14. Georgia

FOURTEEN

Georgia

I really try to ramp it up after that.

You are competent. You are skilled. You will keep this job.

I show up to our next coaching meeting armed with the Mother of All Rubrics to grade my final projects with, like Mr. Flores, Oliver , recommended. Busted out the big guns, even if it made me want to tear my hair out.

“This is good, Georgia,” he tells me, and it was worth it to see his smile, a beautiful thing, as rare as his praise. I find myself feeling annoyed with just how good it made me feel, at how I preen ( shudder ) under his compliments.

He pores over my work. “I think we make a pretty good team. Your…creativity?—”

“I can read the subtext behind that,” I shoot at his irritatingly square jaw. “My chaos ?—”

He smirks. “Your chaotic creativity, with my organization… it’s good.” He looks at me. “This is good,” he says, and I’m not entirely sure what he’s talking about, but I’m going to choose to ignore the warmth spreading through my veins.

“All right, 302. Are we ready to go? It’s Friday. Mama needs her juice.” I look around the room, then answer my own question. “Nope, we are not ready to go. Where are my classroom helpers? Dorothy, you missed those pencils. Get them to the sharpener, stat. Kyrie, your backpack is still open. If you can’t zip it over all of your books, then please carry some of your books in your hand. Where’s my librarian? Fix those books, please. Max, where’s the broom? Class sweeper, hello?”

Everyone moves into action, except for one. Max glares at me. “My dad said that sweeping is a girl’s job. I’m not sweeping anymore. Nevaeh can sweep.”

“Excuse you?!” I shriek. I get very close to his face. “Your father is wrong, and you will sweep. Everyone in this classroom, boy, girl, or otherwise, is required to help clean. This is a classroom community, and you will contribute. We are all part of a team. Jobs are not gendered, and jobs rotate. If you don’t like this job, you will have a new one next month.”

He mumbles under his breath, but goes to get the broom.

Still outraged, I plan on pulling Max aside for one last private conversation before we leave for the day. I go in student desks, pulling out desiccated muffins and old potato chip bags, the crumbs falling out and littering the floor. “Sanitation department, where are you?” I ask the class, looking for Amanda with the trash can, when I see Max sweeping Dorothy’s feet over by the pencil sharpener. Dorothy is screaming.

I move towards them.

“My dad says you’re dirty. I have to clean you,” I hear Max telling Dorothy.

“I’m not dirty!” Dorothy shrieks.

“You aren’t clean. You are living in sin. You have two moms. That makes you dirty. I have to clean y?—”

I see red. The rage takes over me. I become the Hulk. I take the broom from his hands. “Get out.” I tell him firmly.

“It’s not my fault that Dorothy?—”

“Get. Out. Now,” I growl from between clenched teeth, pointing to the door of my classroom.

He grabs his backpack and leaves the room.

I look at Dorothy, who is silently crying, holding half sharpened pencils like a wilted bouquet. I take the pencils from her hands and gather her into my arms. “Shh… Dorothy. I’m so sorry he said that to you.” Her little body trembles as she gasps with tears. I pet her hair with my free hand. “That was very, very mean. I’m so sorry. You’re going to be okay.”

I look around the classroom at the 28 other bodies who are now looking at us, surprised by my outburst. “Everyone else, please finish your jobs.”

I turn back to Dorothy, who is now taking deep breaths. “Look at me.” She looks up, big green eyes leaking at the corners, face so red that you can barely see her freckles. I drop my voice, whispering, so that no one else can hear. “You are not dirty. You are amazing and wonderful, and it is so amazing and wonderful that you have two moms who love you so, so much. I know your moms, and they are two of the most loving people on the planet. You are so lucky to have them.”

Dorothy nods, hiccuping. “Why do people judge other people about things that have nothing to do with them?”

I squeeze her one more time. “Sometimes people say hurtful and hateful things, because they are uninformed, or they don’t understand, or because they are afraid,” I explain softly, kneeling beside her. “Or maybe because they were taught that way. But it doesn’t make it right.”

Dorothy sniffles, eyes still damp, but with a glimmer of understanding in them.

I smile at her. “You are brave and strong, Dorothy. I’m proud of you.”

As the classroom hums with subdued activity, I stand and glance around at the faces of the other children, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity. Clearing my throat, I address them gently but firmly.

"Everyone, let's finish up our tasks and line up. Please remember to be kind to each other."

