SUB PAR

There's no substitute for a good teacher

 

BY COREY LEVITAN

      The paper airplanes aren't whizzing past my head yet. But the situation is not good. I have completely lost control of Mr. Goldstein's first-period language arts class.

      Almost 25 years after finishing eighth grade, I have returned, like Mr. Kotter to a new generation of Sweathogs. Hawthorne Middle School has agreed to let me pose as a substitute teacher for two periods.

      Eighth-grade boys are no less frightened of me now than when I was one of them, and they picked me up and tossed me into the dumpster behind the cafeteria. One stands by a rear window, chatting loudly with his friends. Another heckles me from his desk. Both have at least two inches and 20 pounds on me.

      "OK guys!" I address the class. (The word "guys" is my attempt to show that I see them as equals, even if they see me as significantly less.) "Have you finished writing yet?"

      According to the instructions left by Mr. Goldstein, his 30-odd students were to write an essay describing their recent week off.

      "You wanna know what I did?" shouts my heckler, Freddy. "You wanna know what I did? I spent the night in Chuck E. Cheese's. Then a big rat chased me!"

      Freddy chortles at the subtle, Jonathan Winters undertones with which his brilliant comic improvisation bristles.

      The classroom is a lot like the jailhouse. In order to survive, you need to figure out who wields the power and align yourself accordingly. Freddy seems like a good friend to have, so I play along. I ask just how big that rat was.

      Taken aback by the consideration given his disruptive remark, Freddy laughs, gesturing with his hands to indicate a size of about 2 feet.

      Loud, obviously fake sneezes and assorted other sound effects then rise above the din, indicating intent to overthrow.

      "Yes, Papi," an anonymous male voice responds to my shushing.

      Despite our newfound friendship, however, Freddy does not assist in my attempt to wrest control.

      How can things have gone so awry? I came prepared. I passed California's teaching exam, the CBEST, with dozens of points to spare (although I scored lowest in the writing section, affirming what my detractors have noted for years).

      I dressed the part, too, in a tweed jacket over a black, button-down shirt. Of course, the teacher I figured I looked exactly like hasn't existed since 1982. (Mr. Goldstein, who is 9 years younger than me, dresses like Fred Durst from Limp Bizkit.)

      But my most important preparation is having pondered the gig since I was in eighth grade. I used to fantasize obsessively about how cool a teacher I'd make -- usually while staring at the "dunce corner," an intersection of the rear walls in Mrs. Keppel's fascist English class.

      School would be different for my students, I promised myself, more like summer camp than prison camp.

      Unfortunately, I got exactly what I wished for. My classroom is about as orderly as when it rains and all the campers have to squeeze into the arts & crafts building.

      "No, not yet!" shouts one girl. "Mr. Goldstein gives us 15 minutes for essays!"

      I have already given the students 20 minutes to work, and few are availing themselves of the opportunity. But the joke is on them. They think they're getting away with a few extra minutes to talk loudly and make fun of the substitute teacher, when the truth of the scope of what they can get away with probably includes overturning their desks, smoking cigarettes and tossing me into the dumpster behind the cafeteria.

      "No one's listening to you," one angel-faced young lady informs me when I move on to a spelling exercise. She's right. I "shush" and "guys" them some more, to absolutely no effect.

      I sit down, frozen, eye contact given up, like prey in the vision of a pack of predators. Then, as in the animal kingdom, the pack moves in for the kill. They approach Mr. Goldstein's desk and begin borrowing items from it.

      "We're allowed to," they say. I have no response. Maybe they are, how would I know?

      Suddenly, the cavalry bursts in. She answers to the name of Miss Hughes.

      "Class has begun!" the fiercely imposing woman shrieks. "I'm speaking to each and every one of you!"

      Everyone shuts up and returns to a seat. Even I straighten up a little in mine.

      "You have had more than five days vacation and you are going to settle down!"

      Miss Hughes claims to visit Mr. Goldstein's class every first and second period as part of her job as a resource specialist, whatever that is. But I suspect that she's really a bouncer sent by the school principal, Ms. Feist, indicating her level of confidence in my abilities.

      Regardless, I am in control for the remainder of the period, free to attend to the other things I've screwed up so far this morning. There is an instant message repeatedly flashing across Mr. Goldstein's computer monitor, for example. It asks, "Where is the roll?"

      I did not take roll call in homeroom, known these days as the "AA" period. Even if I didn't forget, which I did, the attendance sheet was not included in the folder of papers Ms. Feist handed me before class. I'm grateful that this excuse presented itself, since she is precisely the kind of boss who would not fall for "my dog ate the attendance sheet."

      After the bell rings and the children sprint away, Ms. Feist shows up with an unexpected and understanding smile. She has already heard about my first-period summer camp and offers some advice.

      "You have the power to give them detention, you know," she says. I didn't know.

      "But then you'd have to come back at 3 p.m."

      Let's see, cleaning toilets in Union Station with my tongue, inserting ice picks under each of my fingernails, preparing my taxes ... It's hard thinking of things I'd rather do more than spending an hour of my workday dealing one-on-one with the students I was least able to deal with in class.

      The other option Feist mentions is rewarding the kids. She explains that each class competes for a certain amount of points during the year, at the end of which the winner receives the grand prize of realizing that the whole thing was a scam designed to help teachers shut them up and sit them down.

