What's a Nice Jewish Boy doing in a Place like This?
I WATCHED WITH ANTICIPATION as my students entered the classroom. It was my first day. Somehow, for some unknown reason, fate had taken me, a potential Jewish doctor or lawyer, and turned me into a teacher for inner-city, Learning Disabled, (LD), students.
A week ago I had been ceremoniously presented with their files. "Forewarned is forearmed," my supervisor told me with a strange smile on her face.
Three students had criminal records. Another two were simply too young to be classified as juvenile delinquents. Most came from broken homes. Only three of the ten had fathers living at home. Some had witnessed actual murders. To make matters worse, not only were they all males, but some were nearly as tall as me, all 72" worth!
They entered the classroom slowly and quietly, eye-balling me from top to bottom. I'm certain they had never seen such a creature before – I stood out like a sore thumb. Not only was I white, but I also had a long, scraggly beard, and for a finishing touch, I wore a yarmulke on my head, (a Jewish skullcap).
I eye-balled them back. Guessing it was my responsibility to speak first, I turned nervously to write my name on the board. (It seemed a "teacherly" thing to do).
"Fellows," I said. "My name is Mr. Lazer -" I didn't get a chance to complete the sentence.
"What are you wearing on yo head?" one student asked.
"Good question," I responded. "You see, I wear this because I'm a -."
"You in the Navy or sumpin'?" another blurted out.
Nervous laughter. It was starting a lot earlier than I had anticipated. I had been advised that my students would probably test me during the very first week of classes. Perhaps even the first day. But no college professor or textbook ever predicted this challenge might occur during the first minute on the J – O – B.
"It's gonna be an interesting year," I answered, my eyes nervously scanning the room. "We're going to learn a lot about each other's cultures. The reason I wear this, fellows, is because I'm..."
"Maybe he's bald," one student remarked.
More nervous laughter; this time a bit louder than before.
"Act. Be a good actor." It was sage advice given by my current mentor and cooperating professor, Dr. Herb Foster, (in addition to teaching, I was working toward my Ph.D. at The University of Buffalo). He wrote the best-seller, Ribbin' Jivin' & Playin' the Dozens, long considered the bible on Urban Education.
"If you're heart starts firing away and your mind begs for the "flight response," nonetheless, break out the acting skills. Pretend the outbursts and the in-your-face wisecracks don't faze you in the slightest. Assert yourself – get control."
"Okay, okay." I held my outstretched palm toward their faces. "Rule number one in my room is...close the mouth when someone is talking. As they say in French, fermez la bouche." Close the mouth. When I talk you, close your mouths and listen. Got it?"
They slowly nodded their heads. Piece o' cake, I thought to myself. I got this covered.
"Good," I continued. "And it works both ways. When you talk, I'll listen to what you have to say."
More nods as I lowered my outstretched hand. I had just leaped from greenhorn to superstar pro. My acting skills were working like a charm. This teaching thing was no big deal. Or, so I thought.
"Now, you asked me a question and I'll give you an answer. Like I started saying, it's going to be an interesting year. We will learn a lot about each other and our different cultures. I wear this cap on my head because..."
"Maybe he's got lice," the tallest and biggest kid in the room blurted out, completely ignoring the sanctity of rule numero uno.
They exchanged glances, laughs, head nods, and even a few hand-slaps. I felt my heart beating in overdrive
For a few seconds, time stood still. What the heck was I doing here? My dad was right. I should've gone to pharmacy school and helped him with his business. I would have made a much bigger salary, had zero disciplinary headaches, and could have forgone all the nonsense teachers put up with.
I suddenly felt like a Martian from outer space. An invading foreigner.
"God," I whispered, "Don't let me die in Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School! I have so much to give. Please. So much to live!" I quickly amended my heartfelt prayer, "And please. Get me the heck outta here!"
So much for acting skills. I no longer needed to ponder the question of flight or fight. My brain was telling me to zip-on-out-the-door ASAP. "Well, now that you're all here," I wanted to say, "let me step out and get your real teacher. T'was a pleasure meeting you all. Later."
"If I don't get control of this classroom immediately," I told myself, "I'll be eaten alive."
Skullcaps 'n Switchblades was beginning to feel a lot like oil and water.