Twelve Years Later  

The Week Begins at Resurrection School

I wasn’t prepared that Monday morning for religion class. The time was 7:50 a.m.

“Oh boy, I’m in trouble now,” I paced the hallway, trying to brainstorm.

 “All I need now is for Father Jim to show up and see me unprepared.”

All homeroom teachers were expected to teach religion in homeroom class on Monday morning, from 8:00 to 8:40. As I understood it, the expectation was that the children learn catechism at the start of the week. Catechism? I didn’t even know what that was. No one ever questioned me about this-neither the pastor nor Sister Jayne, the principal of Resurrection School. I wonder if either of them ever thought about what I did during those forty minutes.

There remained but one minute before the bell when the entire religion lesson flashed before my mind’s eye. I raced back to my room. The 8:00 bell rang. The kids filed in before me from the hallway where they were required to form two lines.  I spotted Father Jim coming down the hallway. I shut the door behind
me.

“Class, may I have your attention? Bernadette knocked her books on the floor.

“Over here everyone,” I tapped the chalk as loudly as I could on the board.

Father Jim snuck in quietly and sat down by LeShaun. Several of the girls nearby giggled. Kids liked him: young, good-looking and very
idealistic, Father Jim wanted very much to be the Kids’ priest. I guess he thought he could relate.

I drew an enormous oval on the board.

“Class, this is our universe as we understand it,” I began while I drew in the planets at different points in their elliptical revolutions around the sun.

“Hmm, good the kids are paying attention, Father Jim is smiling. Seems interested. Okay, now Fidel, Fidel … ah, there you are.”

Fidel was the ace up my sleeve.

“Class, imagine our planet and everybody who lives on it, the billions and billions of people … imagine everybody as ONE, ‘kinda’ lumped together. Got it?

Thirty heads nodded up and down.

“So far, okay, good.”

“Now, am I correct to place this gigantic “one” at the center of our universe?” pointing to the celestial body I had placed in the center of my oval.

“No,” responded the class almost as one unified voice “It’s the sun, the sun,” several cried out.

“Very good, so we are not the center of the universe-not you, not me, not any one of us,” I said while looking at Fidel.

“Where is God?” I asked, anxiously scanning the room for a respondent.

“Ye ….sss, Fidel!

“I knew he’d take the bait.”

“Everywhere. God is everywhere!!” Fidel triumphantly exclaimed.

“And …” I probed.

“But, but …”

“But what, Fidel?”

He paused.

“Class, what Fidel may be thinking but hasn’t the words is … our lives are like the planets that revolve around the sun, the center of the universe whose maker is God. Life goes on with or without us. No one among us is the center.”

Fidel lowered his hand. I looked at him. He seemed ‘okay’ with that. Father Jim, too, seemed pleased. He adjusted his Roman collar on the way out.

Tuesday Morning

“Fidel, be quiet please.”

“Yes, Mr. Busch.”

I scanned the classroom of some thirty seventh-graders, my kids, my classroom, a first year teacher at Resurrection Parish School on
Chicago’s west side.

Of these thirty there stood out one kid in particular. Yes, you know him … Fidel. Something about him left me feeling he was the brightest kid in my class.

They say it’s in the eyes. Fidel’s shone with a sparkle of natural intelligence. He was the kind of kid every teacher desires in the pinch. Smart and enjoyable … most of the time, a kid who, when needed, can answer a question like an adult and, in the next instant, return to his childhood.

It was that most precious time of day, silent reading, when each kid was to ready himself for his book interview with me.

Truth be told, I knew virtually nothing about implementing a Random House reading program successfully other than ... ‘Keep the kids quiet.’

They never taught us this stuff at the university.

“Fidel, please be quiet.”

“Yes sir,” he responded sniggeringly.

“Okay, I’ll give him one more chance, then I’ll …”

Several moments of silence ensued.     

Then the unsettling effect of that same sole voice, unmistakably Fidel’s, spread to his entire group table. What had been a studious table of six seventh-graders Fidel transformed into a giggly cabal which, if left unchecked, would have spread to the whole of the class like a virulent infectious strain.

“God, what if Sister Jane walks in?” I alarmed myself.

In Sister Jayne’s Office Several Days Before


“Alan, please, take a seat.”

I was very nervous, my first review by Sister Jayne Daly, the principal of Resurrection School.

“Thank you Sister,” trying to be and appear as pleasantly unconcerned as possible.

