The Chaperone

I find myself sitting in a Starbucks (I know) on the corner of Columbus Avenue, and all the indigent lyrics of the city are tantalizingly within reach. The storefronts are missing letters from their signage and give no indication of trying to accommodate anyone offended by it, arresting the pedants among us with their advertorial pidgin. I don't need these letters or your spelling, they say; my business supersedes their absence. And so my thoughts wander to what else remains missing...

I took the train back to Manhattan tonight, listening to music as I sat back in the familiar two-toned, red and blue seats of my childhood. These lumbering relics still run the old routes for now, the MTA otherwise selling them off or sinking them into the sea (reason enough to get an oceanography degree if you ask me). The outer boroughs are becalmed in the early November night, and the vast industrial ecosystem of Fitzgerald is wreathed in the unwarming light of sodium vapor lamps as far as the eye can see. With the surgically lit train cars, that's not far at all, keeping the cabin safe for crosswords and Kindles at some great cost.

And then like that the train elides the physical necessity of electricity- we change tracks on the trunk line that bisects the wealthier parts of Queens like a septum and for once we slip the bonds of our postwar commuter civilization. The lights cut out and the slack fabric of the city unfurls. It ripples with the tempo of the staccato track switches, as if a city could tremble at the sudden awareness of itself.

It is at times like that when I could swear that the dust and fog have the best deal on rent in this entire place. I yearn to stand on rooftops, quietly, soaking the cold into my bones, the marrow and the joints, that the parts of my body that can feel might yet be reduced to my head and my heart. When no one is looking on these wintry nights, this brash and vulgar city is a debutante in search of a ball, brushing out its hair in the collective mirror - the car windows and the still water of Newtown Creek; the Midtown facades and the Mylar of old candy wrappers; the iPhone screens and, yes, the doors of trains that run blissfully unaware but for 20 seconds, when it can't help but shake with wonder.

I am still sitting at Starbucks, and I'm staring at the shifting tones of light in the windows of strangers, wondering who else is brushing their hair at this moment. Perhaps it's just to get the knots out from a long day, just maintenance, but I'd like to think it's in anticipation of something dear and unpromised. That a city can remember the pain and still aspire, that it might not forget how to be beautiful when no one is looking. 

The cold air that raps at our windows is cut from the self-same cloth, molecules exchanging a scarcity of motion across oceans and continents, an emissary of shared loss and purpose. Our warmth is meant to be shared. The light is faint, and maybe no one is looking, but everyone is always there. I am at a Starbucks on Columbus Avenue.

I don't know if I have a wish for my former students more sincere than that.

Excerpt from new short story: Running Out The Clock

     The unquiet students found themselves at odds with the story being told about them, that they were destined for the scrap heap and needed something more, that they were somehow lacking.  For them, it wasn't as simple as admitting to having a flaw, but rather that they were defined by the very things that were unfairly denied them, and that, in some cases, they never wanted.  That they had to accept a legacy of immeasurable loss as a birthright.  That it was a loss they would never be able to fully comprehend, let alone mourn.  That they would have to reckon with the echoes of history through the emptiness in their collective conscience.  That life in the full bloom of adolescence must also be in thrall to the ever-unfolding tragedies of the past.  How could they be the heroes and heroines they dreamed themselves to be, as children, when it was they who needed to be saved?
     Rather than reply to the well-intentioned man at the front of the room, Langston deferred to a friend, whose shambling words passed the time until another took up the relay, and another, and then the bell exploded time and space in to the hallway, the door, the weekend outside. "Freedom," Langston uttered, "at last."

New Short Story: "An Errand"

It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and the cool winds brought the smell of impending rain to the city streets.  Namely, they brought it to Jessica Cooper, who was hoping for an entirely different gift from the heavens.  It was the beginning of the month, but big brother Carlos had already laid claim to the meager salary she brought in, to pay off the high-interest loan he co-signed for, to help a friend, now estranged.  Money would continue to be tight the entire month, that much she knew, and the bus was still cheap enough to get around; it was a different kind of normal, just fragile, no more or less satisfying, of no more consequence unless, suddenly, it somehow was.

