An Excerpt from My Novel - Greetings from the Ghetto

I was the product of great teachers. My education wasn’t about facts and figures. It was experiential and left a lasting impression on me. It shaped the person I had become. I owed back to these great teachers and the system that had made me who I was. At the same time, I did not want to fail that system. If I could pull off being a teacher, it would mean my waywardness in my college years was not for naught. It would bring great meaning to my life. The signposts were all about me. I remember in seventh grade, when my mother had hit the slots big in Atlantic City, and she brought me back a Webster’s Dictionary. It seemed like a crappy gift at the time considering the amount of money she had won, but it was a sign. She always pushed me in school. Her last official act on this planet was driving up to college with me to make my bed in my dorm room. She barely made the trip. She went home and died two weeks later. I have no doubt she struggled to stay alive that last year just to see me off on my way. I owed it to her. I owed it to my grandpa who was the greatest teacher of all. I was going to do it for them but also for me and for Erika. I needed a stable CAREER. I wasn’t one of these people that was going to play politics in a nine-to-five job. I wanted a job that would allow me to give back, to make a difference, to challenge myself.

I was absolutely hyper that night. I packed my briefcase, made my lunch, prepared the coffee-maker, picked out my clothes and ironed them, and proceeded to just sit up all night with my head spinning. What had I gotten myself into? In retrospect, I didn’t need to set my alarm that night, because I never went to sleep. I was in the shower well before my alarm was scheduled to go off. There was a bit of debate whether I should wear a tie for the first day. From my corporate experience, I learned that you always wear a tie for a big day. However, I wasn’t in the corporate world anymore. I knew that what I wore would be analyzed by my students, fellow teachers, and administrators. I wanted to make the right impression to everyone. Most of all, I didn’t want to back myself into always having to wear a tie. The tie, to me, represented the corporate world I was fleeing from. I decided to not wear a tie, but have one handy in my briefcase just in case all the male teachers were wearing them.

I arrived to school early and was surprised to find that the front doors to the school were locked. The only person sitting out there was an odd looking older man. He had on these huge glasses with the thickest lenses I had ever seen. His skin was pasty white and he seemed like a caricature of some kind of old nerd. He sat on a stool and had a small hand truck beside him with a milkcrate on it. When he spoke, he had an odd whining tone to his voice. He was strange. After a while, he took a book from his milkcrate and starting pounding on the wire grate covering the windows of the office. After a while a large security guard came to door and let us in. He told Dr. Liftier to “cool it.”

I went through the metal detectors, and signed in at the main office. I didn’t know what was going on. They told me there was a special schedule today. We would have a long homeroom period in order to take care of administrative stuff and then proceed to shortened periods five through ten. This meant that I would only meet my seventh and eighth period classes today and for the rest of the week. I learned that I would share my homeroom with a math teacher named Mr. Scaparullo. My homeroom was on the third floor in Room 303, a science lab. I waited by the front door to watch the kids pile in through the security gate. They were dressed like the rappers I saw on MTV. They wore baggy jeans, long white, black and red t-shirts, basketball jerseys, Timberland boots, skull caps, backwards baseball hats, and gaudy sweat suits. There were a large number of African-Americans but even more Latinos. They cursed incessantly and used a ton of slang. They packed an attitude. They threw around the word “nigga” in everything they said. “Nigga this” and “Nigga that”. “Nigga PLEEEAAASE.” They also walked around in a half daze reciting lines from their favorite raps songs. They were LOUD as all hell. They looked at me with curious if not suspicious eyes. I made eye contact with them, which for me took a concerted effort. I stood tall.

I headed up to my homeroom. I introduced myself to my co-teacher, Mr. Scaparullo. He was a nice old Italian man who spoke very slowly. He welcomed me and asked if I was new. I had made up my mind to not let my students know I was a first year teacher. If they asked, I would say that I was new to the district but had taught in New Brunswick the year before. It wasn’t necessarily a lie since I had been doing corporate training in Somerset which was just up the road from New Brunswick. Mr. Scaparullo was very kind and showed me exactly what needed to be done in homeroom. He took care of everything. The kids slowly came into the class and sat down in bunches talking to each other. Mr. Scaparullo made some jokes at some of the kids. He had taught a few of them last year. The homeroom turned out to be full of juniors, so when I was introduced by “Scap” (as the students called him) most of them told me they had me for English.

“Are you a mean teacher?” one of the female students asked.

“I’m the meanest English teacher you’ll ever have,” I said with a smile and a wink.

“What are we going to read this year?” someone else asked.

“Oh, I have a bunch of great books planned,” I lied. I had very little idea what I would be teaching these kids this year.

“Do we have to do Shakespeare?”

“We’ll see,” I said.

There didn’t seem to be anything really to do in the homeroom after about ten minutes. Scap said this homeroom would last for an hour and was like babysitting. I couldn’t believe they would waste everyone’s time like this.

