#14

Gee. This means another chapter. I meant to say that I was published. I mean I will be published. I was so unsure. I look at my post yest. and I tried to express my frustrations of not getting the piece to fall together. I pull some dissonant things together and then see if I can possibly pull them together. Except yesterday it wasn't falling together. And then, first thing this morning, I started rewriting it. There was some things I was trying to put in there. But I didn't want it to be about my own travail ten years ago. And I wanted to draw in Meg without overdoing it. And then there was some other stats I was trying to pull together and have fall in the piece but to no avail.

Well, I kept working through it then the stat on the disabled in the federal employ, less than one percent. And, oh yes, I remember, it was my researching the fact that Baby Boomers were going to be retiring and that would really open up the work force. Well this took me a little bit of checking on the NY Times research on retiring baby boomers for some stats.

No, by this a.m., I thought I was terribly out manned. But, I kept at it and it started falling together. I was able to pull a few stats together--and try to glean them so it fit. Well, actually, I cut the the bottom half off and then it seemed to roll. It was 684 words and then I just put a few more things together and it went to 774 words.

I went out and busted up snow and ice, helping Jackie the neighbor lady. I came back an hour later and didn't see a e from Geitner. What am I thinking. It's Friday. Well, I'll just give a horn. I'll leave a voice saying it might be time sensitive. And, wouldn't you know it, Geitner answered. I rambled, "It might be time sensitive." He said, "We're going to use it. It will be after Christmas."

I was elated and overjoyed. And then I did go to my e and saw that he'd put in pretty much what he'd said.

And it came the day an eon ago I'd taken the day off. I got ickie in there and Sue and Mackiel...mr part of the discussion himself....and boy, I do hope they like to read the op-ed. I remember the special delivery in the Dundee house. With a leather jacket and it was just the summary of the evaluation summary. Handed to me in an envelope.

I just had to put this together, it was just so timely. Cheers, Ickie!

and now another chapter from the tome:

Chapter 9
Head Injury
Year End Evaluation Summary:
Personal Qualities
Improved performance must be demonstrated and result in
--improved self-confidence and sense of humor
--improved enthusiasm and energy in working with students
--professional dress and grooming appropriate as an example and model for students
Larry Heck, Staff Personnel Services

Notes, in my journal, two weeks after the new school year is in play, "So much has happened, bud." It's how ironworkers address each other on the job. "Hey, bud" "Ok, bud" "What's that buddy?" etc. I found myself saying likewise to the two security guards with whom I had a good relationship.
The second year wound up the same as the first. This time, I wasn’t going to go quietly in the night. And OEA would have to represent me on this next step in the journey.
Tom tells me about a lady in Lincoln, Sue Fullerton, who will act as a liaison between “the district” and the NSEA lawyers in Lincoln.
“Sue said she can use the letter from Bev Doyle as part of your testimony but not Al Marchisio’s,” Tom said.
“Oh, okay.”
“She thinks it makes you sound incompetent.”
“You know, Tom, I keep thinking how I was a school principal and taught that year in Lincoln with no problem and now all this.”
“Well, it will be good for our case if you can get people to testify on your behalf.”
It was hard to figure out. “I mean, come on. I was evaluating teachers’ performance. And now Mitchell’s sayin’ stuff like I don’t understand the basics of teaching?”
“We’ll just go one step at a time.”
“Yeah, what about Garland’s first evaluation summary?” I said. “She said I have a strong background in good instructional practices.”
“Well, yeah,” Tom said. “But she’s not ‘sposed to fill those out. Only Dr. Mitchell can fill those out.”
“Well, nevertheless, she said there was evidence of my knowledge of planning and lesson presentation.”
“Yes, I have that information. But we have to convince Dr. Mitchell.”
“Yeah, I thought I did. I had that lesson where I used a flyer from Menard’s. Mitchell said that was excellent.”
“I agree with your Ron,” Tom said. “But I guess maybe Dr. Mitchell wants it to be consistent. Did he write that down anywhere?”
“No, but that’s what he said, right after I finished the lesson.”
“Well, we’ll just have to see.”
********n
My U on "Learning Diversity" also troubled me. In my written response of five pages to Mitchell’s very first observation, how I’d been using the Curriculum Standards text that encourages best teaching practices through the use of such tenets as "math is messy" and "there should be other ways to solve problems" etc. allowing the student to control his or her own learning through motivation and diversity.
Some of the comments were like last year’s. Like Dear Abby, was Mitchell relying on old notes and simply changing the dates?
And, while four areas of concern and suggestions for improvement were broken down into 25 separate categories, it was doubtful, try as I might, to remember any two of them at one time.
And, no matter what I tried, it never did any good. Following Linda's strategy on classroom management—who said she'd worked on it with Vickie—Vaughn gave not the slightest acknowledgement.
Problems, concerns that were addressed and successfully remediated were not, according to them, addressed or remediated.
Were they playing a shell game with me?
Frequently, the stacks of paper in front of me, a handful from each of the four observers, I felt overwhelmed. I just couldn’t get through it all. I remembered what Linda said: "Just keep teaching."
Meanwhile, I sent out feelers, a habit. No word from Millard South. I worked for three days on an application letter for school principal and sent it to Tekamah, 50 miles north. No word.
I call.
“Well,” the superintendent said. “We had thirty-three applicants; we'll winnow from there.”
Call to Auburn in need of filling a new position, Special Ed Director.
“Yes,” I’m told. “Go ahead and apply.”
Like Blanche, I depend on the kindness of strangers.