As if on cue, the bus pulled around the corner as the first drops fell, promptly breaking down at the moment the incipient bands of the downpour assaulted the pavement. Jessica, surrounded by vacant lots, had no choice but to tie up her plastic bags of groceries and trudge to another stop, three blocks away.  Traffic for the big charity gala downtown drove past her, saving a finite amount of goodwill for a different cause, one drier and more tastefully appointed.  It’s not their fault, Jessica thought, as if anyone could really take responsibility for the persistence of suffering.  Besides, it would just be a band-aid until the next time – who has money for a car nowadays? – and a painful reminder that independence is yet a long ways away.  Her godmother Ellie always told her that struggle was the root from which independence sprang.  Three blocks or three thousand miles, no matter, it was just distance.

A block into the walk, a door swung open from a standalone house and a child burst out with abandon, leaping down the front stairs in a single bound.  The child, a little boy, nearly lost his balance on the slippery concrete, but recovered in the kind of ungainly stride that only the innocent can affect.  His eyes never looked up, and he wrapped his arms around Jessica as he crashed into her at top speed.  Three more pairs of eyes searched out from the darkness of th house, watching a strange, wet pantomime from out of earshot.  The approaching lightning and the far-off rotation of clouds injected some urgency into the conversation, enough to convince the small child to put his hand in Jessica’s and walk up to the house.

Maybe the boards in these windows will keep out the storm, she thought, as the rain refused to abate.  All circumstances seemed equally dangerous in the moment, so why not walk inside a strange house with a young child.  Jessica nearly crossed the threshold when everything flickered, but there was no accompanying thunder – just an illusion of a strike, or of shelter, of this episode of living.

Inside the house, there were blankets, a table, children, and now, Jessica Cooper herself.  To enumerate what was missing would be like counting the molecules in the sea, but the salient things – the parents, the heat, the food – were most certainly absent.  Strangely, the kids looked all right, good even though the were drenched, and that’s when she noticed the eldest among them in the corner, tending to an old man in mismatched sports apparel, curled up in the only dry spot in the entire structure.  Wordlessly, the other children walked Jessica across the house to him, past the remnants of load-bearing walls, until together they stood breaking the howling winds.

The tranquil space they now inhabited was lit by what approximated twilight, and Jessica could see the glassy reflection off of the old man’s unblinking eyes.  They all held each other as the eldest child looked to Jessica and motioned toward a can of soda in her shopping bag.  She had nearly forgotten she had it when she saw the man’s desperate state, and shaking off the funk, nodded in assent.  The eldest popped the tab and poured some of it into the man’s mouth, only slightly agape, hoping.  The smallest among them trembled, perhaps from the cold.

The old man’s lips closed slowly, then re-opened, and he shook as he struggled to swallow the erstwhile elixir.  He pulled them all close and whispered something indecipherable.  He pointed at his heart as a great peal of thunder tore through the silence; his eyes watered as the plywood boards fell out into the tall grass; the world poured itself in, and he was gone.

The two middle children, twins, pulled out silver game tokens and placed them over the old man’s eyes as they closed them.  Then all four of them turned to Jessica, and it occurred to her that if the world were run by children, every car would stop for everyone in need, wouldn’t it?  Why couldn’t adults ever measure up to that?

Then, suddenly as it had descended on the city, the storm broke off for destinations east, and a dark mist hung over the city blocks.  The children looked back at Jessica from the door and took off at full sprint into the evening.  Jessica made a sign of the cross – Ellie showed her once – picked up her bags, and walked to the other bus stop.  Fifteen minutes later, she was home.

The little ones were gone when Jessica arrived, but Carlos and Rayshawn were watching an Adam Sandler movie on the television Rayshawn had salvaged from the old terminal at the airport.  Rayshawn received a text from work and left abruptly, so Carlos helped Jessica unpack the bags, laden with soaked cardboard and rainwater.  Jessica looked over at him and before she could say, “I’m sorry,” Carlos pulled her close.  “We may be hungry, but we can make this work,” he said.  They embraced, and finally, after so very long, there was enough.

