Minus Zero by John C. Erianne

October 23, 2002 -- Bridgeton High School

This is not a typical day. If I've learned one thing since becoming a substitute teacher, it's that there are no typical days. One day might be a bowl of marshmallows and the next a bowl of threepenny nails. Some days I don't even know the name of the teacher I'm covering for and other days there isn't a lesson plan waiting for me and I have to improvise without so much as a clue what the class is studying. Some days I am almost a real teacher and feel a genuine connection to the class I've taken over. Other days, I am a beaten babysitter barely making it from the morning bell to the dismissal bell, and feel lucky to escape school grounds without getting set on fire.

I've been working steadily since the term began, and between this gig, running my small publishing enterprise and the demands of my graduate studies, I'm beginning to understand why this school system can't keep substitute teachers in its employ. It's not worth the aggravation. But, today, there is little danger of catching fire or teaching these kids anything. For that, I am grateful.

I'm in for John Lintz, a chemistry teacher. Like the one other time I filled-in for him, he's left a video for the class to watch, October Sky. Last time, he left a dull nature documentary about volcanoes and the class nearly rioted.

Today, I just take attendance, issue lavatory passes, sit back and watch the movie with the class. An easy day.

October 22, 2002 -- Bridgeton Middle School

I don't know how many times the phone rings before I answer it. I lift my head off my pillow and look at the clock. It's 6:28 a.m. I force myself to get out of bed and stumble to the phone. The caller i.d. tells me that it's the Board of Education. I grab the receiver. "Hello."

"John, this is Lynette. Can you work today?" Lynette Taylor of the Teacher's Registry is the gate keeper, the woman responsible for filling the empty teaching positions each day.

"Umm . . . Where at?""

"Middle School." An uncomfortable pause fills the line as she waits for my answer. I don't often turn-down substitute teaching assignments. When I do, it's usually a call for the Middle School. It's no secret between me and Lynette that I don't like the Middle School. The kids are unruly and the administration is unhelpful and uninformative.

"What subject?"

"Sixth grade math." Great.

"Okay."

The Middle School is an old brick building that used to serve as the high school prior to 1955. The school has three floors. The seventh and eighth grades are on the third floor. The sixth grade, library and main office are on the second floor. The cafeteria, gymnasium, nurse's office and special subjects, like art and music, are on the first floor. I always conjure a mental map of the place as I walk across the faculty parking lot.

I sign-in and walk down the hallway that leads directly from the main office and take a right at the end. My classroom is the sixth on the left. It is a big classroom. I count thirty-five seats. The substitute plans are on the teacher's desk -- Two stacks of worksheets, handwritten instructions and a daily schedule. I have four classes before lunch and two after lunch. All of the classes have the same assignment. While I would welcome this in the high school where the students are much easier to handle, I'd rather be able to teach the lower grades from their regular lesson plan. If the children know the work they are doing counts as part of their grade, it makes it harder for the few problem students to disrupt the class.

Home room is largely uneventful. There are a couple of kids who are talkative and a security guard pops her head in the door to explain that one student I had marked "absent" is actually in the office. This becomes a recurring theme during the day as I am interrupted a number of times by some staff member from the office entering my classroom to deliver a detention slip to one student or another.

The classes get progressively worse as the day moves along. I measure my success or failure by how many disruptive students are in the class and how much of the class work is actually finished by the time the bell rings. By the end of third period, I think I'm doing well. I handled a couple of minor disruptions without fuss or bloodshed and most of the assignments have been completed. By tenth period, however, I've given up any delusion that I am a teacher.

The class gets noisier and more disruptive by the minute. They sound like a flock of wild geese. Frank doesn't get along with Roy. The two girls in the front row are arguing with the heavyset boy sitting next to them.

"He farted, Mr. E."

"Why'n't you shuddup," he says, "'fore I beat your ass."

"Hey, none of that. You, move over there," I say to him, pointing to an empty desk near the east wall of the room. He moves, slowly, staring at me like a drunken biker in a barroom brawl. To the two girls, I say, "You two, do your work and don't pay any attention to him."