Meanwhile, back to the trenches. The friendly spider Sam, who is a breath of fresh air from Lou Lou, is getting tired of being lone member of the support web as the year rolls on and I’m yet deemed unclean. Sam doesn't park next to me anymore. It always was either Dave then Sam then me, first ones there, first ones to take the unmarked parking slot along the fence line. It’s February and now Sam's parking his black Monte Carlo two-door hardtop near Charley security's Suburban. Dave, meanwhile, continues to park next to me.
Or I continue to park next to Dave.
Mid-Feb. and the snows are melting along with Sam's allegiance to the me. According to Lisa and Sally, at a recent staff meeting, Sam humiliated me.
In this weekly meeting in Sally's room Sam said to me , in front of all, "Why aren't Level 3's done on Theresa, Lamar, Jermain?" I was a little taken aback. Didn’t I get a good tie? I had no idea what Sam was talking about.
Sally said, "Why didn't he just tell you?" Lisa said, "Sam humiliated you." It was prob'ly the second time in as many weeks that Sam has done that. He got on my case for not calling the paras to let them know there was a snow day. That was a matter he also didn't have to bring in front of the general public.
‘Course, Sam hung in with me longer than anyone else.
*************m
The end of Feb. is nearing and I want to be ready. I have until March 10 to really shine. Mitchell is instructed to complete a Formal Evaluation Summary no later than that day. This time, I will be on the offensive.
Mitchell came in but didn’t say anything first off.
“Could I see an assignment sheet?”
They were all on the student’s tables: publisher of the book, page numbers, assignments to complete.
“This is Fred’s sheet,” I said, looking at the sheet on the table. “These are the problems he’s to do but he chooses not to do anymore. He’ll just lose his points.”
Mitchell changed the subject. “How many students you got now in the afternoon?”
“Five usually. Six are assigned.”
Mitchell gives a slight shake of his head. He leaves the classroom, his large black body filling the door.
Sam tells me he's going to observe. “Ah, Mr. Hartnett, when would it be a good time for me to come in and observe?”
Sam is a dead ringer, if thinner, for Bill Cosby. Slow easy humor. Nuthin’ ever to get too riled up about.
For the first time ever in my teaching career, I tell my morning students—seven teenage boys—what was up.
“I’m going to have a visitor this morning,” I said, dressed to the nines, standing before them. “You’d better behave.”
Usually, as is my wont, I’d usually let the chips fall where they may.
And the students behaved beautifully, following me on the overhead and doing the work that was assigned to them. Sam sat through almost the entire period, writing. We all broke for gym after that.
The first thing that Sam said to me in the gym, students getting ready to play volleyball on low ceilings, "that was excellent."
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Hartnett, you did a nice job.”
I immediately called Kath at work and Linda that evening.
But, a week later, March 15, my Ides of March, Mitchell comes in for the formal. The significance of the day down the history channel was not lost on me. This is make or break time. However, there’s only one student in the classroom.
That doesn't matter to Mitchell, he does it anyway. He has promises to keep and many miles to go, as the poem says, before he sleeps.
“Here, Jesse, here’s what you’re to do.”
“Oh, okay.” He looked at the sheet of 20 problems. “Can I do 15 instead of 20?”
“Sure, if you get them right.”
“Okay.”
I knew from the kid’s history he was smart. Easily grasped the material. His history from other schools is that if Jesse decides to shut down he will shut down and not do anything for the rest of the day. So far, he hasn't done that to yet in the month in the classroom. We usually just worked out arrangements for assignments and grades. We got along fine.
Besides, Jesse knew the material. It was easy for him. Fifteen problems instead of twenty? Sure, why not.
“They have to be 90% accuracy.”
“Okay.”
Jesse finished them quickly. They were all correct.
“Can I work on the computer?”
“Good job. Sure.”
Mitchell's all the time is looking at us. He wrote furiously. I thought of the time at the Rez I glanced over Joyce’s shoulder who’d just observed me: she was typing furiously on the keyboard, screen full of words and sentences and paragraphs why I was no longer fit to be employed on the Rez.
