It seems that we’ve been tied together from the
beginning. Me, a first year
teacher. Him, a behemoth of a 14 year
old. He arrived with footnotes after his
name. “Tips” – warnings – from previous
teachers. It was my first time standing
in front of students, having skipped the whole student teaching thing. I mispronounced his name during roll call and
half-caught another teacher, Ms. Peterson, rolling her eyes. Another white young teacher who knows nothing
about teaching poor, multicultural students, I assume she must have been thinking.
Ricardo Quezada. Mispronounced as
Quizaida. He flashed his eyes at me, carefully
noting my insecurities. I shrank. Thus began our first year together.
“Miss, are you bringing
your boyfriend to the prom?” Oliver interrupted me.
“No, I hate to break
your heart. We broke up actually.” I answer him.
Ricardo, looks up from
his doodle. “What – did he hit you? If he hit you, I’m will punch him in his
fucking face.”
“Ricardo, I’m serious –
quit it with the cussing. No, he didn't
hit me. We just didn't like each other
anymore.”
“Damn. But for real, miss. I’m serious.” He stares me down as I attempt to
continue with the lesson. I know he’s serious. He’s always been protective.
* * *
I pulled Ricardo out of our first period class on Tuesday to test him for his
independent reading level - because God knows, we love to test our special ed kids. As he read,
he shot his eyes back and forth from my face to the paper – looking for
affirmation from me after each word. Encouragement
to keep reading. He hasn’t lost this
habit over the years, and I love that.
When he finished, I informed him of his reading level and how his
learning disability contributed to this.
Second grade. An eighth grader
reading at a second grade level. And
only barely. I expected him to be
discouraged, confused at this news – outraged, maybe. Get a little taste of the infamous Ricardo
temper. Instead he nodded and walked
back into the classroom. The demeanor of
a student who has never passed a reading test – who expects nothing of himself.
* * *
"Hey! Broyles!" It's the basketball coach.
"Hey! How's your day? I know that you stole all the left over cookies from Homecoming, by the way."
"Guilty as charged. I love those cookies. Hey, can you let Ricardo know that we won't have space for him on the team this year? He came to open gym last night, so I think he might want to play - but after his attitude last year, I'm not interested."
"Seriously? You want ME to tell him that? He's going to be so upset."
"Well, he listens to you. I figured it would come easier from you."
"I love you, but no. You have to tell him yourself." I roll my eyes and walk away. I don't get paid enough for this.
* * *
Ricardo’s been gone a lot lately. Like three days of the past five. I’m concerned about his engagement – or
disengagement at that. I approach his
teacher. What has he missed this week, I
ask her. When he comes back I want to be
ready to support him. I’m trying to
brainstorm ways to make him feel successful in this class because that might
help him connect to this class. Do you
have any ideas on how we can support him? Emily, I teach 115
students, she says. Ricardo is absent
more than he is here. He missed pages
101-115 in instruction just last week.
And when he’s here, he’s disruptive or texting on his phone. I’ll tell you this, if he’s here – I would
love to teach him. If he’s not, I can’t
break my back over it. Ok, I said. Because what else do you say to that.
“Ricardo!
Come over here!” I’ve spotted him across the hallway.
“Damn, miss. You never leave me alone.”
“You missed math and ELD again yesterday. You need to be here. Ricardo, you are 5 credits short of
graduating this year. If we are going to
get you to graduate on time you have to not only pass all your classes this
year, but recover your missing credits through the online classes at the same
time. That is an outrageous amount of
work, and I don’t see you putting in much effort. I’m tired of having to say this to you every
single time I see you.”
“DAMN IT, MISS! I’M SO TIRED OF YOU BUGGIN’ ME!
LEAVE ME ALONE – FOR REAL!” He screamed in my face and stalked off. He heard me, though. He showed up for every class the next two
days.
“Miss Broyles!
How’s your day going?” It’s my new
principal.
“Hey there.
It’s ok. I just got into a fight
with Ricardo Quezada. He’s been skipping
classes and having tons of attitude. He's never been absent like this before. It's because he's 18 now. ”
“Ah, yes, some of those seniors are a real
challenge. They have a major attitude of
entitlement. But you know, you can’t
save them all. Maybe they need a
sacrificial lamb to show them that they’re not untouchable. They need a wake up call about the real
world. From what I’ve seen so far, I
think Ricardo might just be that sacrificial lamb – I hate to say it.”