Fifteen minutes into the period, I noticed an odd sight in the back corner of the room. There were two boys, one white and one black, looking around suspiciously. It was like they were keeping watch for someone or something. They were absolutely silent with big bugged out eyes scanning the room. I tried not to stare at them, but something was up. I started making small talk with a girl sitting quietly asking her if she had me. She said she did. While I was talking to her I noticed the black boy in the back of the room pull out a giant wad of cash. I was amazed that anyone in this school carried so much cash on them. He was looking around still but I was amazed that he was showing off his roll of bills right out in the open. Next, the white boy sitting with him pulled out a notebook to sort of shield himself from view. Granted, a notebook is not like a private room. I saw him pull out a dime bag of weed and slide it across to the black kid with the cash. The kid handed him some money. I couldn’t believe my eyes. IT WAS RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME. I had witnessed a drug deal in the first fifteen minutes of my career. What was I supposed to do?

A few options came to mind. I could forget that I saw anything. This way, I didn’t have to be put into such a difficult situation. Just forget what you saw and go on with your day. You have enough to do trying to educate these kids. Do you really want to tread on such uncertain ground on your first day? You’ll be considered a “narc” and lose all the trust you were hoping to gain from these kids. Plus, you don’t even know these kids. What if there is some kind of retribution for getting them in trouble? This is your entire career that you’ve dreamed of. Here it is. Don’t blow it over a lousy dime bag. Don’t be a hypocrite. It’s easy enough to just look away and pretend you saw nothing.

What if they saw me? What if they knew that I knew? They were so brazen about it. What kind of reputation would that give you? Soon, you’ll have more and more kids dealing drugs right in front of you. Come to Williamson’s class. He’s doesn’t give a shit. Do you really want stoned kids in your class causing trouble?

How do you go about busting a kid for drugs? Do you walk up to him and ask him to empty his pockets? Then what? Do you hold the bag of weed? Isn’t that illegal—to be in possession of drugs on school grounds? What if he says no? Do you call a security guard in the hallway? What if while you go do that the kid throws the bag out the window? Do you really want to cause a scene right here?

I wrote a little note to Scap who seemed oblivious. It read, “That white kid back there just sold drugs to that black kid. What do I do?” I walked over to him casually as the two kids’ eyes followed me. Was this a joke? Was it a test? He asked me how I was doing and complained about what a waste of time this homeroom was. I handed him the note. He looked around. He motioned me to the door.

I stood outside in the hallway, while he stood in the doorway watching the room. He questioned, “Who did you see doing this?”

“That white kid back there and the tall kid next to him,” I replied.

“What was it?”

“It looked like marijuana, but I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure what you saw or…”

“No, I’m sure I saw a drug deal but I don’t know for sure what drug it was.”

“You’ll have to excuse me but my eye is infected and I’m getting surgery on it in a few weeks. I saw nothing.”

I was confused. Had he saw something and didn’t want to get involved? Why the excuses before telling me he saw nothing.

“You need to decide what you want to do. You can go down to Mr. Bruno after the period. Welcome to Eastwick.”

Now, another teacher knew. The decision was made for me. I had to speak to Mr. Bruno after the period was over. Would the kids get suspicious and dump their drugs? Was I going to look like a fool for falsely accusing these kids?

“Hey, what are their names? Do you know?” I asked Scap.

He pulled out his attendance sheet and said, “Yes, the white guy’s name is Ike Queensbury and the black guy’s name is Chris Sydney.”

I jotted the names down on the note I had handed Scap. I also put their roles down next to their names, “dealer” and “buyer.”

The period lasted forever. I was lost in thought. The students continued to ask me questions about my class, questions I didn’t really have answers for. I answered them the best I could. How was I going to teach today?
When the bell rang, I made my way downstairs to the main office. It was busy with activity. I asked for Mr. Bruno but the secretary told me he was in with somebody. She must have noticed the concern on my face because she told me if it was an emergency, I could interrupt.

I walked back to his office. I knocked on the closed door and was called in. There was a guidance counselor sitting there still talking to him. He looked up at me. “Can I help you, Mr…”

“Williamson. Mr. Bruno, I believe I saw a drug deal in my homeroom,” I stammered out fighting back tears.

Don’t let him see you cry! Do not let him see you cry!

“Wait a second,” he said with great agitation that took me by surprise. He put his hand up to stop me from speaking. I felt uneasy going through this with the guidance counselor sitting right there. “What exactly did you see? Who was involved?”

“I saw Ike Queensbury sell Chris Sydney a small bag of marijuana.”

“Slow down. Be careful what you say here. What exactly did you see?”

“Chris pulled out a wad of money and handed some to Ike. Ike then handed him a small bag with what looked like weed in it.”

“Are you sure?”

“It was right in front of me, sir. I’m almost positive.”

“Oh man. Queensbury’s grandfather is going to be so disappointed,” Mr. Bruno replied.

“So, this is a possibility then?” I asked.

“Oh, Queensbury has a long record. This is perfectly possible. OK, Mr. Williamson. I will take care of it and let you know what happens.”

I could barely see him through the tears welling up in my eyes. This wasn’t how I had pictured my first day. I refused to let one of those tears run down my cheek. Regardless, I was not in good shape and I think it was fairly clear to Mr. Bruno.

“Welcome to Eastwick, Mr. Williamson. Consider this your trial by fire. We all go through it sooner or later. You took no time to get acquainted with it,” Mr. Bruno said with the first sense of understanding I had seen from him.

“Yes, Mr. Bruno. Thank you,” I said exiting his office. Now, to face the rest of my day.