Mitchell picked up the assignment sheet. It’s almost the length of his out stretched hand; he looks at it like it's an animated object.
Mitchell notes on the observation that the assignment sheet said 20 and the student only did 15. I’m reprimanded for my error.
Sam asked me, a little later in the afternoon. "What happened with Dr. Mitchell?"
"I don't know, what happened?"
"He wasn't happy."
"I only had one student in the room. What was I 'sposed to do, stand on my head?”
The Formal Evaluation, having lingered for over a year, was over. The parade of visits by curriculum specialists, teacher leaders and the principal, would stop. As well as my career “with the district.”
The four pages, of which I was now so familiar, arrived a couple days later.
Teacher-leader Sam caught me watching the kids step off the short yellow bus in front of the building and motioned.
“Mr. Hartnett, can I see you in my office?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I pulled my mind from what I was doing, watching the students march up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Stepping into Sam’s office, I saw the large manila envelope on the desk.
“Dr. Mitchell said to give this to you,” Sam said. “It’s your evaluation. I didn’t look at it.”
I took a deep breath and opened it.
Yep, there it was. Pages full of U’s, far surpassing the lonely S that stood out like a single red victory flag.
I looked at it closely. The carnage, the U’s like bugs.
Sam broke the silence. “Do you want me to make you a copy?”
"No, Sam, I don't want a copy," I said. I then wrote on the comment section--per Linda’s advice—“Dr. Mitchell, please teach the lesson so I can see how to do it correctly.”
I could feel myself getting angry. After writing a couple sentences, I handed the formal evaluation back to Sam.
“I don’t want it.”
Sam looked at me. “Oh, okay.”
I felt myself ready almost to say something else but held it in check.
Sam then wrote at the bottom “Mr. Hartnett did not want a copy of his evaluation.”
I was dying to ask: “Are you related to Dr. Mitchell?”
********t
It's St. Patrick's Day. I call home. The folks know little about my situation, aware, however, of some rough sailing of #1 child of the nine. Been there done that.
"Well, we got luck of the Irish this St. Patty's Day, Mom."
"Oh yeah," she wants to know, "what is it?"
"Kathy's pregnant."
"Oh, she is," Mom said, delighted. “That's wonderful news, congratulations. “How's everything else going?”
"Oh about the same, you know."
Been there, done that. "Oh, I know; just hang in there."
"Oh, you know me, I will."
"I'll tell your dad when he comes in from the farm."
“Okay.”
“Hang in there.”
“Oh,” I said, hopes for third year taking on a different hue than expected. “I will.”
“Love you now.”
“Love you, too.”
************v
And, wouldn’t you know it. A few days later so guess who drives up in her new model blue car but our friend Lou Lou. She's there to visit; I thought she'd be dead by know. Our Parish B staff had gotten a post card from Hawaii earlier in the year
Lou-Lou, however, looked just the same, if a little tanner. She had brown wrinkles on her face instead of white ones.
And there she was in Sam's office—just when I happened to be bringing down a student. She goes overboard to shake my hand, seated, from her chair. Although I had hard feelings I still can act professional even in the darkest light. She was really interested.
"So how are things going?" she asked, beaming.
"Quite well, thank you. How about yourself?"
"Very fine, thank you."
I told Sam that I had a couple students who decided not to do the work assigned. He said he'd take care of it. Sam's motto was, "Be good or be gone."
This simple sentence was a good way. It cut through all the warnings and time outs and point system management strategy.
However, I was to see Lou-Lou again when she came upstairs to Parish B in the afternoon, her old stomping grounds. She brought along some brownies she’d made, yummies for the staff. I’m in the teacher's lounge and there she is too. Sam must've tipped her off to my continued difficulties, read still on Formal Intervention.
Somehow, she must've found out that I still hadn't made it; her air had changed from collegial back to scolding. She has so much trouble masking.