      I thank her for the input, but remain convinced of my befriend-a-Freddy theory. I just didn't put enough time into the friendship before requiring Freddy's help, that's all.

      Several minutes of silence loudly tick by as my next classroom fills with curious faces all wondering why Ms. MacLoed is absent.

      But I'm more comfortable this time, what with all my previous substitute-teaching experience and all. I even remember to take attendance, although I can't pronounce half the names.

      "Ee-sham?" I ask.

      "I-sham!" comes the response. I apologize.

      It doesn't take long to find the Freddy here. He's a strapping 5'8" hellion with 1974 Michael Jackson hair named Jonathan. When a female classmate socks him in the shoulder for whispering something, I inform him that he's being flirted with.

      "Ruff ruff!" Jonathan responds as he peers at the girl, reminding me how sensitive eighth graders can be.

      The lesson Ms. MacLoed left is on density. My father used to teach high-school science, so I know the subject. I decide to riff.

      "Let's not read the book," I say. "You can read the book and spit it back at me, but then you won't really know what you learned, would you?"

      Truth is, I can't read the book. I'm afraid to take my eyes off the class.

      When no one volunteers a decent definition, I explain that density is how tightly packed something is in a given amount of space.

      Ms. McLoed has furnished the desks with ice-cream sticks, beakers and scales to illustrate the concept. I scan a diagram in the textbook with one eye, instructing the students to break their sticks in half and measure the volume in a beaker of water.

      Because they have something to do, with things they can break and spill, the kids seem involved in their work. But there are still frequent interruptions, most courtesy of Jonathan. He demands to know where I grew up.

      "South Central?" he asks.

      "No," I answer. "New York."

      I'm taking the time to build this friendship.

      "The Bronx?" he asks.

      "Manhattan," I answer. (I was raised on Long Island, but when I need to appear tougher, it's always Manhattan.)

      "Oh, the RICH part," Jonathan says. "That explains the Elvis sideburns."

      As I ponder how exactly net worth could correlate to facial hair, Jonathan steps behind me and offers to shake my hand.

      "I ain't never felt hands that smooth," he says. "You ain't never worked a day in your life, have you?"

      Three young ladies in the front row express their frustration. They are here to be educated, not entertained by the Jonathan & Mr. Levitan Show.

      "Can you just show us how to do the experiment, please, from the textbook?" one asks.

      I haven't the heart to tell her that it's not the good kids who follow the book that get ahead in the real world, but the Jonathans with better people skills.

      Jonathan is wrong about my not working a day in my life, though. Today I am working extremely hard. My instructions to break the ice-cream stick were wrong, it turns out. The volume of the entire stick needs to be measured before the volume of half the stick. Brand new sticks are required.

      "OK, who was smart enough NOT to listen to the teacher?" I joke. Jonathan, still standing behind me, laughs and then shushes the disenchanted class.

      But my find-a-Freddy theory has its drawbacks. Because he is close enough to peer over my shoulder, Jonathan notices that I'm scribbling in a notepad every 30 seconds -- with particular ferocity whenever he utters something.

      "Are you writing my name down?" Jonathan asks, his smile gone. "Why?"

      The quickest lie that comes to mind is that the notes are for me, in case I teach the class again.

      Jonathan's sharp people skills refuse to let him accept that explanation, however. He knows something strange is up. He suspends our friendship. He takes his seat and then tries taking advantage of me.

      "The bell's late," he announces while looking up at the clock. "This always happens. Most of the time, Ms. McLoed lets us go."

      Forced into the teacher role, I refuse to bite. I didn't get where I am without my own people skills. A full eight minutes transpires before the bell rings.

      "Aw, I thought you was gonna be cool," Jonathan says.

      You know what? I thought so.

 

REPORTER CARD

The students rate their newest substitute teacher

 

He couldn't control us and he also didn't do the lesson like he was supposed to do.

-Kristopher Atmore

Mr. Goldstein's class

 

The substitute was a funny guy. He had fun and was teaching at the same time. He also made jokes and played around with us. He gave us clues on the assignment and helped us get the answer with the report. Also, he had a funny voice that sounded like a Keebler elf.

-George Patterson

Miss McLoed's class

 

I think he was too soft. If you're a bit too soft, the kids will step all over you. You need to be strict. Not too strict, but strict enough to earn their respect.

-Alex C.

Mr. Goldstein's class

 

I thought that the sub was really cool. He didn't mind that we talked while we did our lab. I finally learned what density was. He looked like somebody who just came from a disco party with sideburns and that funky suit. He wasn't an ordinary sub. Most subs are strict but he wasn't. He was having fun just like the rest of us.

-Janice Qualls

Miss McLoed's class

 

I think he did okay with us. He was kind of funny and was nervous because he saw all the kids. He can be a very good teacher if he practices.

-Justin Johnson

Mr. Goldstein's class

 

Mr. Levitan was really nervous and I also thought he didn't know anything about science. He was really strange. And he doesn't know how to teach very well. He dressed too fancy for being a teacher.

-Jasmine Garcia

Miss McLoed's class

 

He was a really cool teacher. I would like a teacher like Mr. Lavitot (sic).

-Mishael Martinez

Mr. Goldstein's class