Earning Respect

[Mr. Eureka is the pseudonym of a fourth-year teacher in an elementary school in the Bronx.]

Fifty some years ago, I used to hurry up to get to Ms. Veen’s English class a half-hour early not because I had the remotest interest in reading Macbeth, but because I knew that she always had a basket of freshly baked cornbread and a jar of sweet red lemonade on her desk to share with us before she began her instruction. I do not recall ever missing her class during a whole academic year, even though reading Shakespeare at eight-thirty in the morning was a herculean task, one that taxed my already overworked brain cells to the maximum.

Ms. Veen — Irish, built like an oak, no-nonsense — was nevertheless a very humane teacher who always began class by inquiring about what went on in our lives the previous night and that morning as a prelude before passing around the basket filled with that delicious honey-baked cornbread. Everyone in the class would have a chance to tell her whether or not they slept well or had breakfast before coming to school. I used to think that it was her way to run a “quick and dirty” investigation of our lives, but I got so used to my daily treat that I was ready to tell her what did and didn’t occur in my life as long as I could get my hands on those delicacies. As a side benefit, my attendance rate went from abysmal to excellent. I even made honor roll by the end of the academic year thanks to Ms. Veen’s basket of irresistible bread.

Fifty years later, I was standing near little Johnny as he banged his head against the boys’ bathroom door. His white cotton shirt was unbuttoned, his sleeves half-torn as if he just came from a street fight. Little Johnny shed no tears and emitted no sounds, but kept pounding his head against the door. Such an unusual behavior did not surprise anyone who patrolled the first floor of our school building. For the veteran teachers, it was a déjà vu scene. For the task-oriented teachers, it was a nuisance and should not be tolerated. For the indifferent teachers, it was just another episode, and to say the least, an unfortunate moment in the life of a school. The drama of little Johnny was simply being ignored.

As I was approaching him to offer my help, Ms. Veen came to my mind. Maybe little Johnny did not sleep well because a member of his family got arrested the night before. Or perhaps Johnny did not have breakfast this morning because he now lives in a shelter far away from school. I came close to Johnny and asked him if he slept well last night. Suddenly, the banging stopped. I got his attention but his eyes glancing at me showed no trust. They were telling me that it was not my business to find out. Based on my small success, I followed with another question: “Did you have breakfast before coming to school?” He turned around and faced me defiantly. “What do you think?” he said as tears ran down his cheeks.

I did not wait for an answer, I offered my hand and he grabbed it. We walked down the stairs to the basement cafeteria, and I ordered a hot breakfast for him. I sat quietly watching him taking every bite from his plate. After breakfast, he stood up without saying a word, walked back to the stairs, and went to his classroom. From this day on, as we pass each other in the school’s halls, we will share a discreet smile. As he began to see me as one of the “reliable adults” in the building, Johnny will come to me if he needs help to get a hot breakfast or to complete his homework. With time, we have learned to appreciate and respect each other.

Ms. Veen did not succeed fostering in me a great love for Elizabethan theater, but she did help me, in many ways, to become a better human being. And one who wants to become a better teacher.

Tagged: Bronx, elementary school