"I brought some brownies," she's telling Lisa, who is just leaving the make-shift teacher's lounge that was originally slated to be Dr. Mitchell's office.
"Oh,” I said. “How nice." To extend cordiality, I put the knife into the yellow brownies near the empty pan of brown ones.
"Yes, go ahead and help yourself," she said, almost like I had to ask permission. "You can't have any of these," Lou added, looking at the empty pan containing just a few brown crumbs, "because they're all gone."
The Hawaiian sun had not baked any sense in her. I held my tongue. What would be the use? I felt like asking, "Are you related to Dr. Mitchell?"
“What are you doing these days, Lou?”
“Oh tutoring a Sixth Grade student. Going to the operas.”
Seconds later she picked up both the empty pan and the pan with yellow brownies and walked out the door and down the hallway without saying "Goodbye" or "Good luck" or anything.
I was proud I managed to keep my mouth shut. Instantly I felt sorry for the Sixth Grade student she was tutoring.
************n
And suddenly, the final day of the school year approached. For some, for one reason or another, it would be a final parting from the alternative school, Parish A and B.
I remembered a not parting was the “temp” Home Ec teacher whom he shared the M&M cookie feat with. Sam I heard confidently say to Mrs. Wheeler, “You’ll be getting a contract,” Sam said, looking at her, crossing his legs. “Other teachers might apply for your position but they'll just be transferred to a school way out in the boonies.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Wheeler’s of medium wide girth but cute dimpled face replied, “that’ll be fine.”
Like a horse at the gate, the teacher struggles to contain her delight.
“Yeah,” Sam said, using a term he often used, “you’re in the house.”
Later, a ribald discussion near the Dave’s desk just outside a now- silent shop about “sweet” doctors took place. Dave had gone running during the lunch hour a couple days ago and was hit by a car. He had to go to the doctor who wanted to know where it was hurting. The doctor, according to Dave, wanted to examine places that were not hurting.
“Yeah,” Dave began, an audience of a few male teachers, “I said ‘It’s not hurting there. I just got bumped in the knee by the car.’”
“Ah, was he a sweet doc?” Sam asked, looking at Dave and turning to the group that now formed a tight circle. “Wanted to take some time to examine you, huh? And you was wearing your gym shorts, uh huh.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Dave said. “He sure was looking me over pretty good.”
Sam then heard from Mr. Greco about teacher-leader Yvonne’s meeting at their building the last day of school that lasted an hour and a half.
“Why the fuck does she do that?” Sam starting to use the F word and profanity in light conversational tones, school year end. “She doesn’t need to do that.”
Sam, in his favorite posture, sitting down with his hands over his raised knee. "But she holds them anyway."
“Yeah,” Greco, his large white teeth flashing, began to laugh. “First day she wanted us to carry around journals and notepads. I just tore mine up.”
“Did you?” Sam asked his mouth moving, bending down, “the first day?”
"First day after she left," Greco confirmed.
He is a tenured teacher, Mr. Greco. He has the power. He has tenure. It would be conceivable that he’d have to go through a kind of FI, if Yvonne, who was Lou’s pal, found out.
Runner Dave chimed in.
“Yeah,” Dave said, “I just might do the same thing. I got my tenure."
Sam asked crossing his knees the other way, looking around, as if it was something that was not quite imaginable, "Did you get your tenure?"
"Oh, yeah," Dave said comfortably, in possession, "I got tenure."
Dave, erstwhile FI partner, got off. In fact, I’d seen him at a meeting at a local Girl’s Club not too much longer after Mitchell’s Ides of March severance of my links with Parish’s Independent Study Center specifically, OPS generally. Sitting midst a crowd of teachers and staff from the five alternate school buildings, I did a double-take: there was Dave on a small stage sitting next to Mitchell, gesticulating, pointing, blabbing away.
I couldn't believe my eyes.
