2. Georgia

TWO

Georgia

He strides through the door as if it’s personally wronged him, and I take this handful of moments to really take in this man. Mr. Oliver Flores. I try to convince myself that the asshole isn’t Very Attractive after all.

Because talk about stiff, bureaucratic suits—he stands towering and confident in a navy one, his body filling it out, no tie, top button unbuttoned. His hair is wavy and thick, a deep brown, almost black, slightly mussed, as if he had had a stressful morning, too, and spent it running his hands through his hair. His eyes are light; the color of honey when it is held up to the sun, even under the unnatural illumination of the florescent lights. Bracketed between his brows is a furrowed “11”, as if his frown is a permanent fixture. His jaw is square and strong, almost a perfect right angle, covered in dark stubble and accentuating his wide mouth and full lips.

I’m doing a terrible job of convincing myself. Because I decide instead that his true beauty lies in the little imperfections, his nose a touch too wide, freckles punctuating his otherwise unmarred brown skin. I notice his front tooth is a little crooked, overlapping the next one, as his mouth forms his next words. “Unfortunately for us, the DOE doesn’t drug test,” he tells me, and suddenly this guy is ugly as fuck.

To her credit, Lina’s face reflects the horror in mine. “Oliver; what the hell?” She turns to me. “Please ignore him, Georgia, he doesn’t get out much?—”

“I believe I already explained to you that I was having a rough morning, Principal Flores, not doing drugs.”

Lina jumps in. “No one,” she says, glaring at Mr. Flores, “is accusing you of doing drugs. We all have difficult mornings. In fact, Oliver and I,” she continues, staring daggers at Mr. Flores again, “are both late to this interview because we were each having a difficult morning. So please excuse him, Georgia. Believe me when I say that we are happy to have you.”

The rush of relief gives me the courage to look at the principal. His eyes are boring into my skull. Fuck you and your suit, dick! “Thank you so much for the opportunity,” I croon.

His frown grows even deeper.

“Amazing,” Lina says. She cuts her eyes to Mr. Flores another time. “ We’re ,” she says, “thinking we start with a school tour. Then you can meet with the third-grade team of teachers, and after that, we’ll have you meet the class you’re interviewing for and do a little activity with them. What do you think?”

The tone she takes with him is interesting. It’s the tone of someone who is used to working as a unit, as a Team with a capital T, and not as a beleaguered workhorse assistant. Comfortable, open, a little sarcastic with warm undertones. Is Mr. Flores a dick or not?

Regardless, I celebrate internally about this news. You are prepared. You are competent. “That sounds great. I prepared a demo lesson, so that works. Thanks again for inviting me in, Ms. Sanchez.”

“Call me Lina, please. Only the real old-heads here go by Title and Surname all the time. The rest of the staff call each other by our first?—”

She is interrupted by a beep from the walkie on her hip. “Ms. Sanchez, you’re needed immediately in the gym. Student in crisis.”

Lina and Mr. Flores look at one another.

“Go,” he says.

“How about Georgia?”

“I think I can handle an interview. Go.”

Lina looks at me. “Sorry, Georgia, I’ll catch up with you both later.” She looks at Mr. Flores. “Behave,” she tells him, before rushing out of the office.

Fuck . I finally look at him. His face and body project cool and calm, but his eyes are on fire. A muscle tics in his temple. “Welcome to PS 2, Georgia,” he says, in a voice like gravel, the words feeling more like a challenge than a welcome.

And this is how the irrationally grumpy, initially antagonistic, and now mostly disengaged Very Attractive Man who thought (still thinks?) I was participating in some high dumpster diving ends up taking me on a tour of PS 2. It’s a massive school, three floors, diverse, with several surprising features.

To be honest, everything about it is perfect, and I want, nay need, to find a way to reel Mr. Flores back in.

“Wow, a New York City public school with a Hydroponics Lab and a STEM Lab? I can’t say I’ve ever seen that before,” I tell him, somewhere on the second floor.

He grunts, somehow making it sound hot. “The Hydroponics Lab is actually thanks to some of our fifth graders from a few years back. They wrote to our City Council Member, inviting her into our building and giving her an entire presentation about the importance of having a Hydroponics lab in a city school. Those kids wrote a proposal, drafted the budget, made lists of the materials needed, reached out to companies, all of it. She was impressed, and put it on her Participatory Budgeting for the year. The entire district voted it in.”

“So, is that what the PS 2 website means when it says ‘project-based learning’?” I ask.

He nods once, curt. “Yes. I know that could mean anything, but that’s a great example of it happening in our school.”

I am dancing internally, marveling at my luck. To find a school with similar values, ideals of teaching and learning that align with my own? Rare, a unicorn in a sea of almost two thousand New York City public schools.

“You look… alarmingly happy.”

