided.

    He thought that was the worst.

    They'd hired a new principal, a PhD educated elucidate who clearly had no time for sports. She had only been principal two months thus far, and some things were changing that seemed a bit like micromanaging, but nobody called her 'coach', so he felt good.

    He pulled his motorcycle into his usual spot, up against the door by the science rooms. He'd been parking there for ten years.

    Today, the principal was standing in his spot. Not understanding what was happening, he pulled right up to her, turned off the bike, and removed his helmet.

    "You can't park here any more, Glenn," the new principal stated with the flat tone someone who believes everyone else is a moron.

    "Why?" he asked, then said "I've been parking here for ten years."

    "It's too close to the building. It's a fire code."

    "Wasn't it against fire code yesterday? Or two years ago?"

    "Just because you did it, doesn't make it right." Again, that horrible bored tone.

    The next day, when he pulled in, there were two orange cones and yellow tape over the spot.

    Two days later, there were two by fours and poultry wire, clearly setting the stage for a cement block. He looked up to see the principal's face in his classroom window, watching him.

    The day after the chicken wire, there was a cement block. 

    That day, he pulled in,  stopped to regard the cement block, looked into his classroom window. He flipped off the face floating there, turned his bike around and rode home.

    Two days later, he was hired at the community college.

    He parked his bike by the science room doors.

    Nobody cared. 

Fiction: Reason #154, Speech and Debate

 

        He had been the Speech and Debate coach for ten of the fifteen years he had been in the building. He enjoyed the weird celebrity that came with being a POC in a white, suburban school, and S&D gave him more visibility. He also loved being the only Shakespeare teacher in the district. He had proudly built the class to withstand any cuts or disinterest, and had started a small "Shakes Day" in the district, which was not unlike a Renaissance Fair, but with staged beheadings to compete with the plays He liked the kids, he had no real issues with the current administration, and had met his wife in the building. To be clear, she was fellow teacher, not a student. The only issue seemed to be the stress level of the students, which infected the entire student body as well as teachers.

        He checked his email as he did every morning, to see that the lockdown drill was scheduled for fifth period. He shook his head, they had  just emerged from a year of remote and hybrid and partial classes, last year had been a mess. The kids seemed grateful to return, he had  trouble believing the lockdown drills were necessary. More security around the restrooms would be great. He had taken to shaking his fist at students and declaring "Curse you, Tik Tok!!!" Other than that glitch, everyone seemed happy to be back.

        He turned You Tube on his laptop and listened to the Wednesday morning fall jazz coming through the tiny speakers. He sipped his coffee and continued to check emails. Once complete, he flipped to his google classroom to check plans for the day. As he did so, another email popped up, this one from the principal.

         He clicked on it.

        The first words were those he had read too many times before. Too. Many. Times. 

        "Sad news...."

         He caught his breath, knowing what would follow. 

        "...died unexpectedly...send students as needed to counseling for support...."

        He sat quietly. He had stopped counting the number of times he had received this exact email. Nobody ever said "suicide" in an email, the code words were "Died unexpectedly."

        He heard his classroom door open and close quietly. He did not have to look up to know it was his wife, she had also received the email. They both knew the student.

        She waited. It was if they had rehearsed. She was standing with her backpack, as if she'd just arrived. 

        He stood. He retrieved his own bag, his coat and car keys. He removed his badge and left it on his lap top. His wife laid hers beside his. Wordlessly, they walked out of the room, and out of the building. The security guard, someone who had been there as long as they had, quietly nodded as they exited.

        He believed he had stopped counting, but as they got into their car, he said "That's fifteen. One each year I have been here. That does not include alumni or car accidents."

        She nodded. She turned on the radio and let the jazz fill the car as they drove away.

        

Fiction: Reason #155

 

    "Miss, what are we doing?"

    "The same thing we've been doing for three days, dear. You've been in class, I have seen you with my eyeballs."

    "Working on the scene, right, right? With our group."

    Smith nodded at the student, named Devin. Generally speaking, they had no issue with autistic students-in fact, they were some of their favorite people. However, this young man was not really high functioning enough to be left without a Para in class, and was eating up at least twenty percent of their class time. Mostly repeating themself. 

    This is my fault, they thought, I'm the one who said "Rehearsal means repeat."

    The general population in the class had acclimated to him, for the most part. For the most part. There was one girl remaining who had some sort of issue with Devin. Which confused Smith, as both students had parents from Ghana. The Islanders in the building all seemed to get along, so Smith made the very wrong assumption that camaraderie held for others. 

    It did not.

    The student was named Layla, and like Devin, was a freshman. Both students were freshman in a district that was primarily remote or hybrid for 20/21. This meant that they had not been in a full classroom since the seventh grade. This was a factor all teachers district wide were prepared to face back in August, and  then immediately discovered there was not enough man power to deal with the waves of issues that were drowning the building.  

    When Devin performed, Layla would sit on her phone, deaf to Smith's nudging, protocol reminders or the low grade she was receiving in the class. As a cheerleader, she was allowed to have an "F" and still cheer. It appeared she had chosen this class as her token "F".

    Smith stood on the apron, watching as Devin gleefully set the stage---his favorite part of scene work--and Laya, as per her habit, strolled in ten minutes late with a Starbucks. Without looking up at her, Smith said "Layla, trashcan. Hallway. No food or drink in the theatre. You know that." Layla rolled her eyes and dragged her feet back to the hallway, where she finished her expensive iced coffee while talking to friends. Smith heard another teacher in the hall urging the group to disband and get to class. 