I just nod.
Because what else do you say to that.
Ricardo has been absent all week, so I’ve started putting
all my effort and attention into Chris, a junior. Chris’ father died this summer, and it’s
completely flipped his world around.
Chris is Ricardo’s little buddy, and the two of them frequently ditch
class to raise hell around the city instead.
I wonder sometimes why I am putting so much effort into Chris, when I
know he is just like Ricardo. But when
Chris is in class, there is a vulnerability there that makes me want to put
myself on the line. I’m starting to
dedicate myself to Chris, to helping him graduate next year. When I’m around Chris I start to get all sort
of ideas about interventions and supports we can still try with him. Maybe he won’t be just like Ricardo. It’s a brand new mission for me. A mission that is slowly, but persistently creeping
up on my dedication to Ricardo. I feel
bad – like I’m giving up on him. But how
can you pledge your energy to someone who is never there?
The meeting sticks out in my mind more than
most; it was his freshman year. This was a yearly meeting between
Ricardo, his parents, and his teachers.
I had prepared in advance with notes from all his
teachers. I had asked them for
his academic strengths and needs, but instead most had sent me essays about his
behavior. He was defiant and difficult,
loud, obnoxious and irritating. He had
not grasped any of the curriculums so far.
I was prepared to run a meeting around this information. What I got instead was unexpected. As I meticulously ran through each teacher’s
report, Ricardo sat silently - until he couldn’t anymore. Mom, I am so angry with you, erupted from his
lips. I can’t believe what you and dad
are putting us through right now. I
don’t even want to come home anymore. I’ve
been sleeping at Alejandro’s house, in case you’ve wondered. And with that, I learned about the divorce
that would rock Ricardo’s world from then on.
The rest of the meeting dissolved into Ricardo and his mother in tears, publicly
throwing one uncomfortable truth after another at each other, processing the
painful transition his family was beginning.
Myself, his physics teacher, and the school psychologist sitting by – a
trio of impromptu spectators. Wanting to
help, but feeling completely out of control.
Report cards come out this week, and I’ve got a preview of
Ricardo’s. He got four F’s and two
D’s. I pour myself a giant glass of wine
and try not to care. But I feel like a
failure. Scratch that. I feel angry.
Really, really, angry. He’s taken
advantage of my help and my sympathy. I
need to let him fail; it’s got to be time.
“Miss Broyles, you have a giant zit on your chin.”
Ricardo whispers to me.
“I know.
Get back to the problem we’re working on please.”
“Hold still.
I can pop that zit for you.”
“You can’t meet a boyfriend with this zit. Trust me.
It’s ugly.”
“If you touch me, I’ll give you detention.”
After class was over, I was surprised with
myself. I’m pretty sensitive about my
appearance. I was surprised that I had
even admitted to having a zit.
Seriously. I realized then that
Ricardo had unwittingly become my family.
Things happen sometimes in a school that just
don’t make sense to you. Yesterday,
another teacher complained to my administrator that I was being too involved in
Ricardo’s life. That I keep checking in
on him in his classes, and calling him out when he’s ditching. That he and I fight too much. I wonder sometimes what is the exact amount
of caring that my salary pays for. Does
my salary cover one Come to Jesus talk a month, or maybe just one per
year? And is there a sliding scale for
caring? Each year you are responsible
for a student, the amount that you are allowed to openly care goes up by
7%. If this is the case, then I am
entitled to five years of caring with Ricardo, which I’m pretty sure includes
two blowout fights and one annoying conversation about my love life per
week. At least, this is what Ricardo and
I have agreed upon in our own personal relationship. Perhaps I should send out an all school memo.
“Ok, today,
we are going to be working on your work for 10th grade English class. I need you to write down this sentence in
your notebook.”
“Miss, does it bother you that you’re almost 30
and still single? You don’t even have a
boyfriend. You’re not going to have kids
forever.” Ricardo shouts across the room.
“Sometimes it bothers me. But really, I think I’m just fine.”
