A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (12 page)

Suddenly her breast flooded with emotion—she
understood him, now, she was sure of it. Like men and women in
schools all over the country, he did the best he could with what he
had. Day upon day. Year upon year. In schools where going along to
get along was called cooperation, conformity passed for consensus,
and independent thought, heresy. In schools where in any
confrontation the student stood to lose nothing, the teacher,
everything. In a society that paid garbage collectors better. In a
country where ten states paid a welfare mother with two children
more than a new teacher—they kept on.

Respected by no one, they took the blame when
students dropped out. When students stayed in school only to
graduate knowing nothing, they were to blame for that, too. Low
grades, declining test scores, cheating—the teacher’s fault.
Increased teen pregnancy, moral decline, increased violence—the
same.

Alone in the middle. Attacked by ineffective parents
who couldn’t control their own kids, left out to dry by
administrators covering their behinds, given the impossible task of
making schools all things to all people—still they kept on. Coming
back every day to teach those who wanted to learn, no matter how
few. Did they want to be paid well? Yes, they did. And shouldn’t
they be?

What right had she to judge them—what right had
anyone?

Suddenly he was there beside her. “You want to see
something interesting?”

“What about your class?”

“Chelsea’s in charge. They’ll be okay for ten
minutes. Come see this.” He led her two doors down the hall and
into a classroom where more than fifty ninth graders pretended to
listen to a student presentation.

The teachers—there were two—waved as they came
in.

Five students stood in front of the group, a map of
Venice beside them. One of these struggled to read the paper he
held. Reading slowly, he stumbled over nearly every word, making it
impossible to follow along.

When at last he finished, O’Connel leaned close to
whisper in her ear. “This is where the latest manifestation of
outcome based education—Oregon’s 21
^st
Century Schools
Program—meets the real world— CIM—Certificate of Initial Mastery.
All freshmen have to give presentations of independent study
projects to meet the benchmarks outlined in the bill, you know
that. Well, I thought you might like to see what it’s really like.”
Another of the group took over and began reading what was obviously
verbatim from an encyclopedia article. Solange turned to find the
two teachers watching as if nothing were amiss, as if the boy’s
speech, report, whatever it was, were not obvious plagiarism.

“All the research,” O’Connel said quietly, “usually
gets done on the copy machine.” His recital complete, the group
sat. The class applauded without enthusiasm, and the two teachers
rose to pass out papers.

O’Connel showed her one. “This form is what everyone
else is doing while they’re supposed to be listening. Teachers,
kids, everyone evaluates. It’s very democratic.” Only positive
comments were listed on the evaluation form.

No possibility of failure. There was no box to check
for copied from a book.

O’Connel got up and she followed him out, shutting
the door quietly behind them.

“Not pretty is it?” She frowned, doubt gnawing the
pit of her stomach. She had read the bill. She had written the
grant that allowed Elk River the honor of being one of the first
schools in Oregon to implement it.

But she was ashamed to realize this was the first
time she had actually visited a classroom to see how the objectives
translated into daily grind. This was one of the most vaunted
education restructuring bills in the country? “It can’t always be
like this.”

He wanted to reach out, take her arms, force her to
see. Instead he took a deep breath. “Why not? Because you don’t
want it to be? C’mon, I’ll show you a class doing research.” In the
computer lab more than fifty Macs lined the walls. A woman across
the room chatted with an aide at her desk. With her eyes, she asked
if they needed help. O’Connel shook his head, smiled and she went
back to her conversation.

“Here’s the tech. lab you administrators brag so much
about the fast lane of the information superhighway. Let’s see what
kind of research they’re doing today, shall we?” They walked behind
students, who, seeing their approach, either covered screens with
their hands or with the press of a key, blanked them out. Two boys
were busily using the movements of their mice to erase a blue
screen as a pencil eraser would erase a poster sized paper of solid
color in a bogglingly mindless entertainment.

Mouth agape, Solange watched them in fascination. At
last she concluded that they were racing to see who could erase his
screen first.

Numb, she followed O’Connel where he stood behind
Paul, who had somehow not noticed them. A photo of a man with a
nose ring glared out at them, middle finger raised in salute.

