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Boland - The battle for Room 314: my year of hope and despair in a New York City high school

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Boland The battle for Room 314: my year of hope and despair in a New York City high school
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    The battle for Room 314: my year of hope and despair in a New York City high school
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The battle for Room 314: my year of hope and despair in a New York City high school: summary, description and annotation

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Prologue: Chantay -- The good ol days -- Best practices -- Nemesis -- Nowhere over the rainbow -- Powers of ten -- Sweet Jess -- Lord Byron -- Free Freddy! -- My funny Valentina -- Old school -- Lil Mickey, a disciple of soul -- The ivy curtain -- Massacre of the innocents -- Point of no return -- Pomp and circumstance -- Epilogue: A message to Charles.;In the tradition of the classic Up The Down Staircase comes an unforgettable book about a year inside a troubled New York City school. In a fit of idealism, Ed Boland left a twenty-year career as a non-profit executive to teach in a tough New York City public high school. But his hopes quickly collided headlong with the appalling reality of his students lives and a hobbled education system unable to help them: Jay runs a drug ring for his incarcerated brother; Nee-cole is homeschooled on the subway by her brilliant homeless mother; and Byrons Ivy League dream is dashed because he is undocumented. In the end, Boland isnt hoisted on his students shoulders and no one passes AP anything. This is no urban fairy tale of at-risk kids saved by a Hollywood hero, but a searing indictment of reform-minded schools that claim to be progressive but still fail their students. Told with compassion, humor, and a keen eye, Bolands story will resonate deeply with anyone who cares about the future of education.--

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In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the authors intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the authors rights.

For Sam

Education then, beyond all other devices of human origin, is the great equalizer of the conditions of men, the balance-wheel of the social machinery.

Horace Mann

In the midst of prosperity the mind is elated, and in prosperity a man forgets himself; in hardship he is forced to reflect on himself, even though he be unwilling.

Alfred the Great

I like to fight, I like to fuck, I like pie.

Merwins ninth-grade Getting To
Know You questionnaire

CHANTAY MARTIN SAT on top of her desk, her back to me. A tight Old Navy T-shirt covered in rhinestones was riding up her thin brown back, exposing a baby-blue thong.

I leaned over and whispered firmly in her ear, We had a deal, and you arent holding up your end of it.

She yelled back, What deal, mister? in the kind of teenage voice that adults dread: belligerent, manic, almost painful at close range. She was chewing a wad of purple gum with such force and speed that she seemed to have a piston implanted in her jaw.

It was ten minutes before the three oclock dismissal bell on a scorching hot September afternoon on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. A single oscillating fan strained to cool the classroom. Its white plastic head dutifully panned back and forth on Chantay, thirty other high school freshmen, and me, their anxious new teacher.

Our deal was that you do your work and I wont call you out in public. No more drama, remember? I said in a desperate whisper, quoting a Mary J. Blige songa pathetic attempt to find a sliver of common ground between a forty-three-year-old gay white guy from Chelsea and a teenage black girl from the projects of Bed-Stuy.

I was only five days into my new career as a ninth-grade history teacher, and precious little in the way of learning was getting done.

Chantay continued holding court with a group of her gurlz, their chatter getting louder by the minute. The geography work sheets they were supposed to be completing were left untouched in a pile. At least the other groups of students had bothered to humor me by passing the papers out before ignoring them.

I shot Chantay a fierce look. She returned it with a light smile, as if she were on a talk show and had given the host an amusing answer. Our deal was clearly off, and I was angry, so I resorted to some old-school yelling: Chantay, sit in your seat and get to work. Now! I punched out the last word in what I thought was a strict teacher voice.

Crack! On the other side of the room, someone had hurled a calculator at the blackboard. My head snapped toward the trouble; it wasnt the only problem. A group of boys were shoving one another near a new laptop. Two girls swayed in sweet unison and mouthed lyrics while sharing the earphones of a strictly forbidden iPod. Another girl was splayed over her desk, lazily reading Thug Luv 2 as if she were on a cruise

I heard Chantays distinctive cackle again and turned back to her. She was now standing on top of her desk, towering above me like a pro wrestler on the ropes about to pounce. Her head was surrounded by a constellation of world currencies that hung from an economics mobile I had painstakingly constructed over the summer. I started to feel queasy and light-headed. No. It wasnt supposed to happen like this.

Chantay, sit down immediately, or there will be serious consequences, I barked. All eyes were now darting back and forth between us like those of spectators at a tennis match.

She laughed and cocked her head up at the ceiling. Then she slid her hand down the outside of her jeans to her upper thigh, formed a long cylinder between her thumb and forefinger, and shook it. What the hell was she doing? She looked me right in the eye and screamed:

SUCK MY FUCKIN DICK, MISTER.

Stunned, I stood frozen in front of the class as it erupted. I didnt know a roomful of humans were capable of making that much noise. It sounded like a Hollywood laugh track times a hundred, a torrent of guffaws, lung-emptying laughs, and howls. Exhausted from laughter, the rabble paused and then:

Oh no she dint!

Man, he cant even control the girls.

Jess, Chantays badass boyfriend, glanced at her and grinned like an impresario, proud of the talent he had cultivated.

Id always admired a filthy mouth, especially on a woman, and for a second I thought, Touch, Miss Martin. If you have a dick, it is certainly bigger than mine. Well played. Very original. Then I suddenly remembered that I was not in a bar talking smack with my friends. This was a classroom. I was her teacher. She was my student.

I yanked in a quick breath and frantically searched for a powerful, professional response. If I were to go apeshit, it would show that shed really got to me. If I underreacted, I would appear passive and invite more trouble. But nothing came to me, nothing at all. I stood there paralyzed and afraid. My now-trembling legs were hidden inside my brand-new pair of Dockers. I was so unfamiliar with the feeling of fear that I barely recognized it.

In one fell swoop, Chantay fingered me not only as gay, but as her bitch, her power emanating from a penis she didnt have.

And, sadly, because it was a girl whod staged this, it was viewed as an even greater humiliation for me. So much for the girls being the easy ones to control. Even the way she blocked the scene was strategic, with her towering on top of her desk while I circled helplessly below. The final touch was that she didnt even know my name. It wasnt worth remembering, just mister would suffice.

I should have simply walked out of the building, hailed a cab, and gone to the unemployment office. I had sunk the eight ball on the first break. Game over.

How had things gotten so bad, so quickly?

JUST FOUR MONTHS earlier, eight sets of gilded, art deco doors suddenly crashed open and a sea of guests, the titans of Wall Street, flooded the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. I smoothed the lapels on my tuxedo, adjusted my headset, and took a deep breath. My staff and I had been working on this fund-raising event for almost a year, and still the inevitable last-minute crises came crackling over my earpiece:

Were missing a floral arrangement on table 71. Someone contact Preston Tuttle immediately.

Late seating change for the Teschner table. Lady Foster will now be seated between Mr. Teschner and Judge Sullivan. I repeat: Lady Foster goes to seat number one. Stat!

The tipsy associates at table 207 in the balcony have asked for a third bottle of wine and they havent even sat down yet. Comply?

Negative.

Bill Cunningham from the Times just arrived in the Jade Pavilion. He looks really grumpy. Where should I steer him?

The final chimes sounded, the lights went down, and twelve hundred guests were seated in a collective whoosh. Blessedly, my worst fearthat people who had donated fifty thousand dollars for a table would find themselves without seatsdidnt materialize; the two-day-long seating meeting had paid off. Ancient banquet waiters hobbled around the packed tables and indifferently slung paillards of chicken, limp asparagus, and oversalted risotto at the guests.

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