Do You Plan to Indulge in a Turkey?

Sat, Nov. 21

Dear Ellen,

Yesterday was a day to remember. A day that ran a gamut. A day that provided what's known in Pedagese as "a spectrum of experiences." In the morning I found myself in the midst of a cafeteria riot which I had, somehow, instigated; in the evening I was dancing in the gym with the same boys who had been rioting a few hours earlier.

It began in my English class. Some of the kids had come to English straight from lunch, and I overheard them complaining about conditions in the school cafeteria. Since we were working on a letter-writing unit, I suggested that they compose a letter to the Board of Education, describing existing conditions and demanding better facilities. We had a preliminary discussion, and I realized that I had lifted the lid off long smoldering resentments: "We have to swallow lunch in 20 minute shifts . . ." "We have to eat standing up . . ." "Can't move . . . can't smoke . . . can't talk—only whisper . . . lousy food. . . . They treat us like cattle . . ."

The next period—my unassigned—I passed through the Students' Cafeteria on my way to the Teachers' Lunchroom next door for some coffee. The Aide assigned to the cafeteria was not on duty. It was jammed with kids, half of them standing; it was stuffy, noisy, messy with soiled trays on wooden tables, paper bags, milk containers, coke bottles,

candy wrappers. Under a "No Talking" sign, leaning insolently against the wall, was Joe Ferone.

"You slumming?" he said.

"You could use some extra chairs," I said inanely.

"Plenty of chairs in the Teachers' Lunchroom," he said. It was true. At that time of day, there were never more than a few teachers there. "We're supposed to be as good as you? Can we bring some of your chairs here?"

"Of course," I said. "Just be sure to return them at the end of the period. Why don't you and a few of the boys—"

Before I could finish, there was a stampede to the Teachers' Lunchroom: boys shoving, pushing, shouting, dragging chairs, waving chairs over their heads, fighting for seats, yelling . . .

Suddenly—a shrill whistle: the Admiral himself.

"Silence! I want absolute silence!" He is furious. "There is to be no talking here of any kind. Anyone opens his mouth, you're in real trouble. I don't want to hear a word out of you!"

They obey. All talking stops. Not a word is spoken. Then, slowly, methodically, in ominous and terrible wordlessness, they all rise, as if at a signal, and begin smashing dishes, breaking bottles, throwing books, trays, papers on the floor, flinging food against the walls; still silent, they march around the room, weaving in and out and around the tables, a mob, mute and inexorable; the only sound is the stamping of feet, crunching of glass, breaking, cracking, splintering—punctuated by McHabe's helpless whistle.

It was an extraordinary and terrifying sight. Who called the cops, where they came from so quickly, I don't know—but the moment they appeared, the mob turned into kids, weaving back to their places in the same grim silence, and waiting with vacant faces among the debris.

It was like something rehearsed, performed, and finished; so that when the bell rang, they left as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"I'm afraid it was my fault, Mr. McHabe," I began.

"You're damn right it was your fault. I warned you. I told you what would happen if you run this school with ideas. You didn't believe me. Maybe now you will."

Then notes, circulars, directives began to fly fast and furious: "punitive action . . ." "firm measures . . ." "name of each student who was in the lunchroom . . ." "disgraceful exhibition of . . ." "to forestall future incidents . . ." until the inevitable "It has come to my attention."

And all through this avalanche, Ferone's mocking eyes seemed to follow me.

I tried to find out why conditions in the cafeteria could not be improved; the kids' complaints were certainly justified. Or why couldn't they eat out? Back to my source I went: the kids themselves. I'm enclosing some of their answers:

One term they alloud us in the lunchenette across the street and the drug store on the corner. But we were too much of a public nuisense and caused a disturbance to the peace of the other eaters. So they disalloud it.

If we get in an accident during school hours it's illegal. Supposing a car hits us while going to lunch? Last year the school got sued because this boy was sent with a pass from a teacher to buy her some aspirin & got runned over. Now we all must suffer for it.

It's expensive to eat out of school. Still, they should let us. After all we're human too.

So what if we knock a salt seller over or spill something by pushing each other or have a loud conversation in a restarant? Does that make us Juvenile Delinquents or sex manics?

Excuses and excuses and reasons and reasons is all they give us but I don't buy it.

