-George E. Woodberry
I'm probably going to get a job Saturday. I hope so. It would make life a lot easier. If I do, then I'll work for the city for 3 or 4 years, take some time off to get my master's degree (sub or aide some?) and get into a good district "for life" (or until I burn out and go back for my MBA or something). And if I wind up in a decent school first off, things will be great.
And if I don't get hired Saturday (their second round, actually--when they hire new teachers), then I'll most likely get hired on in October (their third and final round, when they find out "Oh, we need another sixteen elementary teachers!") or November (when St. Louis begins to have teachers break their contracts), or January (when some teachers decide to go on an extended winter break), or I will make a concerted effort, to get a classroom position for next year.
I'm also going to take a physics or ecology course at Forest Part this fall, since I need three more classes in science and a middle school methods course to become the most sought after classification--middle school science--in the St. Louis metro area.
--
Well, no job yet. The job fair didn’t go as planned. I have this inkling of a clue that the professors who tell me how to get a job really never tried. Or maybe the City is just so bad at hiring that a job fair is just their way of checking how many needy people are out there. I don’t know. All I know is that I showed up and I was one of 10 dozen nervous young girls surrounded by some largish angry older women and a handful of middle aged burnout men. I tried to leave my resume in various places, and nobody wanted it. They simply kept giving me the phone number and application packet—GOD! Why did I slack this summer? Why didn’t I get up out of bed sometime and make some phone calls? Visit some schools? Why didn’t I spend the last two years kissing ass? What is wrong with me? Of course, I say that now.
--
My worst negative fantasy has come true: it’s September 2nd and I don’t have anywhere to go tomorrow. I’m still trying to get a position in the city, though. I am amazingly calm and normal, considering. “Hello, Sally, come on in. I assume that you were briefed on the job requirements by Sandy?” “Yes, thanks.” Why am I still here? I don’t want this job. This is an assistant position. I would make zip. I would have to answer to other teachers, people with the same education, and maybe the same experience I have. How demoralizing. But here I stand, well, now I sit, across the desk from a bearded white guy, a bit overweight and even though he’s the superintendent, he’s dressed like a football coach in skin tight shorts and a polo shirt. Maybe this is a warning. This district is a little podunky. “Graduate from SLU. That’s good. Not a lot of experience yet, right?”
“I
just graduated.”
He
nods and puts the resume down. “You’ll be a floater. We’ve
gotten a grant to hire special education floaters. We have an open
school environment, without complete walls between the classrooms.
Your job would be to stick with a set of students….”
Don’t
drift off. Keep smiling and nodding. Special ed? There are big
reasons why I didn’t go into special education. am so
desperate.
“…color
coded and filed. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,”
I lie. What is color coded and filed? He hasn’t asked me a single
question I’ve prepared for. What about my philosophy of teaching?
My approach to student needs? My behavioral management plan? What
about my goddamned portfolio?
“Do
you want to see my portfolio?” I ask when he stops for a breath.
“No,
not necessary. This isn’t a creative kind of position.”
I
can’t take this job. I can’t make zilch for a whole year
following behavior disordered children around on the playground. I
can’t do it. I just hope Marilyn from the city calls me back. I
yearn for a fourth grade classroom all to myself. Even a third grade
one. Whatever. I’ll teach P.E. if they want me to. Just not special
education aide. Not for a whole year.
--
“Hello?”
“Is
this Sally Blake?”
“Yes,
well, I’m married now, but that’s me.”
“Is
this Sally Blake?” the voice demands this time.
“Yes.”
“This
is Marilyn Jefferson from 911 Locust. You have an appointment with
Vincent Poole at Woodward Elementary at 10 this morning. Can you make
it at 10?”
“Yes.
Thank you so much for getting back to me.”
“Goodbye.”
She hangs up. Time to call Vincent Poole. Wait, first I’d better
get out of bed and take a shower and drink something so I don’t
sound like I just woke up. I have to get this job.
“May
I speak to Vincent Poole please?” I ask so politely.
“Who
do I tell him is calling?”
“My
name is Sally Bridge—I mean Sally Blake, and I have an interview
with him at ten and—“ click. She must have transferred me.
“Hello?”
says a man’s voice.
“Is
this Mr. Poole?”
“That
it is. How may I help you?”
“My
name is Sally Blake and I have an interview with you at 10, and I’d
like to know—“
“Who?”
“Sally
Blake. Marilyn Jefferson called to tell me that I have an interview
with you at 10 this morning, and—“
“There’s
been a mistake, then, because I have a full complement of teachers
this year already. None of them first-timers either. So there’s no
interview.”
“Should
I call Marilyn back then?”
“I
guess you should.”
--
You
have reached the administration offices of the St. Louis Public
Schools. If you know your party’s extension you may dial it now.