“You see that screen?”

“It’s a chat shop, isn’t it?” Paul, hearing them,
instantly brought up text.

O’Connel nodded. “What you researching, there,
Paul?”

“Oh, just something on popular culture for history,
Mr. O’Connel.”

“Uh, huh.” They moved on.

“Look around the room, that’s mostly what you’ll
see—if you’re fast enough.” He pointed to a sign saying ‘No
Internet’ and smiled.

“So, here we’ve got kids, fourteen, fifteen-years-old
cruising out there in an adult world with absolutely no
supervision. You know the stuff that’s out there, and you saw the
way they hid what they were doing. Draw your own conclusions. The
same thing’s happening every day all over the country. Our tax
dollars at work for a better America.” They went out. “Why are they
allowed to do that?”

“They’re not, you saw the sign. We’re very strict in
this district.

The kids have to promise not to, and get their
parents to sign a permission slip promising they won’t access any
inappropriate material.

And we also have them under constant supervision of
an adult.” He blew air. “As usual, it’s all a joke. The kids are
going to do what they want to do.”

Dismayed by what she saw and heard, Solange sought
desperately for a reply. “What about the chips, the programs that
are supposed to filter out the garbage?”

He looked at her like she was nuts. “Ever tried to
keep a kid from getting what he wanted out of a computer? if they
want it, they’ll get it. You remember all the claims about how
computers and the information superhighway are going to rescue
education? That’s it, that’s the revolution back there. I think
Paul’s snapshot summed it up pretty well, don’t you?” She followed,
afraid of what might come next.

Just how bad was it—and did she really want to know?
“Where now?”

“More research.” In the library, they found three
classes, more than sixty students with three teachers. The
librarian met them as they came in, face pinched in an anxious
smile. “Ms. Gonsalvas, what can I do for you?” Solange instantly
disliked this woman with her counterfeit smile.

“Nothing at the moment, thank you, I’m here to
observe.”

“Well,” she said, hands pressed together as if in
prayer, “today we are doing research for CIM.” Impatient with her
wheedling, Solange cut her off— “Thank you, I’ll show myself
around.” Listening, watching, feeling, she sized up the room, ear
cocked like a mechanic listening to a slipping transmission. Seeing
her coming, kids cut animated conversations short. Others suddenly
found a convenient book irresistible, only to discard it as she
passed. Each teacher snapped to as she passed, rushing to help or
put a student back on task. They had little effect.

Someone else might have been fooled—she was not. of
the sixty ninth graders in the library, perhaps a dozen worked.
Their insouciance thick as cane syrup, the rest passed time. Having
seen all she needed to, she led the way out into the hall, where,
once alone, she confronted him. “It’s this way everyday?” O’Connel
stopped a girl with short dark hair as she passed on her way into
the library.

“Megan, got a minute?” She laughed. “Boy, do I.”

“This is Ms. Gonsalvas, the assistant superintendent.
She’d like to hear what you think about CIM.” Megan smiled,
intelligent eyes wary. “She does, huh?” She took her chin in a
nervous hand.

“I do if you want to tell me,” Solange said.

“Okay, well, I moved here a month ago from Roseburg,
and there they had the kids grouped according to ability. Here
they’re all just thrown in together, and the work’s so easy that
the smart people just spend all their time goofing around.” She ran
a long finger along the line of her jaw in a habitual gesture. “If
you want to know, I think it’s a joke. The only reason we’re doing
it is so the school can get a lot of money for being the first
school in the state with CIM.

Nobody learns anything. The teachers don’t even know
what they’re doing. Last year, they blew it so bad they had to
start over from scratch.” She backed away in the direction of the
library. “I don’t know if you wanted to hear that, but— “

“Yes, I did,” Solange said, “and, Megan, thanks for
telling me the truth.” She looked at O’Connel. “It’s about time I
heard it.” They backtracked to his room. There, frustration boiling
up inside her, she turned on him. “So why doesn’t anyone say
anything? if it’s not working, we need to know.”