Dave was having face time with Mitchell. Both on the stage where little school performances were played out, thick purple drapes behind them. Mitchell is suspendered and stage sitting, arms folded, swinging his feet, kind of putting his hands across his large face and then every so often touching and smoothing grayish bristles atop a shaved head. His eyes roll up as Dave, who is standing at right angles to Mitchell, has his arms folded with his hands coming out like he's explaining something. Mitchell puts his hands down, covers his face, throws his head back and begins to laugh.
“So you’re friends now?” is all I could get out after the meeting started and Dave abided by my gesture to sit next to me. I didn’t ask Dave if he was gonna take a big shit on Mitchell’s desk.
“Yeah,” Dave said, smoothly, “I was just going over some of the things I wanted to do next year.”
I could feel my throat tighten. I surveyed the small school gym full of ISC teachers, talking and laughing amongst themselves, looking at a flyer and hand outs—bane of teacher existence— being passed around the tables.
“How’s things going with Personnel?” Dave asked lightly, bending down, turning to me.
“Oh, fine I guess.”
“Didn’t you get anything in the mail?”
“No, was I ‘sposed to?”
“Yeah,” Dave said. “I got my contract for next year.”
“Nope, I haven’t got anything yet.”
Dave looked at me, his face filled with concern. “Well, hasn’t Mitchell done his final observation?”
“No.” I lied. “He hasn’t done it yet.”
“Oh,” Dave said knowingly. “After that you’ll be getting something in the mail.”
“Great.”
“I gotta go over and talk to the shop teacher at Blackbird,” Dave said, excusing himself. He strolled over to the other side of the gym, at one with fellow teacher friends and colleagues.
I sat and looked at the handouts. I didn’t—in fact I couldn’t—jump up to spark a conversation ; no one came by to shoot the ed breeze.
I tried to read the smiling faces around me.
“How many know,” I thought, dizzy before the array of smiles and gestures and laughter in the small gym “I’m gone."
I took a guess. “Prob’ly everyone.”
For those of you who are keeping score, formal intervention teachers, in this case, at Edwin Parrish A and B, were batting .500.
Near noon meal the next week I sit with the teachers I’d worked with the last two years—Sally and Lisa. They prob’ly know I’m not returning but no one says anything. The small table group is quiet yet comfortable. We’re just happy the school year was over.
A light “so what’re you gonna do this summer” conversation bubbles up this day of the last supper.
And, it’s the usual: some will take more classes at the local college; some will go on a great trip; some will stay at home with the family.
None save one had plans to go to the hall.
Lisa, blond hair to the top of the shoulders of a tall frame—who often said I was not unlike her husband—“he’s like you, he’s so right-brained” (I liked to think was a kind reference to my teaching style)—looked over across at Mitchell a couple times but Doc didn’t afford us the pleasure of his acknowledgement. Everybody’s looking; nobody eating.
But Mitchell, other than getting up to motion with a wave of his hands to Mrs. Wheeler (and all eyes fell on him, like he was gong to come over and pat one the back or nod a thank you or something) as Sam had predicted, stayed in the tight circle of teacher-leader friends, shoulders hunched to his meal, not looking over at the adjoining tables. I was pretty sure my May 16th letter to Mackiel, in which I followed the advice of a disability advocate in Washington D.C. and wrote a letter to Dr. Mackiel, demanding accommodation probably got back to Mitchell. And maybe a bit further down the line.
It was new ground broken; things were now beyond my control.
But Mitchell didn't talk to Lisa, either, or even given the slightest acknowledgement, she, the Mega-force teacher pre-Christmas, who’d garnered a large gray sweater—second year in a row. I, as principal, definitely would've given numerous kudos to the third member of the Parish-B squad, blond-haired science teacher Sally. A no-nonsense left-brain gal who’s first order of summer business was to press charges against Wayne, a student who’d assaulted her weeks before in the classroom.
“Yep,” Sally’d had said a few days before. “I’m going to press charges for pushing me.”
“I know, that’s what Lamar did to me couple weeks ago,” Lisa said, laughing lightly, looking at her colleague. “For no apparent reason, he kicks at my foot.”
