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Back to School

By B Sumangal; Illustrations by Shiju George

The day I joined as a teacher at P.S 18 (Public School 18) in New York was a decisive day for me. I came from a small town in Buffalo and New York really awed me. My friend, who was teaching at a nearby institute, had warned me about the big bad city and the kids at my school.

They were a hearty bunch of future hoodlums, he warned me. I laughed away his warning. My heart was full of hope at the thought of shaping the minds of tomorrow.

Brought up on the classic, E.R Braithwaite's 'To Sir with Love', I had always felt that "us-American" - which included "us Indian Americans" as well - were far better than the British brats that the black teacher had had to deal with.

First day. I entered room 9A. It was so quiet that I wondered if I was too early or if it was the wrong room. No. The number was all right. I stepped in cheerfully.

A duster flew by nearly knocking my head off. Chalk dust lightly dusted my face. I back peddled fast. Picking up courage after a long minute I stepped in less confidently this time. Hesitantly I asked, 'is this 9A?'

Having confirmed my suspicion, I walk to the board and write my name in block letters - A-N-I-T-A N-A-Y-A-R.

"Who're you?" this from an angelic face.

"Are you Mr George? We're supposed to have a Mr George."

"I'm Miss Anita. Good morning."

Suddenly a hand shot up. "I don't belong here. My mom told me I should be taught things by a man."

I was pushed from behind by a tornado in checked shirt and denim jeans. "Hey, who stole my chair?" and looking at me, "What's your name?"

Controlling my indignation I replied as politely as I could, "Its on the board."

"I can't read your writing. If I could, would I be here?"

"Okay, stop shoving at the back. Class, I am your new English teach…"

"No wonder! You speak differently."

"..cher. And, perhaps, for history as well. ('God forbid!' this from the back of the class). Please come to order while I take your attendance. Please fill out these forms with an ink pen for submission to the administration. I will collect them at the end of the class. Any questions?"

"I got no ink. Can I use pencil?"

"I don't remember my address!"

"Someone stole my pen!"

"Should we fill it right now? My lawyers say never give out any information and always take the Fifth (amendment)."

Suddenly, there was a commotion. "Hey, teach! Johnny just wet his pants."

Ha, ha, ha! Roared the class. Poor Johnny was looking murderously at Jeff Blaum. Jeff had poured a glass of water over Johnny.

"Johnny, take this pass and go to Nurse for a change of clothes."

Then the bell rang. The mad rush nearly knocked me down. The older ones sauntered out at the end, giving me a once over to freeze me.

What had I let myself in for?

In the melee a tiny voice perked up. "Hey Miss! The bell is not for us."

"Shaddup you!"

I was torn between correcting 'shaddup' and hauling the boy for saying it.

How did I get into this mess? Suddenly a hand went up. "Can I be given a toilet pass, please?" The 'please' did me in. It was a tall girl in pigtails.