"HE TOLD ME I HAVE GINGIVITIS!" she continued screaming.
Gingivitis. I never knew that was a big issue. I really didn't care if she beat the other dickhead's ass. I just kept trying to do math with my kids.
"Everyone, I need you in the Media Center. Five minutes. It's important." I heard the announcement and ran around the building until a door would accept my key card. I don't prop the easiest doors open anymore. We all used too, because the thingy is broken and it's a pain in the ass. But, Uvalde.
"I wanted you to hear this before you saw it on the news." the administrator started. Her voice broke. She is not a crier. Did someone die? Did someone get shot?
"We are on the list....the list...."
Oh god. The list. The one the DOE released a few days ago. The list of the lowest performing, Title One schools in the state. Yay us. Bottom five percent of the worst schools in Georgia.
"He gave my kids the finger!!! He drew it on a paper and showed it to them! He is insulting my students!"
He IS one of your students.
I watched the meanest teacher in the school back Rafael into a corner, physically, for the second time in a week. Screaming at him. I watched Rafael's eyes, I knew he wanted to cry. But, after you've crossed the Darién Gap, you learn to be tough.
I watched Baby Gustavo organize the vis-a-vis pens in rainbow order. The Hispanic kid that is not ESOL though everyone thinks he is grabbed the pens, sending several of them flying across the floor. I picked them up and rearranged them in rainbow order. Baby Gustavo looked at me and nodded.
"I'm OCD, too." he whispered.
"HEY! You're giving them the answers!" a teacher yelled at me while I tried to scaffold a lesson for one of my students.
I snapped.
"You are denying them services. They are in ESOL for a reason. You barely let me pull them out, which is fine, but when I'm in that room you won't even let me speak to them. They are in this program for a reason."
It was a full argument, in the hall, in front of other teachers and students. And, it's not over.
Rafael should have been in Intensive English. I reached out to my coordinator when he arrived and we agreed that I was keeping him, because we both thought it would be too much change for him to change again. I couldn't stop thinking about him, in that class, not being taught, those big eyes filling with tears.
"So Rafael, my big mystery. Tell me more..." I sort of started.
"Well," he started in Spanish. "We left when I was six."
He's almost nine now.
"The selva was awful. Robbers. It was not all felicidad."
"I'm sure it wasn't." I responded.
"I'm sure it wasn't." I responded.
"So, I went to this school in Chiapas for a minute. They were racist."
"Because you're Black...."
"Yeah."
"I was in Tijuana, too." he continued.
"Tijuana....I lived there....." I responded.
"I was there twice, we got deported back there after we crossed."
"Oh Rafael. I am so sorry."
It was all I could say. To think, he was in Tijuana, where I know so many people. And he was there.
Bottom five percent of schools in the whole state. I thought of it over and over again. And then, I emailed my coordinator. We had to save him. My school was not good for him.
"CALL ME ASAP." was the reply.
I called her, while pacing in the same hallway where I argued with that teacher.
"There are options. We have to serve the whole child. By the time they get Intensive English worked out the school year will almost be over. There are options."
"Tell me." I responded.
"Are you willing to tutor him, before or after school?"
"Yes." I responded.
"You should think about this." she answered.
"I said yes. I don't have to think about it."
"We are putting him in third grade. He is only eight. His birthday is on Christmas. You will tutor him every morning from seven until seven forty-five, before your classes begin. You will be paid. I am getting you a Rosetta Stone subscription. Please stop crying, Ms. Wagner. And, what is wrong with those people at your school?"
"I don't know."
*Title, The Carpenters
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