Nicholson Baker - Substitute - Going to School With a Thousand Kids

While they were telling their stories there were many interruptions: a secretary came by to ask how many people were having pigs in blankets, another secretary called on the intercom to ask if I could send the attendance to the office, and the three loudest girls repeatedly said QUIET! STOP TALKING! SHHH! GUYS, BE QUIET! SHHH! BE RESPECTFUL! GUYS, LET HER TALK! GUYS, STAY IN THE CIRCLE! GUYYYYYSSS! — unable to keep themselves from disrupting the proceedings with their scandalized scolding, even when I told them that their shouting “Stop talking!” didn’t help at all and actually made things considerably worse. Also Carlton was doing chin-ups under his desk, and Nash was playing with his pinewood derby car.

“That was really great,” I said at the end. “A little loud, but great.”

We lined up for gym. As I was dropping them off to play kickball, Nadia, who had taken pity on me, said, “Mr. Baker, you look like somebody who would teach at the middle school, or high school.”

I told her I wrote books for a living.

She said, “If you need help with anything, I’m always here.”

I thanked her and went back to class to sit and drink coffee.

After gym came snack time. Everyone was irritable and full of resentments over the kickball game: the teacher had made several bad calls. Nash had gotten in trouble because Carlton lied, and the feud between the loud boys and the even louder tattletale girls was heating up. Somebody stole somebody’s cookie. I lost my dog-eared sub plans and hunted for them among the polychrome clutter for several panicked minutes. The kids who had brought peanut-butter granola bars had to eat them at tables in the hall, outside the class, because of the no-peanut rule, but after they finished they got boisterous and a nearby teacher, Mrs. Clayton, came out and said, “You are disturbing a group that’s in the back corner of my room!”

I herded them all back in. “That was a disaster,” I said. I ordered everyone to sit down and be quiet, and I gave Amanda, the paper passer, a social studies quiz on the points of the compass to pass out. They were supposed to define the meaning of the following terms, using words and illustrations:

compass rose

north

south

east

west

northeast

southeast

northwest

southwest

The sub plans said: “DO NOT HELP THEM! This is a test and I need to know if they know the answers.” Well, a handful of kids knew the answers, but most were mystified. “I don’t get what this means,” they said. “I can’t remember any of this.” Many did not know what a compass rose was, and others had no idea how to define the word north . I didn’t know how to define north myself — not that it mattered, since I was forbidden from offering hints. Sara remembered a directional mnemonic: Never Eat Soggy Waffles; Zeke changed it to Never Eat Soggy Whales. They all passed in their quizzes and I handed out a second social studies worksheet, in which they were supposed to draw the map of an imaginary city, with a key to symbols used, and a compass showing which way north was. Ethan began drawing a circus. Rory embarked on a map of the world he’d made in Minecraft. Troy worked on a map of a place called Skull Country. The noise level, post-quiz, swiftly rose to unimaginable heights, with shrill charges and countercharges flying around the room: WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH YOU? GUYS, IT’S NOT RECESS! Ian — the one who got angry when it was supposed to be quiet and it wasn’t — became enraged. He went over to the trash can, furiously tore up several pieces of crumpled paper that he found within it, and threw them on the floor. Then he picked up the torn pieces and put them back in the trash can.

The reading specialist appeared in the door with a quizzical expression. I apologized for the madhouse. I felt sick with shame. “I’m going to help you out here,” she said. Suddenly her contralto voice boomed out. “I KNOW YOU CAN SHOW MR. BAKER WHAT YOU ARE NORMALLY LIKE,” she said. The class got a little quieter — not much. “You guys need to do what is expected of you!”

Nash said, “Some people are doing it and some people are not doing it.”

There was a scream of indignation from across the room.

“The people who are doing the right thing should continue to do the right thing, and other people will follow,” said the reading specialist.

Sara said, “It’s hard to do the right thing when everyone’s distracting us!”

“You need to show Mr. Baker what you normally do,” said the reading specialist, “because this will not make for a fun day for him.”

She left.

I had them line up. Nicole and Carlton fought for position. “This is ridiculous!” I said. I told them they couldn’t leave for recess until they got quiet, which of course worked — taking away recess time was one of the school’s standard punishments. They began to file out, piloted by a teacher with recess duty. I stopped Nash and said, “Nash, if you only knew how loud your voice is.”

Nash looked sheepish. “I know. I wished you luck! I did. I get angry.”

Nadia stayed behind to offer counsel. “Usually if stuff gets this bad,” she said, “you have to go to the guidance counselor and have her talk to us. A lot of kids have anger issues, and there’s some not-nice kids in here.” She led me to the guidance counselor’s office, but the guidance counselor was busy talking to a parent. She then led me to the main office and pointed to a door. “Mr. Pierce is right through there,” she said. “He knows the school very well.”

I thanked her. “It must be hard for you,” I said.

“Some people get so frustrated that they end up acting crazy,” she said. “Like Ian. Sometimes he makes a sound like he’s a gorilla. And then other people get mad at him, when really he’s just frustrated.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” I said.

She went off to recess. I went to Mr. Pierce’s office and introduced myself. “I’m not controlling the class well,” I said. “They’re very loud.”

He nodded gravely. “They are very loud, yes,” he said.

“I just wondered if you could come down and talk to them.”

He said he would in a little while.

I sat at my desk, feeling guilty that the class had gotten so out of control that Ian had had to tear up the paper in the trash can. The sub plans said that after recess the class was supposed to work for half an hour on their mystery stories, critiquing each other’s work using a checklist, but they hadn’t finished their imaginary cities. Fortunately the imaginary-city task was supposed to be a two-day project. I was tired of the intense fluorescent light and I turned off the switch.

The class came bouncing and shouting back in from recess, blinded by the bright snow. “It’s dark in here!” they said.

I had them take out their partly written mystery stories, which they were supposed to be recopying onto a half-folded piece of paper, thus leaving room for marginal comments. Amber S. was writing about a theft at a chocolate shop. She was supposed to think about whether it contained the required elements: feelings of excitement and anxiety, a plot twist, conflict, and a surprise ending. “What genre do you write?” she asked me, politely. Jess was busily writing down names of malefactors in the class and making dojo point checkmarks beside them. “I have a headache because it’s so noisy,” she said.

Just before lunch, the reading specialist came back. “Kids, show Mr. Baker a quiet line!” she said. “CARLTON! ZEKE! SHOW MR. BAKER A QUIET LINE!” She was having no luck. Fortunately at that moment Mr. Pierce arrived, portly and frowning. He stood by the whiteboard and waited. The class became still and downcast. He spoke in a quiet voice. “You need to do what you know is right,” he said. “And if you don’t, you’ll spend the afternoon with me, so that others in your room can do what they know is right.” He let that sink in. “I already have a letter written,” he continued. “All that’s missing is your parents’ names and your name. Whoever comes down, I’ll fill out a letter, with your name and your parents’ names, and I’ll send it home. And I’ll give a copy to Mrs. Browning tomorrow. So I’m all ready. I’m willing to have company. But I’d rather not have it. All I ask is for you to do what’s right. You’re good people and I know you can do it.”