“Yes!” I exclaim. “I want to leave my current school because I just don’t agree with some of their values. There’s a huge focus on test scores. I feel like a drill sergeant, or a prison guard, not a teacher.” I notice I look a bit unhinged, bouncing on my toes. Mr. Flores is frowning his frowny face at me. I wonder if he has another face. I force myself to relax. “I love that your fifth graders did that. It’s in alignment with how I view education,” I say.

I imagine the ways in which I can finally have students conduct research, apply their learning to real-world problems, instead of stuffing facts and multiple-choice questions down their throats.

Mr. Flores remains wildly unimpressed. “Well, there are certainly merits to both sides of that argument,” he says, in that snotty, vaguely diplomatic tone I assume administrators learn in Administrator School.

Uh oh , I think. I remember some advice Eloise gave me last night, something about not talking shit about your previous bosses during an interview. It’s unprofessional , she said. Your new supervisors don’t want to hear about how you didn’t get along with your last supervisors . I clear my throat. “It just isn’t a good fit,” I clarify. “My test scores are great, but I want to find a fresh path. PS 2 seems like it’s a better fit.”

Somehow, the nod he gives me can only be described as ‘condescending as hell.’

“It doesn’t seem like PS 2 is a ‘test prep’ school,” I say to him, while gesturing at a busy group of students laying on their stomachs in the middle of the hallway. As we step through their legs, I overhear them engaging in a heated discussion about the merits of…socialism?

“Good morning, Mr. Flores,” the group chants chorally. Some of them smile at me, while others have the “I’m-too-cool-to-care-but-also-I’m-still-a-curious-baby” side-eye that is common amongst the fifth grade set.

Mr. Flores grins at them, which promptly causes me to trip over my feet. It’s a shocking thing, transforming his entire face so abruptly, as if the sun has just come out during the rain. It feels physical, visceral, like it’s just smacked me in the face. I’m pretty sure I’m gaping at him when he realizes and shifts his face back into its stormy demeanor.

“We’ve found a balance,” he responds to my previous comment. “I put several non-negotiables in place regarding the curriculum and instruction here. Which everyone must follow,” he says pointedly, as if he thinks I’m on so many drugs that I won’t be able to. “We turned our scores around in a few years, bumped our enrollment numbers up, received a bunch of funding, and now we have air conditioning in all our offices and classrooms, in the auditorium and gym,” he continues. “We’re still working on the lobby and hallways though.”

He shows me the rest of the school with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been asked to untangle a bunch of cables and then change a duvet cover. We are somewhere on the third floor (the “Penthouse”, as he reminds me) when he looks down at his watch. “The third grade teachers should be free for this entire period. You will take the first half of the period to meet with the team, see if you’re all on the same page. Then we’ll take you to the classroom you’ll be teaching, and the team and I will observe you do your demo lesson. Okay?”

I feel like squealing and clapping my hands, but I don’t believe acting like an unhinged three-year-old is in my best interest. I respond with a “sounds great!” and a smile instead. It feels like this is a momentous occasion, standing on the precipice of a rare and fantastic thing, finding such a school, one aligned with my teaching values. All the students I saw were working with their hands, in groups, having deep discussions. I can see myself thriving here, grumpy principal or not. I dream about the ways that I can finally have a real impact on students and my community, teaching kids to think critically instead of creating robotic machines only capable of regurgitating facts.

A cell phone rings from Mr. Flores’s pocket. He looks at the caller ID, looking even more annoyed than before. “Good morning, Superintendent Daniels,” he says, answering it. “You’re downstairs? I didn’t realize you were coming.” He shoots me a quick look. “I’ll be down in a moment,” he says, and hangs up.

Maybe I won’t have to see him again for the rest of the day. Lina seems to like me. Maybe she’ll finish the interview.

“Follow me,” he orders. I follow him to a classroom down the hall, labeled “301”. He opens the door, and I see that a handful of teachers have already congregated.

“Hey ladies.” Mr. Flores gives the team a look belonging to the smile family. “My favorite grade team.” They all wave. One teacher rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “This is Georgia Baker,” he continues. “She’s here to interview for 302.”

I wave enthusiastically. “Hey everyone. It’s great to meet you. I’m really excited to be here,” I say, smiling at each of them .

There are four teachers there, ranging from young-ish to middle-aged. The one furthest on the left looks the oldest, dark-skinned and stunning, hair in twists, wearing a loudly patterned dress. The next one looks to be the youngest, pretty in wide leg jeans and a white t-shirt, blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail.

The last two sit closer to one another. One is an olive-skinned woman, obviously pregnant, wearing a skirt down past her knees, a long-sleeved blouse stretched over her belly, panty hose and feet in plain black flats elevated on a chair in front of her. She is adjusting what looks to be a delicately highlighted, chestnut brown wig on her head. The man to her right is dark-skinned and handsome, with a wide nose and mouth, and wearing a similar blouse in a deep emerald silk, cropped, wide legged pants, mini gold hoops in his ears, and platform loafers ( are those Prada? ) on his feet. The two of them have their nails painted in the exact same shade of navy blue, the man’s nails accented by a number of rings on his fingers.

