Emergency Teacher by Christina Asquith Page A

don’t know how to teach.” Many students tried to follow along, but forcing this lesson on them was like mixing oil and water—this lesson didn’t go with this class. Rodolfo was about to let his dissatisfaction be known in a loud and disruptive way when the door flew open.
    It was the school police officer.
    â€œGet me some boys!” he shouted.
    They returned with reading textbooks. Finally. This had to be easier. Why the school policeman was delivering them was a mystery. They hauled out copies of the reading textbook Vistas.
    He, Rodolfo, and Big Bird dropped stacks onto the floor next to my desk with a thwap! Rodolfo began tossing them on desks, like Frisbees. Desperately, I scanned the table of contents and found a series of short stories and poems, followed by questions on theme and foreshadowing. Most teachers spend hours preparing their lesson plans. I did, too. But none of my lessons ever worked. I decided to start right away with a short story in Vistas.
    â€œRead pages seventy and seventy-one, and then answer questions one through five at the end.”
    I forgot to write the page numbers on the board, as I knew I should. After two minutes, they lost interest again. Ten minutes later, only a handful of girls were still reading. That was it. Everyone else—most of the class—had given up. Ronny, a seventh-grader who had been held back, flipped through the book searching for lewd graffiti from past students, which he whispered to the class. A chorus of “ewww, Miss!” rose up. Vanessa, who had finished the story, looked up at me expectantly. I felt my authority sliding. The story was too easy for her, but the Spanish-speaking students were at a complete loss.
    â€œJust try your best,” I said to Valerie, who spoke only Spanish, and I quickly swiveled around to the next crisis before she could point out that she didn’t understand English, so how would trying help?
    Rodolfo kept kicking the wire shelf under Ronny’s desk until Ronny swung around and pushed Rodolfo’s papers onto the floor. For two painful hours, I cajoled, and then tried outwitting, then begging, and finally threatening them in an attempt to get them to pay attention. Any brief respite in arguing allowed me to see myself losing my dignity and becoming that mean, shouting teacher I would have criticized as a reporter. Yet I felt powerless to stop it.
    I copied an essay out of some teen magazine on drug testing, hoping that would catch their interest. My “lesson plan” was for them to read it and then discuss it. To be safe, this time I read it aloud. They listened quietly.
    â€œSo, what do you think?” I asked at the end.
    Two boys raised their hands. For a brief moment, we all listened as Daniel gave solid, logical arguments against drug testing.
    â€œIt’s a violation of our rights to search our locker,” he said. But then Ronny must have said something to Rodolfo, because he swirled around and shouted, “Shut up man! You a drug dealer!”
    â€œRodolfo, please raise your hand,” I said.
    â€œIt’s true, Miss!” he yelled. He slammed down his books and cursed at me.
    â€œYou’re in detention,” I said.
    Ms. Rohan had been sending students to Mrs. G.’s office, but I refused to do that. I promised to handle problems myself because I wanted to show the students that I was the ultimate authority. My ears rang. Then a spitball whizzed through the room. I quickly looked away, knowing that everyone saw me ignore it. I didn’t have the energy to confront it. The trouble was that whenever I traced a spitball’s origin, it led back to Rodolfo or Ronny or another boy, all of whom denied it angrily. Confrontation sapped time and energy away from the rest of the class, and I personally felt embarrassed to challenge a student and lose. No one ever told me how physically tiring teaching was—and I had run the Boston Marathon. How did