    Smith watched Devin's group for another minute, then fussed at a second group who were on their phones instead of rehearsing, before venturing into the hallway. There they found Layla, leaning against the wall on her phone, ignoring the security guard who was walking toward her saying "Get to class, please."

    Smith stopped a few feet in front of the student and said "Hey, Layla, your group needs you to come rehearse."

    Layla shrugged.

    Smith tried again.

    "Layla, is there something up today? Do you want me to write you a pass to counseling?"

    Layla shrugged and rolled her eyes. "Just because I don't want to be in this stupid fucking class don't mean I need a counselor."

    Smith paused, looked at the security guard, who was within two feet now, for help.

    The security guard said quietly but authoritatively "If you are supposed to be in class, please go to class."

    "Make me."

    Smith stood flabbergasted. They had no authority to ever touch or speak harshly to students. Teachers had been told repeatedly to have grace, to speak softly, to allow kids to readjust after the lock downs. Smith had encountered everything in the last twelve weeks from being completely ignored to being told to fuck off, both when asking students to be on time to class.  In ten years of teaching, it was the roughest they'd ever seen it, but there had been no confrontations.

    This was new.

    Usually the expletives were thrown over a dismissive shoulder. Passive aggressive seemed to be the new trend, and Smith preferred it to confrontations. 

    "Excuse me?" Smith asked quietly.

    At that moment, Devin blew through the double doors of the theatre into the hallway, bellowing "Layla, are you in a group? We need another girl in the group, can you be in our group? You're supposed to be rehearsing, the scene is due Friday."

    Without any change in tone or demeanor, as if she were answering any other question, Layla spoke again.

    "Fuck you, retard."

    Smith recoiled as if they'd been hit, and the security guard blinked.

    "I don't gotta do nothing I don't want to, nobody can touch me, and " she looked directly at Smith "I don't want to listen to this bitch dyke any more."

    There was a pause. Layla sucked down the last of her beverage, the sound of her empty plastic cup floating eerily in the air between the two adults. 

    Smith handed the security guard their keys and badge, nodded and walked out of the building.

    They were the seventh teacher to quit  the building since the beginning of the school year. They were twelfth in the district. They were the first of the school year to walk out midday.

    They were not the last.

    

Fiction: The 157th Reason

     "What the fuck, Miss?" 

    She stood four feet away from the student. He was double masked, both an N95 and a cloth mask, and because of his goggles she could not read anything in his eyes. He had already had to repeat himself twice, as his enunciation through the mask was garbage. 

   "That's not stellar word choice, Miguel. I don't enjoy students hurling obscenities at me, regardless of their intent. I can't hear your vocal inflection through the mask, and your eyes are obscured by your goggles." She stopped there, not mentioning that the fact that his gloved hands only exacerbated the situation.  Usually Miguel loved it when she used too many words when talking with him, it was part of the fun. She told him she felt she needed the words to penetrate the masks, goggles and gloves he wore daily. The first day of class, he had written three simple words on his 3X5 card in response to  "Tell me something about yourself": "I am paranoid."

    He looked like he was costumed as a military extra in  The Crazies. It had been twelve weeks, and still she had no idea why this kid had chosen to enroll in an acting class.  To be fair, he was really funny, and he was truly working on being heard and understood through the masks. The gloves and goggles made it impossible for him to truly participate in any acting exercises, and the day they learned to play a verb, he covered his ears because everyone was too loud.

    "I said 'what the fuck' because I just went to the nurse. I have a headache and I'm coughing. She gave me a mint." He held the mint out as evidence.

     "I dunno, Miguel. Can't you just call your mom---" she stopped talking as Miguel began to vomit. He left both masks on, and was clearly struggling to breathe. Somewhere in the midst of the massive upheaval, he removed his goggles. Perhaps he was hoping to breathe through his eyeballs.

    It should have been ten steps to her classroom phone, but she made it in three. 

    "Angelo," she said into the mouth piece "Seriously, security. I have a kid puking uncontrollably in the theatre classroom. Send help."

    As she hung up, she watched the other students in class react. One started retching herself. Two ran from the room. One, the closest thing Miguel had to a friend in the class, stood next to him looking helpless, saying "Take off your masks, Miguel!" over and over again. One of the special ed students began to cry, while the other started making monster noises and walking like Godzilla.

    Two girls pointed their phones at Miguel and began to record the event, making retching noises mixed with giggles.

    Her student assistant was kneeling with the sobbing Sped student, keeping an eye to the rest of the room but clearly unsure of what he was to do with himself.

    The rest of the class were in varying states of horror and humor, unsure how to handle the situation. She realized with terror that Miguel had fallen to his knees, his friend was holding him up by his armpits, screaming "Take off your MASKS! DUDE TAKE THEM OFF YOU'RE GONNA DIE!"

    She walked two steps to the bank of windows and opened the first one she was able. 

    She turned and looked at the hysterical commedia slapstick that was unfolding in her room.

    Then she sat calmly down at her computer and clicked on a document she had opened earlier in the day. It was titled "157 Reasons I'm Leaving Teaching."

    As security entered the scene, she typed "Reason Number 157."