The Better Half(66)
“You’ll know as soon as I let you know, Roan, but for now give me a few weeks. I’ll get back to you by then about the Burns family.”
“Suit yourself,” Roan concedes. “But please do it in something other than that midwinter muumuu you have on. You may think it hides the”—Roan puts his hands several inches out from his belly—“but it’s doing nothing for you. Truth is, it looks like Xandra’s crawled back in there with the two of you.”
“I’d belt it if I could,” I say, sadly agreeing with Roan’s fashion assessment.
“Belt it? Burn it. Later, lady,” Roan chirps as he swipes the half-eaten bag of corn dippers off my desk and heads out my office door.
Winn seemed nonplussed when I called him our first day back in school after New Year’s and blurted out my baby news ahead of Royal-Hawkins’s self-appointed snitch, Courtney Dunn, and before I got cold feet. I told him we needed to get together to cover a couple of topics prior to the next board meeting, most pressing being Courtney’s board seat. Winn’s priority was what was on tap for happy hour, judging by the fact that he dropped my call and didn’t call back. I would agree hammering out a maternity leave package from a sports bar is probably not the responsible thing to do, but being snubbed for potato skins was a bit harsh.
It’s been two weeks and I have yet to reconnect with Winn, but his best bud, Jared, and I are meeting in his classroom the last period of the day for his midyear performance review.
As if on cue, this morning I got another email from a father singing Jared’s praises as a teacher, or as a coach, I’m unclear which because the email included a litany of sports metaphors that apparently Jared uses to hook this dad’s daughter on history. Since the success of Hamilton, the pressure to create histortainment to get kids excited about social studies is high, so I can’t fault Jared for using what he’s got to draw in middle schoolers who are prone to spacing out.
“Oh, sorry, Pablo, I nearly ran you over,” I stutter as Pablo catches me in both arms before I collide right into his chest.
“Más despacio, Nina,” Pablo laughs, familiar with the only two speeds I run on around this place: pants on fire late for a meeting or snail’s pace leisurely enjoying my time with students in the hallways.
“What are you doing over here in the west wing, Pablo? Isn’t this usually when you take a break before putting this place back together after the students destroy it?”
“Sí, sí, but Jared grabbed me as I was passing by. Asked me to watch his kids in class while he stepped out for an important call.”
“An important phone call during fifth period?” I wonder to myself as much as to Pablo.
“Nina, while I was in there, I heard a few students say Mr. Jones doesn’t give much homework,” Pablo whispers to me since Jared’s on the other side of the door. “They like him best because they think his class is easy. I told them maybe they’re not working hard enough.”
“I’m glad you set those students straight. You got your ear hustle down.”
“What’s ear hustle?”
“Means you’re excellent at finding out useful information on the down-low. I appreciate you being the eyes and the ears of the school.”
“And hands.” Pablo shows me both calloused palms. “Ear hustle. I like that one, Nina, I’m going to tell it to Yolanda. I think her three sisters have too much ear hustle.” I chuckle, Pablo nailed it.
Armed with enlightening information about Jared’s teaching philosophy before his review has even started, I’m happy to see that Jared’s classroom is tidy and devoid of clutter. Clean space, clean mind is a Fitzroy mantra as he reminds me to remove my plate seconds after I’ve laid down my fork. I do notice Jared’s walls are fairly bare where highlighting student work, hanging a laminated poster of the Bill of Rights, or having guidelines for civic engagement in a Socratic seminar might be helpful, if not inspirational. As a rabid alumnus, of course there’s a Harvard pennant hanging above the SMART Board.
“Hey, Nina, don’t sit there. Last period’s seventh graders who squatted at that table were nasty with colds. I need to disinfect that side of the room,” Jared says, pulling out a chair closer to the windows overlooking the courtyard and gesturing for me to take a seat near him. I can tell by the way Jared’s watching me cross his room that I’m moving too slowly and he’s willing me, hurry up, I gotta get to practice!
“Thanks for observing my morning class today and reacquainting yourself with Mesopotamia and the Fertile Crescent. That stuff will put you to sleep, but I think the sixth graders are gettin’ through it a’right. Everyone needs to know where the wheel comes from.” I had no idea the wheel came from modern-day Kuwait.
I spent my lunch hour in my office, which I rarely do. I like to be out catching up with kids on how the debate team is doing and hearing about science experiments gone awry. I also enjoy very slowly heating up water in the faculty kitchen so I can stay on top of what the latest gripes are among my staff. I know my presence is not always welcome during faculty downtime, but I do it infrequently enough that I don’t think I totally cramp their style.
But today, I needed a solid hour to figure out how I was going to present Jared’s midyear review. Last year, I botched an end-of-year conversation with a young fifth grade teacher that resulted in her ghosting a month before the start of school to move to Mexico and apprentice with a shamanic guru she read about on BuzzFeed. The egos of the young and newly employed, I have learned, do not respond well to my direct feedback and aggressive timeline by when I need to see said improvements. This is a generation raised in therapy, and they want their reviews equal parts feelings, culture of safety, and recognition for their individuality. I want their reviews to lead to exceptional teaching.