“Yeah,” Sally said, “the mother claimed the only way Wayne can get attention is to curse loudly. I wasn’t putting up with it.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Lisa said. “He was so rude.”
“Then, my para won’t even go near him when he starts his acting out. He blows his nose through his trachea just to get attention.”
“Really?” I said. “I’ve never heard of that before.”
“Yeah,” Sally said, “this gets the class excited so you lose the class.”
But Mitchell never winked or blinked or nodded.
Maybe it was because Lisa’d pulled his chain a little bit. She told me a couple days ago her plans for the next year.
“Oh, Annette, you are?” We called each other beachcomber names—a throw-back to Disney’s insufferable “Beach Blanket Bingo.” Of course, then, I was Frankie. She was Annette.
“Yes, Frankie, I am.” Lisa, with Sally at her side, had asked me a few weeks ago—“Are you on intervention?”
I said that I was.
“Make sure you let the teacher’s union know.”
“Oh,” I said, thinking of the summer and winter meetings with Scates sitting next to me, not saying a word. “They do.”
Burke? I'd no idea. Mitchell had bragged at the staff get-together before winter break, “All the teachers at other schools,” he said, “are envious of you. Anybody’d want to leave,” he said, speaking slowly, ponderously, looking at his attentive audience, “was crazy."
Lisa was no longer "in the house" by choice. I was no longer "in the house" not by choice.
Two years down the road, as it turns out, Doc Mitchell would no longer be “in the house.”
And now their last supper before break. Everyone, as the meal wore on, clung to the belief that was more or less in anticipation for Mitchell would rise up, his tall stature towering above them and say something both fitting and egalitarian. The whole affair in the Home Ec room was like a big balloon, gradually and slowly filling up with steam. It got fuller as mouths started dancing with alligators—which is what the black crew that surrounded Mitchell looked like—working over the babyback ribs ladled with thick red sauce. Eager ears were pinched with a cacophony of sounds, low voices and silverware, rising and falling, falling and rising. Mitchell was the only one who could deflate the balloon that swelled and bloated, a bubble dying to burst.
Address the group Mitchell, I thought, just like you did last year. Give ‘em a cheery talk, a safe summer, the whole bit, blah-blah-blah.
But no, somehow there was a signal—by a teacher-leader, by a security guard, whatever—that the last supper had ended. Sue Garland had also plopped herself down to our table and was blabbing about IEP’s she'd just delivered to each of us. She looked at me. "Do I have that from you, Ron?"
“Do you have what?”
“Through order from Dr. Mitchell, I need a list of names and addresses of students who’ll ride the bus the next year.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” I didn’t instantly know how I’d get that info. It’d never been asked for before. Lisa and Sally, as they had through the two years, could help me fill in the gaps.
“You can’t leave,” Sue said, “until that’s done.”
She repeated, trying to soften her tone, "That's not from me, that's from Dr. Mitchell."
Instantly, for some reason, I became apologetic, proffering kindness: "Oh, I know, I know; I'll get right on it."
"You can't leave the building until that's done," Garland said.
She kneeled down. She looked at the other teachers. She looked a little tired. Had she cut her hair again?
“That’s from Dr. Mitchell.”
Meanwhile, I was yet trying to respond to the Skates and Co. dictum—a list of former employers who could testify that I was a good teacher.
I could just think of one—the SBSP (Secondary Behavioral Skills Program) school in Lincoln. They knew I worked very hard. My stubbornness was such that I wouldn’t call on Supt. Ben.
Moreover, how would it sound? “Hi, Ben. This is your ol’ Lynch principal. Say, I’m up against the largest and oldest school district in the state for not renewing my teaching contract and wonder if you’d testify for me?”
Ben would heartily agree to my bidding.
“Of course I would, Mr. Hartnett,” Ben would say. “You always had enough horses. I was always thinkin’ why did I let that guy go? The guy that replaced you, the band teacher why, we had some problems. Mr. Riddle, we thought he had the answer. Why he kicked the 4th Grade student in the head is beyond me. The ol’ residents, you shoulda seen it. They came out of the nursing homes in crutches and canes, almost as many people showed up as did when the girl’s team came home after winning the state tournament.”
