“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.
With Jared, he’s the only Black faculty member I have, and as witnessed by this morning’s email, parents adore him. Ms. Bertrand, our controller, rounds out our Black employee count to a whopping three at the school, but Royal-Hawkins families don’t ever see Ms. Bertrand buried in the business office, so I don’t count her. Jared is it for a familiar face for Black students to casually connect with on a daily basis. I only wish I could sing his praises.
Leaning into Jared’s classroom, Lamont Stennis calls out loudly, “Hey yo, Mr. Jones!” above the din of students filing out of school at the end of the day. His noggin has grown faster than his body, and all I see is a tween bobblehead.
“Hey, what up, L. Good to see you lil’ man! I’m talking to Ms. Clarke here, but I’ll catch up with you in the gym,” Jared calls across the classroom. “Lemme finish up here and I betcha I’ll still beat ya.”
I know Jared is only making quick chitchat with an enthusiastic member of his team, but his flippant declaration that what we have to talk about will only take a minute sets the start of our review off at a deficit.
“How do you think things are going for you so far this year?” I ask. I like to begin reviews listening to teachers consider, in person, what they wrote to me in their reflections prior to our meeting. Given Jared’s reflection, he believes he’s still a number one round draft pick. I, too, can do sports metaphors.
“You know I really like it here. The community has been welcoming, and I feel like I’m connecting with my kids.” Yeah, connecting over your class being easy street, I think to myself. “I mean, I don’t want to take them home with me at night, that’s not going to get me far with the ladies, but I love ’em when I’m here.” I have to let out a snicker on that one, it’s a fact we can both agree on for a young single guy.
“I’m curious, Jared, why’d you choose Royal-Hawkins? A guy as accomplished as you could teach anywhere you want.”
Now Jared’s the one taking his time, rubbing his hands together and smoothing out the tops of his jeans before placing his elbows on his thighs. “You know, I’ve been asked that question plenty of times already? Mostly . . . no wait, ONLY by other Black folks. I gotta assume brothers and sisters ask you the same question.”
“Yes, they have, but when I tell them I went to private school my whole life, that seems to make enough sense for them. But I’m interested in your answer.”
“Simple. These kids need me.”
“What was that?” I ask, hearing a distinct familiarity in Jared’s response.
“Royal-Hawkins students need me. I mean come on, look around,” Jared sweeps his hand by the window and the controlled chaos of privilege hopped up in the courtyard. “Most of these kids living in Pasadena don’t see men who look like me in their everyday lives. They might run into a brother at a barber shop or working a car wash, but they rarely if ever see teachers, administrators”—Jared pauses to include me—“friends of their parents who look like me. Who look like you.” I’m enjoying this reflective side of Jared. He sounds as optimistic as I was as a new teacher who, too, felt compelled to be that positive model.
“I want these kids to get used to seeing a Black man in a position of authority, demanding their best, setting high standards for them to achieve. My goal is when my students grow up, they will be completely comfortable with anyone they have to answer to regardless of race.” I appreciate the social justice sentiment, but I have to bite my tongue from offering that Jared could use some guidance of his own when it comes to having a boss. He’s busy teaching lessons he hasn’t yet fully learned.