SCABS! Minor League Teachers Called in from St. Louis to Break CTU Strike

CHICAGO – In a move wholly indicative of his disregard for the subjunctive mood in 10^th grade Spanish and his recent consolidation of power in the Chicago Public School League, Mayor Rahm Emanuel has forsaken negotiations and injunctions, announcing in a press conference just moments ago his intentions to recall thousands of teachers from semi-professional “districts” in St. Louis as scabs for the remainder of the academic season.

Calls for justice from established teachers reverberated through the blogosphere until the wee hours that teachers remained awake, effectively ceasing at 7:30 CST.  Unofficially marking the end of the social media charge was MericaRunsOnArneDuncan’s exasperated quip “If STL is so eager, maybe the Cubs should go on strike too #defendingWSchamps #ifeeldirty.”

The marginalized teachers of CTU continue to rally around firebrand Karen Lewis, citing inadequate compensation and striking by proxy for the kinds of improved conditions that would keep Chicago students in smaller classes, un-dripped upon by pernicious leaks, and likely maintain their mathematical dominance over perennial dark horse Thailand.

Seasoned instructors have bristled at the suggestion that objective means of analyzing performance be instituted to improve the quality of education, but public opinion has been swayed.  In one particularly damning episode, fifth grader Eric Wilson staunchly maintained that he raised his hand before Rebecca Steinhorst on the final question of Westward Expansion Jeopardy.  He was promptly overruled by the colluding instructor, Dr. Hochuli, resulting in a dramatic, come-from-behind victory for Steinhorst’s tween history upstarts. Some tantrums later, Eric was finally vindicated by no fewer than 6 instant replay cellphone videos shot by classmates, yet the victory stands, an affront to justice and America itself.  (Dr. Hochuli declined to comment for this article.)

Students at the Academy for Unsafe Youths and Occasional Math, a charter school located in the heart of Chicago’s bustling downtown, staged a counter-protest upon learning their peers would not be attending school in the immediate future.  With city-wide demand for homework dropping off sharply, bargain homework printed from developing schools quickly flooded the academic wonderland, effectively devaluing the education by dint of a scandalous lack of foresight. “If only a semi-centralized, partially-independent body of technocrats existed to administer homework policy outside of the petty concerns of politics, this crisis may have been averted,” demurred Occasional Math teacher Julio Bernanke.

Reports from packed Megabuses on I-55 indicate great excitement among the replacement teachers, but many pundits are right to worry about a drop-off in quality.  “I’ve heard rumors of them letting recess go for 2, sometimes even 3 days down there.  Then they come back on Monday like nothing ever happened,” offered blogger/struggling comedian Jonathan Karp.

In their last broadcast before the cessation of classes, the student news team at Tom Berenger Academy of Instructor Impermanence decried the efficacy of the talks as mere “sound and fury, signifying nothing without addressing issues like entrenched poverty, childhood trauma, skyrocketing college tuition, and allegiance to the status quo.”  Unfortunately, the bell had already rung, no flags were thrown, and neither the school nor the world were listening.

White House Exercises Amnesty Clause on VP Joe Biden [Satire]

Earlier this morning, White House Chief of Staff Jacob Lew convened a press conference to announce that he would finally exercise the US Constitution’s vaguely worded “amnesty clause” to officially void the contract of the now former vice president of the United States, Joseph R. Biden.

This announcement, though unprecedented in recent history, was not altogether unexpected.  In recent weeks, Mr. Biden’s on-the-record comments in favor of recognizing gay marriage were seen by none other than the President as getting “a little bit over his skis”[i].  However, this may have been but the tip of the iceberg.  Unedited transcripts of past interviews reveal that Mr. Biden has at times promoted clemency for Lil Boosie[ii], the eastward expansion of In-N-Out Burger franchises[iii], and in a particularly combative Facebook note, expressed criticism of the overt symbolism[iv] in Season 5 of Mad Men.

As the news broke, prominent statistician Nate Silver was quick to weigh in. “We’ve been saying this for a long time in my East Coast Dems fantasy league, but Biden’s value over replacement vice president is actually negative- essentially, he is the Carlos Boozer of VPs.  We have to go back in time to Aaron Burr to find the last time someone so adversely impacted the US from that perch, and that dude both killed a Founding Father and tried to found a separate nation[v].”