“What are they going to say, I can’t do the job? I’m
sorry, but I think the latest law to come down from Salem’s a load
of horse manure? This is the profession where people are hired for
the enthusiasm they can muster for the latest nonsense to afflict
the system, remember.

Integrate the curriculum? Sure! Great idea! Teaching
the science and math of ancient Egypt because they’re studying the
pyramids in history? Heavens, why didn’t we think of it before?” He
hesitated, hand on the doorknob. “In the real world, people who
tell emperors they’re in their skivvies don’t get a pat on the
back—they get lynched.” He went inside, leaving her in the hall
alone.

She shut her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands
hard against her temples.

It was too much, too fast. There was much needed
fixing. That she knew, but she couldn’t fix it all—not here, not
today. If she lost her job she never would. She was here for Hugh,
for herself— for one reason only—to save their jobs.

She wouldn’t forget that.

She couldn’t.

• • •

She came in as they were just putting their books
away.

“Okay, if you want to join us at the Thanksgiving
feast tomorrow, I’ll need your two dollars,” O’Connel said.

The bell rang and they were again left alone.

Not talking, not wanting to, he set out chess games,
eyes drawn to the hills and steel gray sky beyond. It was cold—cold
enough to snow. He’d have to tarp the boat tonight.

“Today we spend lunch with the chess team. You
remember Paul, the guy in the tech. lab?”

“Yeah,” she said, “he’s the guy who’s always
reading?”

“That’s him, smart kid.”

“Genius?”

“Bright, but no genius. He just looks like a genius
here. Put him in Eugene or Portland and he’d be maybe in the top
third if he worked for it. He’ll be in in a minute. The tournament
is really between him and Armando. Nobody else can touch them. When
they came in here two months ago, neither one knew how to play. I
only have to show them a tactic once; the next time they use it
against me. What about you, you play?” She nodded.

He wasn’t surprised to hear it. “Want to?” She
shrugged. “Why not?” He unrolled a soft leather board and dumped
out a box of chessmen carved from ebony and rock maple. He watched
as she set up the pieces with a practiced hand. It had begun to
snow.

She smiled. “Oh, look, it’s snowing.” He winced,
thinking of the ride across the river. “Oh, boy.”

“You don’t like snow?”

“Oh, yeah, I do, I’m just thinking about my boat.”
She turned back to the window. “I never saw it before I came here.
I love watching it fall.” He watched the side of her face, the
small, dark curl of fine hair in front of her ear, coming close to
feeling it with his eyes. of course she would love the snow. It was
right somehow.

A fifth grade girl wearing a red jumper and an impish
smile came to stand close by them. Hair the color of oat straw hung
to the backs of her knees. Smile gone, she regarded Solange with
intense green eyes.

“Lorena,” O’Connel said. “ You better?”

“I’m a lot better, now. Who’s she?”

“This is Miss Gonsalvas, the assistant
superintendent. Miss Gonsalvas, Lorena, Frank’s sister.

Lorena solemnly offered her hand. Frowning in
thought, she regarded them with large blue eyes. At last, she
decided. “Are you Mr. O’Connel’s girl friend?” Concealing a smile,
O’Connel made some adjustments to the pieces, leaving it to Solange
to explain.

Solange leaned forward on her elbows, hands
supporting her chin. “No, I’m here to make sure Mr. O’Connel’s
doing a good job. What do you think, Lorena? Is he?”

Cocking her head, she frowned in thought. “Frank says
he likes him. I just come here after school on Tuesdays and
Thursdays to play chess. He gives us candy sometimes, so I guess he
is.”

Several more girls came in, and Lorena drifted off.
Solange saw he thought it was funny. “Thanks for all the help.”

“I thought you handled it pretty well.”

She looked after Lorena. “That’s the girl in the
trailer with the croup, huh?”

“That’s her. I want you to make note of what she
said, now, she’s my sole character witness.”

Snow fell heavily now, shrouding cars and asphalt,
tumbling slowly in the calm air. Inside, sounds were muted, voices
hushed.

Paul sat opposite Armando, a tall, attractive boy,
and with few words, they began their game. Contemptuous even now,
Paul read as he played, while Armando gave the small plastic pieces
all his attention.