Otherwise please choose from our menu of options. If you are a
teacher reporting an absence press 2. If you are a substitute
reporting duty press 3. To use our automated personnel file check
system press 4. If you are calling regarding open positions please
press 5. All other calls please hold for the operator.
*5*
Please
hold while your call is transferred.
“Personnel.”
“May
I speak with Marilyn Jefferson please.”
“Ms.
Jefferson is not available at this time. May I direct your call
elsewhere?”
“May
I leave a message?”
“Go
ahead.”
“My
name is Sally Blake and I was supposed to have an interview at
Woodward but Mr. Poole cancelled on me and I’m still looking for a
position—“
“What’s
your phone number?”
--
You
have reached the administration offices of the St. Louis Public
Schools. If you know your party’s extension you may dial it now.
Otherwise please choose from our menu of options. If you are a
teacher reporting an absence press 2. If you are a substitute
reporting duty press 3. To use our automated personnel file check
system press 4. If you are calling regarding open positions please
press 5. All other calls please hold for the operator.
*5*
Please
hold while your call is transferred.
“Personnel.”
“May
I speak with Marilyn Jefferson please.”
“Ms.
Jefferson is in a meeting. May I direct your call elsewhere?”
“Well,
I left a message with her this morning about a job interview, and she
never got back to me.”
“She
hasn’t been back to her office all day.”
“Is
there someone else I can talk to about a job search? I’m already in
the system.”
“No,
Ms. Jefferson is the person who sets up the appointments. Nobody else
does her job, you know.”
“I
know. Thanks.”
--
Later
that day I get a call from the other district. They’d love to give
me the job. No shit. I tell them I need a few days to think on it.
They tell me that’s not an option. I tell them, skidding towards
disaster with every word, that I’m not interested. But like someone
in a car crash, I’m not so much panicked as experiencing everything
in slow motion as I turn down my only job offer. Gotta keep focus on
the city. They’ll figure it out eventually.
--
You
have reached the administration offices of the St. Louis Public
Schools. If you know your party’s extension you may dial it now.
Otherwise please choose from our menu of options.
*5*
Please
hold while your call is transferred.
“Personnel.”
“Is
Ms. Jefferson in?”
“No
she isn’t. May I direct your call elsewhere?”
“I
left a message for her yesterday about a job interview, and she—“
“Is
this Sally Blake?” My god, a spark of interest?
“Yes
it is,” I tell her eagerly.
“Ms.
Jefferson told me to tell you that you would have to speak with Dr.
Berkley about another interview.”
“Can
you transfer me to Dr. Berkley?”
“He
isn’t in right now. Can I take a message?”
--
You
have reached the
*5*
Please
hold while your call is transferred.
“Personnel.”
“May
I speak to either Ms. Jefferson or Dr. Berkley?”
“They’re
in a meeting right now, may I direct your call elsewhere?”
“No
thanks.”
--
You
know, you can only put up with so much bullshit before you realize
that you aren’t needed. The ironic part of this is that I heard a
radio ad this morning about the city schools needing teachers. No
wonder they need teachers. Of course, Marilyn probably thinks I’m
happily teaching away at Winchester School or have already talked
with Dr. Berkley. So I guess it’s back to Cloth World for a year.
I’ll look again maybe in December, maybe I’ll sub for a year. It
won’t be that bad.
--
“Hello?”
“Is
this Sally Bridge?”
“Yes
it is.”
“Hello,
this is Marilyn Jefferson from the St. Louis Public Schools. I have
an interview scheduled for you at Simmons School with Dr. Justin. Can
you make it at 1 p.m. today?”
“Yes,
thanks for finally getting back to me.”
“Well,
we only just got your file reviewed today. Your police record check
was late.”
“Oh,
ok, then.” That’s odd. “I can be there at one.”
--
Simmons
School is in a rough part of town. Perhaps the roughest. When I
called my parents about the hopeful presence of another interview, my
father was amazed that I’d drive to Simmons.
“You
know that’s right down the street from the deadliest corner in
America,” he reminded me. “St. Louis and Sarah. More gunfights
and deaths there than any other.”
“Yes,
but wasn’t that in 1975?” I ask sarcastically. My father had been
an emergency room nurse back then.
“How
much could it have changed in 20 years?” he retorts.
I
drive around the red brick, seemingly abandoned, school several times
before I decide where I should park. I stop the car in the parking
lot behind the school and walk around front to the locked doors. A
security guard sees me through the bulletproof glass and opens the
door. I explain who I am and he lets me in without conversation.
A
middle-aged black woman, impeccably dressed and manicured, looks up
from her high desk and smiles at me. Her hair has been bleached a
golden color, which matches her nails and her shoes, I note as she
stands up and walks around to greet me.
“Are
you Sally Bridge?” she asks.
“I
certainly am,” I respond. This is where I’ll teach. This will be
just fine.