As he starts gathering his books, Frank and Roy stop sniping at each other just long enough to shout, "Yeah, move your fat ass!"

The big boy, Mike, mutters some threat.

"You're not going to do a thing. Move. Now." I have no patience left. The class laughs. "Shut it down. Next person who says a word, I'm taking your name and I will write you up."

"Is that supposed to scare me, Mister?" Frank says.

"Shoot. I already got six detentions this week. I don't care about no detention. You ain't the real teacher anyway."

"Oh, you're the class tough guy, is that right?"

"That's right. I'm tough, tougher than you." Although, I admire young Frank's directness, I realize that his challenge has forced me to assume a role I'm not comfortable with -- the disciplinarian.

"You're just a sixth grade punk," I tell him, "and if you knew anything you wouldn't be bragging about having seven detentions."

"I don't have seven detentions."

"You do now," I say, flashing a detention form. "Anyone else want to keep Frank company?"

As the bell rings, a calm finally settles over my day.

October 07, 2002 -- Indian Avenue School

I am in a fourth grade class -- English as a second language. The students are from Mexico, mostly children of migrant workers. It is eleven-thirty and I have just brought the class from the art room. Now it is time for Reading. The class divides into different groups. The children who speak very little English go with Ms. Valez. I have three groups. Two of the groups work at their desks on their vocabulary words, while the third group sits at the table with me. We are reading a story about two children exploring a museum. The story uses words that emphasize long vowel sounds. According to the note left by the regular teacher, two of the girls, Juana and Daniella, are having trouble learning long vowel sounds.

I ask Daniella to read first. She reads reasonably well, considering English is not her first language. But, as the note predicted, she stumbles over long vowel sounds. "What's the name of the girl in the story?" I ask Daniella.

"Cat."

"It's Kate. Hear that 'a' sound? Let's hear you say her name again."

"Kite?"

"Better. Now, Juana, you read the next paragraph."

She reads with a softer voice and has more trouble than Daniella. I let her continue to the end of the paragraph. I feel for her. English is hard enough to grasp even if the student is born into the language. It occurred to me that the problem wasn't that they didn't understand the words. It wasn't a comprehension problem. It was that they were still thinking in Spanish. Spanish is a softer language and lacks the hard, guttural Germanic qualities of English. When they heard "Kate" or "case," they only heard the short vowel sounds prevalent in their native language.

"Let's hear you say 'Kate'," I say.

"Kite," voiced Daniella.

"Cat," says Juana.

"No, Kate. Kate, Kate, Kate. Say her name as if she's your best friend. Say it like you really mean it."

Juana and Daniella laugh.

I smile at them. It's rare that I have fun doing this job, but today, I'm having fun.

"Come on, Daniella. Long 'a'. Kate. Say it."

"Kate."

"Very Good. Now you, Juana. Say 'Kate.'"

"K-ay-te."

"Much better."

By the time the Mrs. Brown, the bilingual math teacher comes in to take over the class, I've taught the girls long 'a'. Not a miracle, exactly, but an improvement.

September 18, 2002 -- Cherry Street School

There is a sign hanging on the wall of the Cherry Street School library that reads:

"Watch your thoughts; they become words.
Watch your words; they become actions.
Watch your actions; they become habits.
Watch your habits; they become character.
Watch your character; it becomes your destiny."

As I stand in the library staring at this sign, I think of Orwell's "Ignorance is strength," from 1984 and the fact that I passed an armed policeman on my way into the building.

The librarian returns with her schedule and a stack of papers. "Now," she says, "These you can give to the kindergarten and first Grade. There are word puzzles over there on the desk. If any of the kids act-up, take their name and tell their teacher when she comes to get them. Anyway, you have hall duty, now. I might see you at the end of the day. Have fun."

She leaves and I step outside into the hall and stand there until the bell rings. The kids move to their classrooms. Two boys come running around the corner, talking loudly. "All right, let's settle down, gentlemen," I say. More children work their way down the hall and into their classrooms. The bell rings and I return to the library. I have another hour until my first class, so I spend the time getting the class assignments in order and studying the schedule.