“I’m going to set you up with my uncle.”
“I am not old enough to date your uncle!”
“Oh. Thank you, but no thank you.”
“Too late.
I just texted him. You’ll love his truck.”
Hey there, Miss Broyles, how are parent teacher conferences
going? One of the deans from my school
drops by on the longest night ever for a teacher. Only one parent so far, I tell him. Well, he says, just wanted to let you know
that your boy Ricardo is up to 112 absences so far this year. And it’s only September. Yup, I say, I am thinking about ways to
get him here. Well, he responds, I used
to work at Northern High School and we saw his kind all the time, at some point
you just have to give up. You know, the
greater group of seniors needs a sacrificial lamb. We are not expecting some of these seniors to
be here next quarter. We expect them to “choose
to attend” other high schools.
Oh my God, I think. Really?
Some of us have been supporting these kids for more than 5 years and
you’re going to recommend that they choose school elsewhere? And really, the sacrificial lamb reference
about Ricardo from two different administrators in a row? How did they pick Ricardo, I wonder. Ricardo, who is not involved in gangs or
drugs or sex. Who loves his girlfriend
and his mother and his sister. Who goes
to church. Do they just sit around in
the office and agree on this stuff?
Well, just so you know, I tell him, I am not planning on giving up on
Ricardo. If you need a sacrificial lamb
you should consider Julio. He screamed
f**got at the student I was working with for no reason yesterday. He’s a hopeless case.
I walked into Ricardo and Chris' math class to pick them up yesterday, but they were both absent. Again. As I turned to leave, one of the students in their class grabbed my arm. You're wasting your time with them, Ms. Broyles, he said to me. Of everyone who has said that to me, it cut deepest hearing it from him.
Ricardo is obsessed with playing football. He lives, and breathes, and processes
football at all times. It’s been his
whole life since before I even met him.
Despite his tall height, he is fast and strategic. If he had been raised in a well-to-do,
knowledgeable household he could be playing Division I football in
college. It’s been the only thing
teachers have had to dangle over his head for years. Indeed, his skills are a coach’s dream, if it
weren’t for his attitude. I’ve kicked Ricardo
off the football team, read an email to me one morning from his coach. He cussed out the coaches and then walked off
the field. I found Ricardo the next day
ditching class in his car. What the hell
happened, I asked him. OMG, miss, he shouted at me. I got really mad and I cussed out
Mr. Jeffersons. He was really pissing me
off. So what, I told him. You are never allowed to cuss out an adult,
especially your coach. You are supposed
to be a part of the team, a leader of the team.
I want to say I’m sorry, he told me.
I really need football practice because I don’t want to go home. Can you please go talk to Mr. Jeffersons for
me, Ms. Broyles. He’s really mad at
me. Well, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t
take you back after that, I told him.
“Ricardo, you’ve been
absent 93 times so far this year. What’s
happening with you? Truancy has never
been your problem.”
"Damn it, Ms. Broyles, I’m 18. I don’t
even have to be in school. Leave me the
fuck alone. Plus, my dad told me that if
school isn’t my thing then he will have me start working construction with him
instead of graduating.”
“Quick question
Ricardo, when you have a son who is in high school someday, what will you say
to him?”
“Honestly, Ms. Broyles? I’ll tell him to never be like me.”
I was helping Ricardo
and Chris in class today when I got pulled out suddenly into the hall by
another teacher. When I came back into
the room, Ricardo and Chris had switched all three of our phones between
each other’s cases and then replaced them on the desks exactly as they
were. It took me almost an hour to
figure out that the phone in my case wasn’t mine. Apparently, that was an epic prank.
I work after school with the online credit recovery school
for kids who need to re-take classes online in order to graduate. Ricardo came in today with Alejandro and
Julio – two of the more difficult kids in his grade. As Ricardo and Alejandro wasted their credit
recovery time, Julio sat on his own and worked tirelessly for the whole
hour. I remembered how I had nominated
him to be the “sacrificial lamb” of the senior class to the dean. I realized that I am truly an imperfect educator. Julio is not some hopeless cause. He is the same challenging kid raised in poverty
as Ricardo. Except that Ricardo has me,
and Mrs. Bake, and a whole slew of teachers who fight for him. Who is fighting for Julio to not be the
sacrificial lamb? Who is tracking him
down, and arguing with him over his bad choices. Who is thinking up strategies for him? I don’t know if anyone is, including me, and
that is what keeps me up at night.