Alan, the seventh grade is a tough age.”

“Yea, it sure is,” I said agreeably. I kept smiling, adding an agreeable nod and a “uh huh” here and there.

“Classroom management is the prerequisite for effective learning, You know this.”

“Yes, Sister, I do.” Something was up. I fidgeted in my chair.

“You’re having some difficulties in that area, aren’t you?” She was right. I had been having some problems with classroom management.

Thirty seventh grade youngsters against one freshman teacher, all of twenty-two years of age. Frankly, I did not like the odds.

“Well, Sister you just said it’s a tough age, right?”

“Indeed I did, but what would you say to a little assistance?”

“Like what?”

“I’d come and observe your class for an hour or two every day until I see the situation improving.”

“Sister Jayne, if you do that, I’m done for. I’d lose all credibility with those kids. Remember you hired me to take charge of that class. I’m the
expert,” I asserted, exuding self-confidence.

My God, is she ‘gonna’ buy this?  I hardly believe it myself.”

Don’t misunderstand. I liked Sister Jayne, respected her. She was a member of the Sisters of Mercy, an order of Catholic nuns that allowed its members to wear regular clothing, a diminutive leader who inspired a balance of fear and respect in those around her. When she walked softly-as she always did-it was with a “big stick”. That’s right. Sister Jayne was a throwback to Teddy Roosevelt’s Bullmoose Party. When you’d see her in the hallway, one heard
whether from students or staff: “Good morning, Sister Jayne. Yes ma’am, Sister Jayne.”

But that was precisely my point. Were she to ‘visit’ my classroom, sure the kids would be well-behaved, but not due to anything I had done.

Sister Jayne considered my self-defense thoughtfully. It did not take her long
before she made her decision.

“Alan, you’re right, of course, my coming to your class will not make of you a better classroom manager. You’re on your own.                                      

She smiled knowingly, gently putting down the pencil she had been twirling between her third and fourth fingers. She had seen this sort of thing before.

“Thank you Sister. You won’t be sorry.” I got up to leave.

“See ya tomorrow,” I waved.

Again, that same smile.

“She’ll be watching,” but I was okay with that because I felt I could stand up straight again.


Dealing With Fidel …

As much as I liked Fidel, I had to act. Swiftly and decisively.

“Fidel, step outside.”

His only response came from the scraping of his chair legs on the floor tile as he pushed himself back from the table. I relished the pervasive hush. Twenty nine heads snapped back into silent reading mode, noses barely off the printed page.

Fidel sulked out of the classroom, head bent, shoulders slumped, hands thrust into pockets.

I strode out after him.

“So … this is what Mr. Gallo must have felt like.”

We stood facing each other in the hallway, eye to ... chin (his eye, my chin).

“Fidel,” I blurted out, thankful I had not said ‘David’.

His wide eyes stared up. He swallowed. Adam’s Apple bobbing.

“Remember Mr. Gallo’s approach,” I reminded myself, squinting, trying to look fearsome.

“Fidel,” I spoke now barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Busch,” he swallowed a second time.

“Fidel, I like you. You’re a good kid. Did I tell you how pleased I was with you yesterday in religion class?”

“No sir.”

“Well, I was.”

“Gee …uh, thanks,” his eyebrows knitted together.

“You disturbed silent reading this morning, Fidel, twice. You know that good classroom management is essential for the class to learn, you do know that, right, Fidel?”

“Uh, yea … I mean ‘yes sir’ Mr. Busch.”

“Good. But at this moment, the very worst thing I can say to you is …”

I paused deliberately to make him sweat. He gulped a huge breath as if about to take a plunge under water.

“May you be blessed with a son one day who is as bright as you.”

Utter, pin-dropping silence!

“Huh?” his mouth agape.

Fidel’s face at that moment could have been the pictorial definition of “nonplussed” on one of those refrigerator magnets-you know the ones with all the facial expressions.

“The center, Fidel, remember? You’ll understand. Just not right now,” I opined rather sagely.

We smiled; me … contentedly, knowing I was not an ogre of which Mr.

Gallo had been accused; Fidel, slightly bewildered but relieved … as if the jury foreman had said “not guilty”.

I turned the doorknob. The shuffling of feet and the clatter of chairs against desks made a huge racket as Fidel’s classmates scrambled to return to their places. He preceded me into the classroom. I followed, sat down at my desk, quite pleased. The bell rang.