The Great Expectations School Read Free Page B

entrance, under the stone threshold marked “Public School 85: The Great Expectations School.”
    I waited in the second-floor Teacher Center resource room with a dozen other new Fellows until Principal Kendra Boyd, a tall woman in her late fifties, enthusiastically greeted us. She spoke to the rookies about P.S. 85’s mission for three specific aims:
clear expectations, academic rigor,
and
accountable talk.
I figured Mrs. Boyd had to be a brilliant and methodical woman (maybe even an unorthodox genius with that side-ponytail) to run a massive school like this.
    Barbara Chatton, the in-house mentor for first-year teachers, also held the floor for a few minutes. Barbara informed us about P.S. 85’s strong commitment to supporting new teachers, because they are the future of education and everyone knows how hard it is to be new. I desperately wanted Barbara to be my mentor and Mrs. Boyd to be my principal.
    When the meeting broke, I was directed to the aluminum annex in the parking lot. Inside the “minischool,” which houses kindergarten and first-grade classes, the environment was colorful and air-conditioned. Lively bulletin board displays lined the walls. Behind the windows of their classroom doors, teachers gestured exuberantly to rapt audiences of children. I couldn't restrain an excited grin.
    I knocked on Mr. Rose's door in the middle of a lesson. “Hi, I'm Dan Brown from the Teaching Fellows.”
    Mr. Rose was a tall black man with a deep voice. With a genuine smile, he shook my hand firmly and said, “Terrific. Mr. Brown, welcome.”
    Mr. Brown.
Get used to it, I thought.
    During “independent work,” a complete-the-sentence work-sheet on pronouns, I sat with two scowling boys, Theo and Jihard, who refused to write their names. “Jihard, if I were telling you about how much I like Theo's pen, I'd say I like
blank
pen. I like…” I waved at Theo and the pen.
    Jihard frowned and mumbled, “His pen.”
    â€œYes! Excellent! In that sentence ‘his’ and ‘Theo's’ would mean the same thing. ‘His’ is a pronoun for ‘Theo.’ Because it's ‘his’ pen and it's ‘Theo's’ pen! And Theo, if I were telling you about how much I like… what's that girl in the black T-shirt's name?”
    â€œYollymar.”
    Jihard interrupted, “That ain't Yollymar! Thas Daniella. She the line leader.”
    â€œIf I asked you where Daniella bought that black T-shirt, but I didn't know her name, what would I ask?” Theo looked at me blankly and stood up. “Theo, sit down. Fill in the blank for me: Where did… get that shirt?”
    â€œHow I'm supposed to know?” Theo grumbled.
    â€œWhere did
she
get that shirt,” Jihard stated.
    â€œYes! ‘She’ and ‘Daniella’ mean the same thing. ‘She’ is a pronoun for ‘Daniella!’ Jihard, you're a pronoun superstar. Theo, you get an assist.” I gave them both five, and they got to work on their sheets. Jihard handed back a perfect paper, and Theo got two correct out of twelve, an improvement over his previously blank page.
    When the time came for me to leave Mr. Rose's class, Mafatu and Yollymar presented me with crayon pictures and roly-poly Cory Jones gave me a pencil drawing of the two of us holding hands.
    I walked away from P.S. 85 full of excitement and relief. I had witnessed no violence, sexual harassment, or ultra-jaded zombie teachers as I had anticipated from my preconceived image of an inner-city school. If confused Theo and moody Jihard were the “problem kids,” the place didn't seem so bad. At least that's what I thought then.
    *    *    *
    Along with over seven hundred other Fellows, I was automatically enrolled in Mercy College, a graduate school contracted by the Department of Education to run the Fellows’ coursework. Sarah Gerson, a third-grade teacher in Harlem, was