Turning back to Dorothy, I offer her a reassuring smile. "Dorothy, I'll speak with Max's dad. No one should ever make you feel less than wonderful."

She nods again, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “Thanks,” she whispers.

“You're welcome,” I say, feeling a surge of protectiveness for this little girl. “Now, let's make sure we sharpen those pencils perfectly. I’m feeling a little stabby.”

“Violence isn’t the answer, Ms. Baker.”

“You know, you’re the second person to tell me that this week,” I tell her.

I don’t see Max when we leave our classroom, and I find that I don’t care very much. I walk my class out to the schoolyard, where dismissal happens and parents and caretakers and after school providers go to collect their kids.

I see Max standing next to our dismissal spot with his dad. Max is smirking. Dad is outraged.

Max’s dad is a huge white man, red in the face, pushing the limit from fat to obese. He is bald and always sweating, droplets continuously slithering from his temples into his neck rolls. His dingy grey polo shirt is tucked around his massive belly and into his cargo pants, armpits permanently stained with sweat marks. He signals towards me, beckoning me to him, but I ignore him, turning my back and making sure I safely dismiss everyone in my classroom instead. He can wait.

I make sure to give Dorothy a huge hug before sending her off to her mother. I whisper to mom, “Dorothy had a tough moment with another student in class today, and she’ll probably tell you about it. I just want to let you know right now that she is so brave and strong, and I’m very proud of her. I’ll call you later tonight to talk about it more. I have something to take care of now.” I shift my eyes towards Max’s dad and back, giving her mom a Look.

She furrows her eyebrows. “Got it. You need backup?”

“Nope, this one’s all mine. All I want you to do is keep being an awesome mom to Dorothy.”

She nods, giving me a tight smile. “Thanks, Ms. Baker,” she says, as she shuffles Dorothy away, glancing over her shoulder at Max’s dad.

I have quick conversations with any parent who is willing to talk. I want to make Max’s dad wait. Maybe he’ll sweat to death. Satisfied once everyone has been picked up, I finally turn and march straight to Max and his father.

I steel my back for the frenzy I’m about to unleash on this man, for what feels like the hundredth time this school year. I’m feeling especially confident, after our last moment in his office, that Oliver will defend my actions, and that I can finally give this man what he deserves.

He is even redder than before, somehow. “You—” he begins.

“No, YOU,” I say, poking him in the chest. Surprised, he steps back. “I have a bone to pick with you. Several, in fact.”

“How dare?—”

“No, how dare YOU,” I say, cutting him off once again. “I don’t know what you are teaching Max at home, but in my classroom, I teach kids about concepts that may confuse you, so let me break down for you like I’m talking to an eight-year-old. Like I just had to do for the poor little eight-year-old girl that your son just bullied.” I step closer to him, squaring my shoulders, getting in his face. “In my classroom, I teach my students about tolerance. Respect . Kindness for others who may be different from us. Who may be a different race, or gender, or sexuality.”

His face morphs into one of disgust. “That’s?—”

I poke him again. “I’m not finished. We also teach about gender equality, so don’t you dare try to speak over me right now. Your son is being a bully, and it’s clear where he gets it from. You are acting like a homophobic, misogynistic bigot, and it is reflecting poorly on your son. Max is a good kid. He just has poor role models. I?—”

“Finally, a voice of reason,” Max’s dad cuts me off, sneering, looking at someone behind me. I turn around to see Oliver moving towards us, a calm and powerful presence, his normally handsome face a severe mask. “Mr. Flores, I am happy to see you. This bitch is getting hysterical, and I’d like to speak with you about the physical and verbal assault she has just razed upon me and my son.”

I feel my body relax when Oliver reaches us. Relieved to see him, I begin to tell him, “Mr. Flores?—”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jones,” Oliver tells Max’s dad. “I apologize on Ms. Baker’s behalf.” I sputter, like a clogged up sprinkler. Unbelievable . “Can I ask you and Max to join me in my office? We all need a moment to calm down, it seems,” he tells me, giving me a look. Max and his father both smirk at me.

“Mr. Flores, sir , respectfully—” I try.

“Ms. Baker, I will meet you in your classroom in thirty minutes for our coaching meeting. We will debrief then,” he says, dismissing me, ushering Max and his dad back towards the building.

I watch them leave. Turning on my heel, I march around the school building, into the alleyway, into the dumpsters, and scream into the void.