Ben continued. “That principal that took your place, he didn’t have enough horses.”
I reviewed this tiding of joy.
“Oh, you will? That’s great. See ya June 28th. That’s when the meeting is. Do you know where the TAC building is?”
But I was as nervous as hell. "Well, you're probably going to laugh," I thought about saying when I called the SBSP principal. But no, I told her straight off.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Margaret Walker, this is Ron Hartnett.”
“Ron, well well. How are you doing?”
“Fine except that I wasn't being given a contract.”
Dr. Walker replied. There was genuine concern in her voice. It’s like she was expecting the call. "Oh, that's too bad."
“I tried my best.” I began to ramble. “Me and the teacher-leader the first year I kinda got on the wrong side and couldn’t get over it.” I was now thinking of the word surmount.
“Is there something you could write for me? I have this hearing coming up.” The phrase “with no less than three school board members” “brain damage,” and “formal intervention” stuck like glue. I was thinking, too, of a dark room in some remote corner of the TAC building they reserved for teacher spankings.
“Well sure,” Margaret said. “I’d be glad to help out.”
“Great.”
“Wouldn’t my last appraisal do?”
“Yeah, I think it would.”
“Okay. What is your home address?”
He gave it to her.
“Okay. I have to go over to the Behavior Skills Program building anyway this afternoon. I’ll pull your file and send it.”
“Oh, Dr. Walker, that’d be great.” As usual, when heaped with kindness I felt tears well up.
"Let me know if there's anything else I can do," she said, full of encouragement.
“O.k.”
I didn't have the nerve to ask her if she'd come testify, if need be. I'd save that query for another date.
Thus buoyed, I passed it on to Tom.
“Well, Tom, I did get a hold of a principal in Lincoln. She said she’d give me a good recommendation. She said send me a copy of her last appraisal.”
“Good, that’s good to hear,” Tom said. “I plan on touching base with Sue Fullerton a little bit later in the week and go over some things."
“Great.”
“Oh, and I wanted to talk to you about a letter you sent to Pedersen.”
I thought about the letter that I wrote to make a formal request for reassignment, that meeting as the TAC building were too overwhelming for me. During the winter, I felt like a nail was driven through my apple.
But I knew I should’ve ran in by Scates.
“Yeah. I wanted the NEA lawyers to kind of be aware of what I ran up against at the pre-Christmas debacle where they raked me over the coals.”
“Well, that’s a good idea. But you sent it to Pedersen,” Tom said. “He’s the attorney representing the school district.”
“He is?” was shocked. “Oh no.”
“Well, I got a copy of the letter. It didn’t hurt us any,” Tom said. “But make sure you go through me before you send anything.”
“Yeah, sure, okay.”
“And, of course, Pedersen wanted to know about Dr. Korn’s report—why we whittled a portion of it out.”
“Oh, you mean about the alcoholic stuff?”
“Yes,” Tom replied. “I told him that that information would not be important for them and therefore OEA was withholding it," Tom said. "Like I said, that letter didn't hurt us but please go through me before you send anything out."
“Sure thing. I’ll make sure.” Another question had been gnawing at me. “Say Tom, how many black teachers with the district have been on formal intervention.” I thought of a black female younger than me; her Social Skills class next to the Home Ec was being highly touted and she was gearing up for an assistant principal position. Rising through the ranks like a bullet.
Tom is quick with the response. “Oh, I’m not liberty to say. That’s personal information.”
I couldn’t let it go. “Yeah, right. I bet there weren’t any.”
“Like I said, that’s members rights information I cannot divulge,” Scates said. “You have to be concentrating on getting good recommendations from people who’ve seen you teach.”
“Yeah, right, okay.”
Nervous in the saddle without a teaching contract, May 30 I fired off a letter to what I thought was the OEA attorney but sent it to the district's legal representation.
Baird, Holm, McEachen, et al.
1500 Woodmen Tower
Omaha, Nebraska 68102-2068

