My First Class

8

This is the eighth part of a serialized memoir. Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, & 7.

There was so much cream cheese. A brick the size of a pack of cigarettes, melting inside the warm bagel. I smeared it onto the half I wasn’t eating and munched on the better half while waiting for the bus.

Now the bus was approaching. I wrapped the gooey second half of the bagel in its wax paper, wrestling it into a ball, and threw it into the garbage can. Then I pulled the plastic fare card out of my wallet. You had to dip it into a metal slot in a specific configuration, with the magnetic strip facing you. I didn’t want the driver to have to correct me, saying “other side,” so I held it up, looking for the little arrows. There was a blob of cream cheese on one corner. I kissed it off and joined the slow-moving line. The driver did not have to correct me.

I sat down and inspected myself. There were white flecks between two knuckles, a blob on the corner of my pinky, one on the tip of my glasses, a smear on the cuff of my shirt. Why had there been so much cream cheese? I cleaned myself with the inch-high stack of napkins that came with the bagel. Between my knees, I steadied a large, sweet coffee. (“Regular?” Sure). It wasn’t good, but having coffee was better than not having it. I took a sip and looked out the window.

We were gliding down the Grand Concourse, a broad street lined on either side with handsome apartment buildings and cut in the middle with grass- and tree-lined medians. Later, I would learn a great deal about this street, which was built at the turn of the century and modeled on the Champs Elysées. “Oh, we used to dress up just to walk down it,” an elderly neighbor would tell me. Back then, I didn’t know anything about the Grand Concourse, but I was augmented by its breadth and dignity.

To get off at a local stop, you had to pull the cable. I had practiced this during summer training. Sometimes the back door didn’t open, and it was too crowded to exit from the front. The remedy was to shout “back door!” and the driver would pull a lever that opened them manually. There was a specific way to say it. You had to be loud and direct but maintain a neutral tone. If the door didn’t open, you could say it again more urgently, emphasizing the “door” part. This is second nature to me now. But back then, I was not used to saying loudly what I wanted.

The door opened, and I hopped down, ready to worry about the main event. I still had no idea who would be in my class, what grade they would be in, or when they would arrive. I had memorized a variety of short, tone-setting speeches: a welcome, a short bio, an invitation to share, policies on pencil and bathroom usage. Running through them, I could feel which points were fully developed and which were not. Thinking about these gaps only revealed new ones. Where was I supposed to bring them for lunch? What happened if the bathroom was out of order?

I realized I was walking very fast.

Arriving at school, I slipped under the metal portico and down the hall into my classroom. I didn’t run into anyone. No silvery light greeted me. I switched on two of the three fluorescent tubes, leaving the front of the classroom dark. On my desk, the goldfish swam in its plastic cell. I’d bought some fish food at a pet store near my apartment, one of the weekend’s many tasks. I opened the top and tipped in some sharp-smelling flakes.

Another task was to write a welcome letter and put it in a dozen yellow folders. I took these out of my backpack and began setting one on each desk, aligning them carefully with the edge. Next, I placed a pre-sharpened pencil in the shallow bay at the top of each desk. One didn’t have the bay. I tried to leave the pencil in the same spot as the others by placing it very carefully at the top, but it rolled down and landed on the chair. I tried again with the same result. The rolling and drop to the chair made a loud noise in the silent room. Maybe I could tape it on there. I pushed my glasses up and took a deep breath.

There was a knock. A woman I had never seen before walked through the open doorway. She was dressed professionally, like the people at Mrs. Johnson’s table. She said her name, for our purposes, was Mrs. Toussaint, and that she was an “Instructional Support Specialist.” She said she would be managing special education.

“So, Mr. Mackert, I notice you have your desks in rows. Do you think you could move them into small groups?”

A release of adrenaline made this memory vivid. It was the first feedback I had received from any administrator, beyond Mr. H’s note that I would have to “be tough.” The phrase “children working in small groups” was likely a bullet point on Mrs. Toussaint’s observation rubric, an indicator that fit the prevailing educational trend and was easily observable. It felt more progressive to have the desks in clusters. But the veteran teachers started the year in rows.

“I was thinking I would get to know the students first before moving them into groups,” I said. To my relief, she said that was a good idea.

“Well, I will be here to support you. Have a good first day.” She left.

The adrenaline soured.

It was 7:55. I didn’t know what would happen at 8:00, but I wanted to be ready. I stood at the front of the classroom holding a clipboard with my notes. They swirled around on the page; I put it down. My hands were so large. I tried holding them in front of me, left hand cupping the right. I tried behind the back. Natural light began reaching past the bars on the windows. Of course, there was no phone to look at.

I stood there, pacing sometimes, for almost an hour. The coffee was long gone. Finally, there was a knock. It was not Mrs. Toussaint, but Mrs. Harris, a different woman who had told me she was in charge of special education. (Ms. Aj, the assistant principal who had bid us a tearful goodbye the previous Friday, and who was also said to be in charge of special education, was not heard from again).

“Good morning, Mr. Mackert,” she said. Her voice was weathered, but with a buoyant energy. Still in the doorway, she addressed a line of students. “Kai. Tricia. Angie. Wardell. This is your class today.” The show was starting.

Kai walked in with touching slowness. From the front, I held my arm straight, palm up, and said, “Choose any desk in the front.” He sat down, hung his backpack on the back of his chair, then swiveled around to carefully unzip it and take out a mechanical pencil, which he added to the bay. Tricia walked to a desk and stood a moment looking around. Abruptly, she dropped her backpack on the ground and sat down, frowning. Angie moved especially slowly, a stricken look on her face. Wardell was taller and less tentative than the others. He chose a seat before Angie and took a marbled notebook and pencil out of his backpack. I can see his face most clearly, because he was the only one who looked at me.

This is your class today. I should have remarked on that phrasing. It foreshadowed change, which would be swift and unexpected. But on that day they were my first students, inaugurating me into a cycle of hope, failure, and redemption that would become the primary pattern of my life.