By Michael H. Brownstein
When I exited the “L” train at 43rd on Chicago’s southside, I took a deep breath of air at the top of the stairs and then again in the large empty field leading to where I taught seventh grade. There are days where you smell nothing at all and there are days when you smell violence and chaos. This day there was a soft perfume mixed with the sour taste of wine, the kind of scent that does not tell you anything about how your day is going to go.
As I crossed the next field that led to the street in front of my school, I waved to the woman in the tenement across the street. She waved back, turned from her post at the window and went about her business. She told me once that she felt obligated to make sure I got to school in one piece. Because of that – and I never have discovered why she feels obligated – she watches for me every day as I cross from one empty lot into another. When I reach the sidewalk, she feels her job is done. I watch you every day from seven fifteen to a quarter to eight., she explained. All I could do was thank her, flattered and amazed. She is one of the reasons I seldom take off. I don’t wish to worry her.
No smell of violence. No signs of anger. This was going to be a good day.
While I supervised the breakfast line, I heard the first noises about a teacher/student basketball game. I did not pay it any attention. No one was going to ask me to play. If asked, I was going to tell them I had other plans. No matter what. I would have other plans.
During playground duty, one of the security guards explained the reason for the game to me. I pretended to care. “The eighth graders are challenging us to a basketball game to raise money to bring down the cost of the eighth-grade trip,” he said. “A lot of teachers are planning to be on our team.” He did not ask me if I wanted to play. At his first pause, I left him standing alone. Later, he came to me and again had his chance. He did not ask.
The basketball coach caught me in the hall walking my students from one class to another. He asked me to play. In front of my students. Pandemonium broke out. There was nothing left to do but say, I’ll think about it.
| There goes the perfect day |
“Mr. Brownstein,” their ringleader began – and I cut her off at the pass.
“Coach sent you, didn’t he?”
“Coach Stanley wanted us to get you to be in on the big game. Don’t you want to play? All of the teachers will be playing.”
No one in my class said a word. Everyone put down their work and looked straight at me as if I was the most interesting specimen they had ever seen.
Behind her, the other four began repeating, “Please. Please. Please.” Their eyes were so wide open and so imploring I cannot tell you where my brain went, but my mouth said, OK. My class went bananas. “But,” I said – there is always a but – "I will only play under one condition.”
“Only one?” the ringleader asked. She knew me too well.
“My class cannot get more than three zeroes for the entire week.”
And so my smell on the way to teach did not work out. Instead of a perfect day, I had committed myself to something I knew I could not do. Of course, I had presented the opt-out clause, it had been accepted and I could use it to get out of playing even though I was not proud of what is stood for. None the less, it was now in place and I could use it to get out of the game and, yes, it seemed a simple enough request.
And so my sense of smell on the way to teach did not work. Instead of a perfect day, I had committed myself to something I knew I could not do. Of course, I had presented the opt out clause, it had been accepted and I could use it to get out of playing even though I was not proud of what it stood for. None the less, it was now in place and I could use it to get out of the game and, yes, it seemed a simple enough request, and it worked until the day of the big game.
| Team shirts would be provided |
The morning of the game, my class had to present their research project. This was six weeks of work. Not one day. Not two weeks. Six weeks. And though most of my thirty-four students tried, nine didn’t do anything at all. Nine zeroes. Yay! I didn’t have to play. And I’d get my twenty-four dollars back cause I didn’t really have any need for those new gym shoes.
It didn’t happen. The eighth-grade girls came into my classroom after they heard and talked to every one of the students who earned zeroes. OK I didn’t tell them they couldn’t come in. Big mistake. OK, I let them talk to the students who earned zeros. Bigger mistake. OK, I let them help them do their research project. Biggest mistake. An hour later, all nine of them made a presentation. Not much of a presentation, but a presentation that earned five to twenty points out of a possible three hundred. Even a score of one point is no longer a zero.
I had to play.
So here I am, 3:15, in the bathroom changing into basketball shorts so big I have to pull the drawstring with all of my might, pulling up my sort of white stockings (we’ll call them off white), putting on my new gym shoes, and the red shirt they gave me.
I walk into the gym, the edges of the basketball shorts tickling my knees (how do you get used to that?) and the students start applauding. Applauding like I’m a superstar. I would smile if I didn’t feel so out of place. Everywhere people are warming up. And now they’re high fiving me and chanting my name. I try to figure out where I can hide.
Instead of pretending to warm-up, I look at the players on the court. Only one other teacher is warming up. Where were the other teachers? Too late. It would be only the two of us with security and the janitorial staff.
| At least my son will be proud |
I have to tell you I pretend to play in every quarter. At least my son will be proud. “Every quarter? And you weren’t tired?” How would I be? I only ran back and forth a few times, the other players quickly knew not to pass to me (one open pass bounced off my knees into an eighth grader’s hands and he easily scored), and I couldn’t even contain my own students (even though I towered over them).
Let me give you a rundown of the third quarter: First the ball went out of bounds and I was the one who passed it back in. Then I was wide open and the students and parents started yelling, “Brownstein’s open! Brownstein’s open!” – but all I did was run back and forth – and, of course, look good.
Meanwhile the eighth-grade teacher was hot. She was shooting from all angles, hitting the basket sixty percent of the time, racking up the points and the security guy was going “Bam! Bam!” every time he took a shot ’cause he was our star.
Then I got the ball again, and I was open and I turned to shoot when this eighteen-foot student jumped all over me before I could even think to raise my arms so I passed it to the eighth grade teacher and she took a shot and made it. I got the ball a second time and this time I did get off a shot which at least hit the rim – but guess what? – I got the rebound and was able to pass it to one of my teammates who at least had a clue.
No matter. It was fun. We lost by six – 73-67, but the school raised some money and I humiliated myself in front of everyone.
OK. Here’s the deal. No zeroes for the rest of the month and I’ll eat an earthworm sandwich. But there’s a catch. I’m not letting the eighth-grade girls in to convince everyone to do their work.
| Copyright © 2021 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s volumes of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else and How Do We Create Love?, were published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018 & 2019, respectively. |
thanks, very nice
ReplyDeleteMichael, for my most recent reading of your account, I put myself back to my own time as a prep school teacher and remembered an event that I had to participate in because I was a member of the faculty: chaperoning a school dance. I think I got into the spirit of it well enough – I was only a year away from parties at Yale – but the most striking thing to me now is how well I can visualize the appearance of some of the students, especially a droll, curly-headed boy who seemed to stand on the sidelines observing rather than participating. Was he essentially that apparent observer, or was he just shy, unsure of himself with girls? And where is he now? Is he still, or has he “passed”?
ReplyDeleteScprice, Thanks for the kind comment.
ReplyDeleteMoristotle, I can remember and feel exactly the way you did. Thanks for commenting.