I have three classes before lunch and three classes after lunch. The first class is a kindergarten class. They file in talking and smiling. Their teacher tells them to take their seats.

"They can be a handful, " she says. I smile and nod. She turns and leaves and I am alone with them. "All right, let's settle down so I can tell you what we are doing today."

Table by table, they begin to settle. "Okay, how many of you have heard of Goodnight, Moon?" I ask, holding up the book so they can see it. Several of the students raise their hands. I grab an empty chair and sit down to read the story.

After every page, I hold up the opened book and ask them what they see in the bunny's room. "Do you see the red balloon?"

"Yes," several children call-out.

"Good. I want you to remember what you see in the bunny's room."

As long as I'm reading they are silent. The moment I stop, the chattering starts again.

"Okay class, now we're going to do a little coloring exercise." I take a stack of papers and pass them out. Then I pass out boxes of crayons.

"What you have to do is first put an 'X' on anything in the picture that wasn't in the story I just read to you. After you've done that, you will color the picture. Does everyone understand what you are to do?"

There is a flurry of chatter among them. Their tiny hands grope at crayons. The thing that strikes me most about them is how much they seem to want adult approval. Some raise their hands, but most call-out for my attention. Summer shows me her picture. "You like my picture?" she asks. It seems she has used every crayon in the box.

"Very colorful, " I say. She smiles, and I can understand why her parents named her Summer. The other children are busy coloring, some use only one color and most color outside the lines, but all take the task seriously.

I enjoy the kindergarten class. The fifth graders are another matter. After lunch, I get the fifth graders. They have just arrived at that age when they start to believe they know everything and have some divine right to piss-off the adults in their world.

It takes me awhile to quiet the fifth-graders. I walk around the room, patrolling each table. At table one, I focus on Jarron, who was disruptive at the beginning of class. "I'm being good, aren't I, Mr. E?"

"Yes, Jarron. You've been good."

"You gonna tell my teacher I been good?"

"Well, I certainly won't tell her you've been bad."

And then it happens as I stand there with my back to the room. "Jeez, move your fat ass, bitch!"

At first, I think the girl is directing her comment toward me. I turn on my heel and walk to the next table. The chubby girl at table three, Megan, is bawling with her head down. The tall girl, Kadijah, is the guilty party. "I didn't do nothin'."

"Really? Then who made the comment?"

"She had her fat butt in my face. I just wanted her to sit down."

"Probably break the chair," one of the other girls says.

"That's enough of that," I say.

I send both girls to the vice principal to sort out the matter. Kadijah comes back to the library, indignant, with a detention pending. Megan is no longer crying, but certainly is not happy.

I don't know what to say to Megan that would make it better for her. Having been the fat kid my whole life, I know only that it never gets better. The cruelty of children becomes the quiet discrimination of adults. The only wisdom I can impart is, "It doesn't matter what she thinks of you, or what anyone else thinks of you. It only matters what you think of yourself." To her, it sounds like a load of crap, and she's partially right. So many of our perceptions about who we are depend on how others perceive us. Who we are and who we may become cannot be categorized with easy labels or articulated in sound-bites.

May 24, 2002 -- Bridgeton High School

Here I am back in high school. In the hall, the kids are moving to their classes. Their lockers slam in a cadence. Some security guard gestures to a young couple pressed against the wall, kissing and nuzzling each other to move along. I move through the corridor as if invisible. I'm just a substitute. I don't need an identification badge or a hall pass. I find this strange. The school system places such a strong emphasis on security. Substitutes don't have passwords for the computers or for the copiers, yet we can walk through any part of the school without question. I could be anyone from the cable guy to the Grim Reaper with an Uzi.

I enter the faculty lounge as the fourth period bell rings. Today I'm in for an English teacher. Third period had been a particularly difficult class. I had to administer an exam on Mary Shelley's classic novel, Frankenstein. The class was rude and rowdy. Some of the kids believed that because they had a substitute, they shouldn't have to take the exam. One girl, Melanie, thought I should give them the answers to the test. "When was the Romantic Period, Mister?"