Dr.
Justin is in his air-conditioned office behind a windowless door. The
woman—who turns out to be the instructional coordinator for
Simmons—leads me down the narrow corridor and knocks. He answers
the door and flashes a bright white grin at me. He welcomes me in.
The
interview goes like so many others. He asks me no specific questions.
He talks about his school and that it’s part of the systemic urban
initiative. They have a science grant as well. He wants me to teach
fourth grade. I offer him my portfolio and he shakes his head.
“I’ll
see you in action soon enough and that will tell me if you can do the
job.” This comment reminds me of a temp job I held once, making
reference check telephone calls for corporations too busy to do it
themselves. Thing is, the people I was checking on had already been
hired. Once Dr. Justin sees me in action, it’ll be too late to do
anything about it. Of course, I’ll do well.
He
takes me on a tour of the peculiarly empty school. “We’re missing
about 100 students,” he says without alarm.
“Where
are they?”
“Who
knows? They move, or perhaps they are on a bus to another school. I
was told 250, and I have about 140 this year.” We take a wide
curving staircase up to the second floor. He points up and down.
“Kindergarten
is that way, and first grade. There’s a few special education rooms
as well. Down there,” he waves in the opposite direction, “is
second and third.” We continue up the stairs.
The
third floor, he tells me, and I believe him, hasn’t been used in
over 30 years. I choke on the dust as we stir it up on the way to
what will become my room. We pass the fifth grade classrooms and the
other two fourth grade rooms. Mine—my own room—is at the east end
of the hallway, next to a stairwell that terminates on the second
floor, he points out.
The
room is large and probably coated in lead paint. Just as I’m about
to remark on the age of the paint, he tells me that the painter is
due this week. That’s a good sign. There are built in lockers made
of wood, and the desks are the old fashioned kind with the writing
surface attached to the desk chair in front of you. They’re all
stacked in one corner. There are two bookshelves, designed for
primary classrooms, low to the floor. The other furniture is more
odd. Three free-standing metal gym lockers, a rolling audiovisual
cart without any equipment, a teacher’s chair without a desk, and
an assortment of long poles.
“Anything
in here is yours to have,” he tells me over-generously.
“Does
this mean I have the job?”
“There
was no question of that. This isn’t an interview, this is a tour.”
I
leave Simmons with the elation of a marathon winner. Exhausted,
happy, and desperately in need of water. In my case, it’s not due
to thirst but the cakes of dust and grime on my hands from touching
the windowsills in my new room. I have directions to head to 911
Locust for my orientation and to report to Simmons tomorrow. My first
teaching job, I keep thinking to myself. I win.
Still
dressed in the cheap interview suit that was all I really could
afford on the salary from Cloth World last fall, I find myself
sitting on the 4th floor of the 911 building, as it becomes to be
known in my mind later on, with each number enunciated like an
emergency call—9-1-1. Marilyn Jefferson comes out to greet me and
two other frightened girls clutching what are obviously unread
portfolios. She hands me off to Helen, who then escorts me to a
cubicle to fill out the paperwork. Easily accomplished. I’m given a
handbook and an instruction sheet for calling in absences to the
phone line. Helen asks me which school I’m headed towards.
“Simmons.”
“Oh
yeah? Don’t count on staying.”
I
don’t ask for clarification. I’ve learned that the administrators
at 911 are bitter, uninformed, and uncaring. If I’m destined to
move on in one of the city’s famous teacher reshufflings, I’ll
deal with it then. No reason to worry right now. I have a job either
way.
I
sign the contract for first year teachers—who turn out to be the
only teachers who get contracts in St. Louis City due to labor
disputes—and take my canary copies and handbook back out into the
September sunshine. My car doesn’t have a ticket or a broken
window, although it will have plenty of both by the end of this
school year. I drive home, my head bursting with plans for my Simmons
fourth graders.
But
this adventure hasn’t yet begun. When I get home, there’s a
message on the answering machine: “Sally, this is Marilyn Jefferson
at St. Louis Public Schools. I have an interview scheduled for you
tomorrow at 10 at Scruggs School. Please call me back to let me know
if you can make this interview.”
As
it turns out, St. Louis Public Schools didn’t simply make a note in
my file about my name change once I was married—my letters of
reference, for instance, were written about Sally Blake, not Sally
Bridge. They had separate files. They also had two other files, on
Sarah B. Blake (I never go by my first name, but my old Social
Security card did), and Sarah Bridge, which is a name combination
that never existed for me. Never mind that these people all had the
same addresses, phone numbers, and dates of birth. To put it simply,
if I had wanted to, I could have signed up to 4 contracts with them
and probably pulled in a few paychecks for each before 3 of them were
fired for not showing up for work
Incredibly written. You need to write a book. (Technically, you've already written lots of books.)
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