The Great Expectations School Read Free Page A

“I care about kids and I think one of my greatest strengths is my ability to communicate. [
Maybe not right this minute, but…
] I'm confident that I can find a common language of mutual respect with my students. I also think that being a younger man is an asset because of the lack of male teachers and male role models in the community. I'm a collaborator and a fast learner, and I can internalize criticism and feedback from anyone: student, colleague, or administrator.” I stopped and another idea sprang to mind. “I'm very excited to become a teacher. I am dedicated to improving myself and doing anything possible to help my students. I'll go the distance.” I winced inside at the final melodramatic declaration.
    Ms. Atero gave a generic nod. “What are your weaknesses?”
    This question is a trap. The key is to twist some kind of strength into sounding like a weakness, like “I overprepare” or “I'm a perfectionist, so I need to work on how I occasionally bend deadlines because I want anything with my name on it to be as well done as possible.” At the time, my mind was clouded with fatigue and intimidation from Ms. Atero's transformation from congenial conversant to stone-faced interrogator. I swallowed my rank all-nighter saliva. “I don't know. I might be in over my head.”
    We stared at each other for a moment. Susan's smile returned like a sunburst. “You're going to see some stuff, but it'll be worth it!” The ominous statement was defused by its joyful dispensation. She said, “I'm going to represent you in District 10 to set up visits to schools that could be a good match for you. You're all set!”
    A thrill surged within me as I headed to the school stage to get fingerprinted for my city employee file. Then in my fifth year in New York, I had lived in five different apartments, played pickup basketball at the neighborhood blacktop, knew the subway lines inside out, rocked out at CBGB, bought from street vendors, lingered for hours in the Central Park gazebo beyond Strawberry Fields, and watched the World Trade Center towers fall before my eyes. As I pressed my fingers hard to the inkpad, I felt a swell of pride in going to work for the city I loved.
    On June 16, 2003, the incoming Fellows congregated in Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center for opening ceremonies, where the keynote speaker declared the event the largest assemblage of talent at one time ever to fill this room. A middle school student spoke about how her teacher, a third-year Fellow, had changed her life. When the Fellow and her star student reunited onstage, a school band played “Amazing Grace,” and many new teachers cried.
    Three days later, I was randomly assigned to Mr. Aaron Rose's first-grade class at P.S. 85 for a “structured observation.” The 2002–2003 school year was in its penultimate week, so Fellows were warned that we might see classes conducted more informally than usual. I was glad to be headed into a functioning inner-city classroom and away from the barrage of motivational lectures that had dominated the week up to that point. (A room-shaking applause line: “The young teachers have the fresh ideas! Does that veteran teacher really have thirty years of experience or just
one
year of experience
thirty times
!”)
    I took the D train to 182nd–183rd Street and exited onto the Grand Concourse, a broad throughway with three medians and aggressivelyhonk-happy traffic. I passed the ancient brick Gospel Love Assembly where a morose queue of about twenty waited for a free meal. On a side street, some teens and a naked toddler pranced near a fire hydrant geyser. Small establishments selling carpet, divorce documents, and groceries lined the dogshit-smeared pavement. I was the only white face crossing the Concourse to 184th Street, where air-brushed murals paid homage to deceased neighbors.
    I walked through the monolithic school's main