"I'm not telling you. Just take your test."

"I bet you don't even know," she said.

"Of course I do." I was an English major, after all. 1798 to 1832 is a span of time forever burned into my brain. I've also read Frankenstein a number of times. "It's not my job to take this test for you."

"But she never taught us this stuff."

"Listen," I said. "I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm sure your teacher wouldn't be giving you a test on a novel your weren't expected to have read." "Well, I'm not taking it."

"Up to you. It's your 'F'. I get paid either way, so why don't you do yourself a favor and take the test."

In the faculty lounge, the teachers are not happy. Seventy-five teaching positions will be eliminated after the term. Some of the teachers are scrambling to find new jobs and the rest are angry because they feel as if they are being dumped-on by the administration. When school begins in the Fall, the classes will be larger. One teacher complains that her physics class doesn't have enough text books, so she has to run copies from the textbook chapters for the students who don't have books. "What do they expect me to do next year when my classes are double the size?"

"You're a sub?" another teacher asks me.

I nod my head.

"Who are you today?"

"Schonwise. English."

"Karen? Oh, then I bet you're having a fun day. She has some real stinkers in her classes from what I hear."

The teacher turns to the other one who complained about the textbooks. "The administration just doesn't understand."

The two teachers continue talking as if I'm not in the room. The Xerox copier chugs along. I close my eyes and think of white paper. The color white. A ghost ship. Another port. Another day.

May 22, 2002 -- Cherry Street School

Brian is a small, African-American child. His clothes are wrinkled and unclean as if he's been wearing them for days. He has a mouth full of crooked, rotten baby teeth. His shoes are untied and his nose is running. Brian is refusing to do his math. "Brian is slow," the teacher's aide says. "We don't expect much from him."

Slow. The word strikes me like a crowbar across my face. Maybe it's because I, too, once was labeled "slow" when I was in the first grade and I once overheard my teacher, Mrs. Tupper tell my mother during a parent-teacher night that she didn't expect as much from me as she did her others students, but I knew there was no way Brian would leave school until he completed at least one page of math problems.

"I don't wanna do it. I can't."

"Sure you can," I say as I bend down to tie his shoes. "Here. Six minus one. If you remove one from six that means you have one less. How many do you have?"

Brian starts counting on his fingers. He looks at me and smiles. "Five?"

"That's right. Good. Let's see how many you can do on your own."

"I can't."

"You did the first one. Now don't sit there and tell me you can't do this. Here. Six minus three."

The other children are busy working. Most of them have already finished the math and are coloring. "Six minus three, Brian. Use your fingers if you have to."

"Four?"

"Now, you're just guessing. Show me six fingers."

He holds up six fingers -- three on each hand. "Now, Brian, take-away three fingers. How many fingers are left?"

"Three."

"Right. So, six minus three is . . . what?"

"Three."

"Exactly right. See, you can do this. Don't you ever let anyone tell you that you can't. Now, look here. Seven minus zero."

"Zero."

"Brian, you're guessing again. I know you can do this; you can't fool me. Show me seven fingers."

He counts his fingers and show me seven. "Good. Now, if you have seven fingers and you don't remove them. How many fingers do you have?"

He counts them again. "Seven?"

"Right again. So if you have a seven and you subtract nothing from that number you have what?"

"Seven."

"If you subtract zero from a number than that number will always be your answer. I want you to do the rest of this on your own."

I check on the progress of the other students. Some have already finished, so I tell them to get ready to go home. By the time the first bus is announced, Brian has finished all of the problems on the page. I check his work and he has only gotten one wrong. Good for you, Brian.


It's ten minutes before three and the last of the children are heading for cars or the last remaining buses. It is a fine Spring day, and the sunlight pulses and flickers through the windows as I work my way through the school. I think, perhaps, this substitute teaching isn't so bad after all .