—
In the following weeks, Molly woke each day at six-thirty, arrived at school by seven-fifteen, checked her mailbox in the faculty lounge, made copies, and opened her classroom before the students arrived. She tested her lessons on her Period One class, which had become her favorite by virtue of being her first; she told many jokes that didn’t go over and a few that did; she paced madly in front of the whiteboard with the purple marker in her grip (like that line she loved from Eliot, “a madman shakes a dead geranium”); she scribbled. After her lectures she split the kids into discussion groups and then circled the room, weaving around the desks, pausing to rest a hand on a student’s shoulder, to lean down and listen in, to throw a question or opinion into the mix. At times she felt she and her kids were truly connecting: at times she felt they were understanding not just the books they were meant to be reading but Molly’s own secret heart, and she wanted to weep with joy. Just as often, there was defeat. There were times Molly heard herself lecturing about a passage, her voice sliding from authoritative to appreciative to rhapsodic, saw the smirks on the kids’ faces and felt as if she’d read her diary out loud. There were kids, like Abigail Cress, who seemed to have no love for learning yet badgered her constantly for A’s. There were kids, like Damon Flintov, who never, ever did their homework, no matter how many extensions she granted. There were kids, like Amelia Frye, who texted all through class, and believed her blind enough not to notice or callous enough not to care. Sometimes a student (Ryan Harbinger) would actually fall asleep, and Molly would feel responsible for having bored him, and also hate him and then hate herself for hating him. There were moments when all was calm and quiet, kids reading at their desks, and then the class would dissolve in laughter and she’d have absolutely no clue why. These moments would haunt her lonely weekends, would wake her in the silence of her studio apartment in the middle of the night. In some ways, her students knew so much more than she did, possessed vast, secret stores of information, codes and connections, that she felt helpless to understand. When she circled the room, she’d peer over their shoulders at the phones in their palms, catching flashes of photos and texts. What were they doing? she wondered. What lives were they living on those little screens?
She spent the breaks cleaning up her classroom and listening to students’ excuses for the homework they did poorly or not at all, or traversing the campus on invented errands, mostly avoiding the faculty lounge. She ate lunch while marking papers at her desk, stayed after school to hear more excuses and requests, then hurried to the conference room for the various meetings to which she was called. Finally, at five or six in the evening, she drove home to resume what was without question the worst part of her job: the Sisyphean tasks of grading and emailing. After dinner of salad or soup at her kitchen counter, she graded assignments and quizzes for an hour or two, then logged in on the district-provided laptop to answer emails from her students and, more often, their parents, tutors, and educational consultants.
Generally speaking, the parents were displeased. Their missives ranged from the mildly threatening to the openly incensed. They were annoyed about the homework—she gave too much or the wrong kind, or the directions were unclear or the deadlines were unreasonable. They were angry she’d forgotten which of her students had Individualized Education Plans and academic accommodations, and more than happy to send her their privately obtained, highly detailed psych reports and to educate her about the district’s legal obligations. They were uniformly certain that their kids deserved high grades:
Hello Molly,
My son Wyatt tells me you are new to town and to teaching. I’m sure it’s the same in Fresno but here we expect our students to perform at a certain level. If you have any questions please ASK, I like to be very involved with my son’s education.
Good luck.
Tessa Schuyler-Sanchez
Dear Ms. Nicoll,
I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job but this homework is really out of line. Three chapters in one week??? You know these kids have other classes too. Please be reasonable!!! Also I see my son Ryan Harbinger received a C+ on the reading response that he wrote for you about color themes in The Great Gatsby. He put a lot of time and effort into that assignment, and he is DEEPLY upset and heartbroken about the grade. I know you will reconsider.
Cordially,
Ellen Harbinger
dear miss nicoll
just wanted to let you know jonas will be unable to complete the essay due on friday as he has a very important game coming up for baseball and this will take all of his focus this week. jonas is a very gifted kid i’m sure you can see that and i’m sure you will understand and give him a pass on this. thx.
kevin everett