They tried to add on 10 extra minutes for each eating shift to make it a real ¹/₂ hr lunch, but these minutes they had to cut out off other periods and the teachers said they couldn't afford to lose the 2 minutes off teaching time especially in Home Room.

One idea was brought out that when we brought lunch from home to have us eat it in the auditorium. But if we wanted to conclude our meal by bying milk or ice cream we couldn't do it. Also the auditorium usually shouldn't be as messy as a cafeteria. They would have to get an extra teacher to watch that we didn't get too messy.

What's the use of finding more chairs to eat when there aren't enough tables?

I'm beginning to see some of the problems McHabe has to face.

As a disciplinary measure, he wanted to call off the Thanksgiving Dance scheduled that evening in the gym, but the tickets had been bought, the school

orchestra had been rehearsed, the punch had been prepared, and he was made to see that punishing many for the misdeeds of a few was not only undemocratic, but was likely to lead to another "unwarranted outburst" on the part of the kids.

That afternoon I found on my desk a melting chocolate turkey and a card:

"A Happy Thanksgiving and many more

From the whole Room of 304."

And that evening, at the dance (I was one of the chaperones) I could hardly recognize in the scrubbed, combed, brushed, dressed up and oh, so polite kids the same ones who had left the cafeteria a shambles.

The gym was garlanded with festoons and balloons and crepe paper ribbons wound around basketball baskets and light fixtures. The parallel bars, the wooden horses, the mats were pushed against the walls; in one corner sat the school orchestra, each musician in a purple blazer with a gold CC on it, and a purple and gold satin CC draped around the drum; in another corner a table had been set up with a bowl of muddy punch, paper cups, and several packages of Lorna Doone cookies.

The other chaperones—Bea, cozy and beaming; Mary, harried by extra duties—were pouring the punch. Henrietta, who, I was told, had never missed a dance, was absent. So was Paul.

But it was the boys and girls who were a revelation to me. The boys especially, for many of the girls come to class with elaborate hairdos and makeup. It was the first time I had seen the boys dressed in suits, jackets, ties; shoes shined; faces stiff with decorum. Each had his name written on an orange paper pumpkin (left over from last year's Hallowe'en Dance) and pinned to his lapel; each said with quiet solemnity:

"Good evening, Miss Barrett."

By far the most polite—and the shyest—was Lou

Martin, the cut-up, the class comedian. He had approached to ask me for a dance, his body rigid and tilting slightly sideways with excess of politeness:

"May I please have the pleasure?"

He danced me off, holding me as if I were a soap-bubble, his hand barely touching my shoulder-blade. Perspired, committed, urging me with his face rather than his feet into a respectful two-step, he made gallant conversation:

"Do you plan to indulge in a turkey? . . . It's quite pleasant, the gym, the way they fixed it up. . . . Are you enjoying your teaching here? . . . You dance very excellently."

Ferone wasn't there, nor Eddie Williams, nor Vivian Paine; but Harry A. Kagan, the Students' Choice, was very much there, for the dance was sponsored by the G.O., of which he is president.

"These kind of affairs are rather childish, I think," he confided in me as he propelled me firmly around the gym, "but as long as it's for the G.O."

But when the kids danced with each other, they let go with wild gyrations, fast hops, twirls, pelvic twists, and rubber-kneed acrobatics. Lou Martin and Carole Blanca executed with abandon something known as "The Slop"; and Linda and Bob did an exhibition dance called, I think, "The Frug."

I loved them all last evening; especially Jose Rodriguez, who was not dancing, but who had paid his 75 cents for his ticket and had put on his best suit and had stood alone, waiting for an opportunity to speak to me. As he was about to leave, he took a deep breath, approached me, and said:

"I just want you to know how I feel about English. I think it's the greatest subject I ever had. I'm just — I just want you to know."

There are times when I wouldn't change places with anyone.

I'm exhausted—but have to save my strength for next week: Midterm Exams to take home and mark over the four-day Thanksgiving holiday.

A happy one to you—and many more—from Sylvia Barrett in 304.

Love,

Syl

P.S. Did you know that there are more school children in New York City than soldiers in the entire U.S. Army?

S.

Date: 2016-01-03; view: 760