Today hasn’t been my day.
I’ve been tired and irritable.
Normally during 6th period I work with Chris and Ricardo in math but
I’ve heard that they are both absent.
I’m looking forward to working with other kids today who don’t make me
want to come home and pour a strong drink.
It is exhausting working with Ricardo, and some days I’m just too tired
to lecture him about the importance of school.
I almost don’t even swing by their class today - but when I do, I see
Ricardo sitting in his seat. Somehow
he’s managed to ditch periods 3 – 5 today, but arrived in time for 6th
period. Somehow. Part of me rolls her eyes because I’d
mentally made other plans, but the other part of me pulls Ricardo down to the
library to get to work. I wasn’t super
friendly to him, although I should have been since this was our assigned time
together. Once we get settled, Ricardo
pulls out a piece of paper with notes about all the assignments that he’s
missing from his classes. He’s got
classroom notes and worksheets and handouts – all organized by period. He asks me to help him read some assignment
from psychology class about how McDonald’s plays on your brain’s weaknesses to
make you buy their products. He’s got
tons of examples about this, and starts writing out his answers while I’m still
mid-article.
As I watch him doing his homework, my whole world starts to
crash down on me. I realize that in the
end, I too had given up on him. I had never expected him to be willing and prepared to work with me today. I had
stopped calling home weeks ago when he was absent, I had stopped threatening
detention. I had stopped punishing him
for being 18 and stupid. The reality of
my job had permeated my consciousness, and I had come to accept him as a
failure and a drop-out. I had moved on to
putting my neck out for other kids. And
I’d done it without circumstance or ceremony.
The death of hope; the birth of a sacrificial lamb.
The job of a secondary special educator is perhaps the most
heartbreaking and emotionally exhausting position in education. We work with the kids who still can’t read or
multiply - and are running out of time. We
get verbally assaulted daily by kids who are frustrated and tired of ten years
of reading intervention classes. They are not cute little kids, just starting out their education, still full of hope. They are big, proud, and scared. We
watch as our students are the first to choose gangs because school has never kind
to them. We complete their paperwork when they get suspended for fighting. We support them as if they were
our own children, and then we release them into the real world. Most still reading at an elementary school level. We're not stupid, we know that they aren't prepared for the work force or higher education, but we're out of time with them.
Who failed Ricardo?
Was it his teachers – his family?
Was it me? Or did his terrible
temper just make him too hard to love? Was he just a product of our
society? Poor, learning disabled, second
language learner, broken home life.
Hearing statistics about drop-outs is one thing. Watching someone you care about choose to
drop-out is another. It is absolutely unbearable.
Sometimes I think that when I’ve been teaching for 30 years,
this type of situation won’t affect me at all.
I will have lived through hundreds of Ricardos, some of whom will wind
up on professional football teams and some of whom will wind up in prison. It will just be par for the course.
Most of my Teach For America colleagues aren’t in the
classrooms they started in anymore.
They’ve moved on to graduate school or better teaching positions. I’m still at my placement school, five years
and counting. I'm still with the kids I started teaching with my first year. Oftentimes I wonder what
my life would be like if I made more money like my friends, or if I moved to a school without the need for English Language Development classes. And then I
think of Ricardo. He’s taught me that
there is an inherent, crippling guilt which accompanies teaching. That some students will leave you completely
unprepared for what comes next – and sometimes that's your fault and sometimes it’s
not. An uncomfortable reality that
seasoned teachers develop coping skills for.
But Ricardo has also taught me about the joy. Deep, deep joy. The kind of joy that bubbles up when he gets
high growth scores and when he waves at me in front of all his super cool jock friends. The kind of joy that smacks me in face with
the snooze alarm button at 5:45am. Reminding me to pull myself together and wake
the fuck up. Because Ricardo is probably
the biggest pain in the ass of my whole entire life, and he very likely might officially drop out of school tomorrow morning after 18 years, but maybe – maybe – he
won’t. So I better be ready.