“I’m going to leave you here,” he says to me. He looks at the rest of the team. “You guys get started, okay?”

“Ten-four,” the woman furthest to the left says.

He turns on his heel and walks out. Byeee .

I take a seat at one of the empty desks, closer to where the elegant man sits, placing my backpack down in a chair next to me. He sniffs politely, looking in my general direction.

“Oh, that smell is definitely my backpack,” I apologize. An eyebrow raises. “I had a Morning. My demo lesson materials fell in garbage juice,” I tell him.

He hums.

“Hey Georgia,” the woman with the twists on the left begins. “I’m Tamika Stewart. I teach general education, class 303. I’m also the grade team leader for third grade. ”

“All hail,” says the man on the right. Tamika throws her pen at him.

The next woman, the youngest looking one, waves. “Hey, I’m Mia Roberts. Also gen-ed, class 304.”

“Chaya Ackerman,” waves the pregnant, conservatively dressed woman. She gestures at the man seated next to her. “And this is my co-teacher…”

“Emmanuel Jean-Baptiste,” he cuts in. “We’re the Queens of 301, the Integrated Co-Teaching classroom. Chaya’s the special education teacher in the room, and I’m the gen-ed teacher,” he tells me. “Welcome to the Penthouse, Garbage Juice.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I say, and we begin.

We spend the next twenty minutes getting to know one another, our conversations punctuated with questions about our communication and work habits, our teaching styles. The team asks me questions about my experience (“this is my seventh year”), if I’ve ever taught third grade (“yes, for two years”), my ideas about teaching and learning (“project based, hands on, student centered, culturally responsive”), and why I am leaving my current school three weeks into the school year (“I hate my school; I saw there was opening here; I emailed AP Sanchez as soon as I saw.”).

The team quickly learns that I am not some sort of teacher fraud, a journalist going undercover to run an exposé on the misery of the American education system. The questions get more entertaining.

“What’s your favorite Takis flavor?” Emmanuel asks very seriously.

“Fuego, obviously,” I respond.

“Biggest pet peeve in your classroom ?

“Ooo. Desks being at all different heights. The borders on the bulletin board not being flush with the edge. Closet doors left open.”

“Preach,” says Tamika.

“Kids leaving their snacks in their desks,” says Chaya.

“Never again in a classroom of mine,” I tell her. “After a critter incident during the Math state tests, my kids know the penalty is death or dismemberment.”

“Who’s the toughest kid in this class?” I ask the team.

“MAX,” all four of them yell.

I am immediately drawn to all of them. Individually, they could not be more different.

Tamika, a Type A mother-hen with a loud, booming laugh, is warm and seems to have high expectations for her teammates and students.

Mia, reserved and sweet and slightly neurotic, speaks quietly with a slight Midwestern accent.

Chaya has a friendly smile, personable, and in a heavy, lilting Brooklyn accent, talks to me like an old friend, like we’ve known each other our whole lives.

Emmanuel, with his deeply sarcastic voice, at odds with the light and breezy way he holds himself, tells me matter-of-factly, “I’m kind, but not nice.”

Regardless of all the personalities in the room, the third grade team is Tight, an endearing melting pot of a family. They are supportive of one another, finish each other sentences, and seem to operate like a well-oiled machine.

“How do you like the leadership here?” I ask them tentatively. Because at the end of the day, this is what matters, and I should triple check that I don’t leave one deranged administration for another.

“They’re amazing,” Tamika offers.

Everyone nods. That settles that, I suppose?

“Can you tell me more?” I press.

“Oliver and Lina both genuinely care about the kids. Every choice they make is for them,” Mia clarifies.

“They care for the kids and the staff. They don’t flaunt their power or anything. Everything around here is based on collaborative leadership. They take teachers and our opinions seriously.”

“But they’re also great coaches. They’ve made us all better teachers.”

“Also, one of them wears the hell out of a suit. Thursday professional development days are not a hardship,” Emmanuel adds on. He is fanning himself. Everyone else agrees wholeheartedly.

“Shalom,” he says.

“Werk,” says Chaya.

We are all laughing when Lina opens the door to the classroom, smiling when she sees us all getting along. “Well, this looks like a party,” she says, stepping in. I am fully grinning when she turns to me. “Everything going okay? You ready for your demo lesson?”

“Absolutely,” I say. After the tour and meeting the team, I am confident that this is my new home. You are a great teacher. You will be an asset to this community. You will crush this demo lesson .

“All right everyone, then vamos ,” says Lina. She walks out of the classroom. I pick up my backpack (“Get that thing away from me, Garbage Juice,” Emmanuel tells me). Mia helps Chaya up out of her seat, Emmanuel ready to support behind her. All of us falling into line behind Lina like a bunch of baby ducklings, walking to the pond.