Tell me in my ear, teacher: tales from an inner-city school

Commonweal, April 21, 1995 by Lee Alperin

I began teaching in New York City in the fall of 1962. I was assigned to Eli Whitney Vocational High School, now defunct. Whitney was, in the parlance of the time, a "ghetto school." The pupils were a tough group. They would learn, if one made them. At the start of every class they tested the teacher. It almost seemed as though they demanded a struggle, requiring the teacher to put himself out before they did.

How does a teacher survive in the classroom? How does he take control? The odds for success are not in his favor. He is one against thirty or forty, and once he shuts the classroom door, he is without immediate means of assistance. He has no gun or nightstick, not even a uniform. He is forbidden the use of force, almost to the point of not being able to defend himself. How then does he manage? He has one thing: his authority. In that struggle for supremacy behind the door of his classroom, the teacher is allowed nothing else.

Those who succeed in this struggle often triumph where family, clergy, and law enforcement have not. I remember Tom Dolan, perhaps the finest English teacher I have ever seen. Tom would take pupils who I was convinced could not read, have them learn dozens of pages of a script and perform in the school show. Pupils too shy to read aloud in my class he got to sing on the stage. Tom made rough, disruptive kids feel the concern he had for them. In the classroom he came across as a teacher who could inspire, a teacher whose pupils would not dare to let him down. But in this business one cannot be a tough guy one day and a softy the next, and Tom's teaching technique, though natural-seeming to outsiders, required constant application. I could imagine him holding out at Whitney for about ten years, at the most. The pupils, remember, always remain fourteen to eighteen while the teacher keeps growing older. His or her energy, effort, and concern all flag in an atmosphere not congenial to aging gracefully. Here, for example, is the effect the process can have on someone who stayed too long.

Miss R. was another colleague of mine, a woman then in middle age, who gave the impression of looking older than she was. Intellectually, Miss R. was as smart as they come. Unfortunately, she did not teach. She clocked in and out each day, showed up for her classes, kept exemplary records, attended meetings, and received satisfactory ratings from the principal. Still, she did not teach. She attempted to, perhaps, and failing that, would write on the board for the pupils to read pages 87 to 92 of the class text and answer all questions on page 92. Miss R. would then sit at her desk to stare or read, while her pupils pleased themselves. If her department chairman or principal dropped in, Miss R. would indicate that she had given the class its assignment. A proper lesson plan--complete with aim, motivation, development, and summaries--rested on the desk. Miss R. had her tenure; nothing could be done. After all, she had been receiving satisfactory ratings for years.

Miss R. greeted but few of her colleagues, and among those none was her friend. She wanted no one to like her. If you tried to, she would cut you dead. I wondered how she could sever all connections--first from her pupils, later from her colleagues--and whether in time that might also happen to me. If I could not manage to be the equal of Tom Dolan, I certainly had to discover a way to survive better than Miss R.

Fortunately, there were other examples of classroom management. There was Miss Winifred Deane. Though no higher than five feet, Miss Deane stood taller than any of her students, and most other teachers. She was gloriously black and the model of propriety.

One term I taught in a room next to hers. At the time, Miss Deane had to come from a distant area of the building and could not reach her class until after the bell. Coming late to class at Whitney could be an unfortunate thing for a teacher. He could arrive to discover an empty classroom or, perhaps, part of a class, the rest of which he would have to chase through the halls. Miss Deane had her students trained to stand in the hall, double file. Sometimes in waiting they got slightly careless, but as soon as Miss Deane was spied coming toward them from far down the corridor, they snapped to.

Manner stem, stride purposeful, she would approach with an implacable air of determination. She would look the boys over, trying to read from their faces whether any irregularities might have occurred. After giving the group a nod, she paused while someone came up to take her books, another her briefcase. Miss Deane would then unlock the door. Under her watchful eye all marched into the room in silence. By the time she followed them in, they were already in their seats. She did not have to utter a sound, and once inside, she did not have to raise her voice.

What key did this woman hold to be able to elicit a respect that eluded many bigger, stronger, even louder teachers? She merely insisted on the proprieties of a well-run classroom. She believed in them and made no concessions. If she taught literature, grammar, essay writing, or whatever, she made the stakes for learning seem important. The pupils believed that if Miss Deane was teaching something, it should be learned. I also have the feeling that a certain warmth touched the boys when she stood back on her heels, her shoulders squared, and expected an effort from them. Here was teaching authority at its purest, a display of nerve and assurance before the toughest possible audience: kids grown up to respect only street law.