Rumors have been swirling around Politico and ESPN.com that many prominent politicians have been on Lew’s radar as the trade deadline looms.  “We’ve been thinking about Cory Booker a lot, but honestly, Team USA isn’t quite post-racial at this juncture,” said Lew.  “It’s more like we’re leading late in the 4^th quarter of ‘racial’ and Rush Limbaugh[vi] won’t stop fouling us.”

Even with the cap room to keep both President Obama and key free agent Hillary Clinton (seen honing her game internationally of late), the White House might be forced to promote the untested Martin O’Malley, recall Rahm Emanuel from D-League Chicago, or hang their hopes on a draft stacked with liberal Virginians[vii].

It goes without saying that all of this could be moot if Chief Justice John Roberts declares unconstitutionality, reinstates Mr. Biden, and ships Secretary Clinton to the LA Clippers for Al-Farouq Aminu[viii].

In other news, despite all efforts to tank for the season under the weight of Ron Paul’s expiring contract and the dreadful performance of expensive free agents Rick Perry and Herman Cain, Republicans are set to ride a perfectly-coiffed wave of Romnian adequacy to an impressive showing in the best-of-538 electoral playoff.

Should Mr. Romney ever step down as POTUS, Bill Simmons has already called the first Ewing Theory presidency[ix].

Jonathan Karp is grateful to write in America, where amazing happens[x].

---

[i] http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/11/us/politics/obama-campaign-tries-to-capitalize-on-marriage-issue.html?smid=tw-share

[ii] http://boosiejustice.com/

[iii] http://www.fastfoodmaps.com/index.php?x=-117.553711&y=36.411654&z=6&chains=i

[iv] http://www.screened.com/news/lets-talk-about-mad-men-lady-lazarus/3768/

[v] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burr_conspiracy

[vi] http://newsone.com/16051/top-10-racist-limbaugh-quotes/

[vii] http://www.2016election.com/category/democratic-crandidates/

[viii] http://espn.go.com/new-york/nba/story/_/id/7333659/david-stern-blocking-chris-paul-trade-mistake-outrageous-proportion

[ix] http://proxy.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?id=1193711

[x] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=evApapdysp0

Back in Action

I'm resuming posts on the blog this week as I start preparations for the new school year; I'm excited, but I have no idea what I will be teaching. I assume science (it's my area of certification), but let's face it, it could be anything.

I prefer to keep things light in the blog, but one cannot ignore the tragedies that so often arise in our line of work - we must treat them with the gravity they deserve. Plainly said, our school lost a student yesterday. I likely would have had him this year and I deeply regret that I will not see him in my classroom. It is truly a shame, and I hope that he rests in peace.

The Starting Line

Sorry it's been so long between posts; I got sidetracked in the rush leading up to finals, plain and simple. I'll follow up later in the week when I have a bit more time, but here's a quick reflection:

When I was really struggling, back in March, I spoke to a friend of mine about how to get back on course before all was lost. Nobody joins up to be a mediocre teacher, and I was really failing at my job. He mentioned that I had 90 days or so (fewer really, with weekends and finals and such) to change the trajectory of this episode of my students' lives. It went unsaid that it would be the defining struggle of my first year, and rightly so.

He said that as teachers, we must carry with us the ghosts of the students we leave behind; whether it is because of our own shortcomings or the vague cruelties of circumstances outside our control, our students' failures are our burden. To be a teacher here is to be haunted by the prospect of squandered lives and the honest shame of promises left unfulfilled. I am no exception.

I consider myself lucky in that I turned things around. I never looked back after that conversation and then went out and saved my Chemistry class. The ghosts are still here though; I lost a student at the beginning of the year and I saw a memorial to him at the riverfront just two weekends back. We are the ones who will remember him, and you can't really turn that kind of memory off.

It's finally about time to get back to work. Thanks for the comments (I was so pumped; thanks for reading and staying involved! Dried mangoes are not human skin!) and stay well until next time.