Dear Sir:

Recently I received a letter from Tom Scates regarding a hearing June 27th
I’m just a little bit concerned in that I need to know what direction this hearing will take. While I’m sure that you’ve had a copy of the neuropsychological examination from Dr. Korn, I’m wondering what other information need be provided. For example, I feel that the only person at this point who can adequately address the problems faced by American with A Disability and how he can, in turn, succeed at the work place is Al Marchisio of Midlands Rehabilitation.

See, the way I’m currently feeling is that I’ll be stumbling through the meeting, not well prepared. That is, while I can pretty much understand Dr. Korn’s report, I nevertheless am at a loss to stipulate what specific area that need be addressed in the lines of accommodation such that I can be successful, i.e. job performance measuring up to district standards. I’ve already had a long meeting Dec. 21st at the TAC building whit those directly in charge of my formal intervention. While I felt that I was doing a great job, measuring up to district standards, I was unable to clearly articulate my case. Even Tom Scates said Dr. Mitchell and Sue Garland and Vickie Vaughn had come into the meeting “with guns loads.” I was pretty much raked over the coals. I was so demoralized I didn’t make it to work the next day—my first absence the entire year. Because of had injury, it is difficult for me to articulate point-counterpoint. Moreover, while Dr. Mitchell ET. al, might know a great deal about education, teacher evaluation, etc., I’m sure their knowledge base when it comes to working with employees who have had a head injury is not sound.
To insure that this does not happen again, for my own betterment and the good of all, the approach I want to use would be more along the lines of pin-pointing not only what I need to have improvement in but also what I am good at. Therefore, I request that we get together prior June 27th meeting such that it will be a successful one, not a chance to harangue someone with disability. We need to consult someone like Mr. Marcishi, I feel, to have that resource that can make accommodation successful.

I’ll be calling your firm in the very near future to set up a meeting.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

James R. Hartnett
cc: Alfred J. Marchisio, Jr., M.S.
Thomas Scates, Omaha Education Association

And, from the Korn report, which all ears were attuned to, to see if there was a kernel of truth, they whitted out the paragraph that contained the sentence "The patient is not taking any medication at present; he is a self-reported alcoholic." This omission, plus the mistakenly sent letter, may’ve raised eyebrows.
Pedersen, the district attorney, for his part, was very interested in what was left out.
I wished Korn would've had better ears and added the adjective "recovering" in front of alcoholic but, like the iron, it keeps you honest.
As the summer wended on, I never did receive anything from Dr. Walker. But we seemed to have sufficient ammo. We were getting ready to before “no less that three-school board members” to hash things out. Like always, I had to take it just one day at a time.