Maria is dozing on the couch opposite the Christmas tree. She can hear the sink running; her daughter Felicia is washing the last dinner dishes. She can hear the football game her son is watching on the TV behind her, his socks sticking out over the ottoman, where he's perched. A bottle of wine from the case her friend Janice has sent her sits empty.
Maria feels more content than she has in memory, certainly since she moved to New York. The sense of depression that set down over her once the divorce decree became final was like a streak of dismal weather she couldn't shake off. That was Thanksgiving, which she spent alone. Felicia was always planning on coming for Christmas; with Evan you never know. Apparently things with his girlfriend are on the rocks. He came and he came alone. Maria is grateful that he suppressed his own sorrows. Once he saw that she lacked a tree, he and Felicia went to get one, trimming it in a somewhat improvised way. He made a nice dinner. They had talked about going to the movies, and they still might, but Maria is happy to just lie there.
She thinks about her students. There's Willie, telling a funny story over dinner. There's Kenny tinkering with a new piece of software. She imagines Peter texting with Ali. Vanessa no doubt is shopping online. Her school sits silent and empty. It has the last few days; it will for the next week.
Derek Clark. Where is Derek? She's not sure she's ever seen him smile. Maria would like to make him her project in the coming year.
Ten years ago her kids were teens, sleeping late on Christmas morning and scheming to see their friends. Twenty years ago they were up at the crack of dawn to see what Santa brought. They were a real family then. Ten years from now, God willing, she'll be a grandmother. Maria will be almost sixty. Retirement on the horizon.
She thinks of Jack Casey, surely with his daughter now. They'll be thinking about their lost wife and mother. Jack is clearly trying to move on. Maybe Maria should too. But right now, there's a joy in stillness.
She senses Felicia nearby. Through half-closed eyes she sees her pick up the empty wine bottle. "Should we open another one?" she asks her brother. "Nah," he replies. "I gotta drive back to the hotel. I guess Mom's too tired to go to the movie."
"No I'm not," Maria says through her eyes remain closed.
"Oh you're not, are you?" asks Evan, clearly amused.
"Let me just sit here for another minute," Maria says. Is this what happiness is, she wonders? "All right then," she says, opening them to see the apartment in pristine condition. "Let's go."
In which we see Ms. Bradstreet study outside her field
The Maria Chronicles, # 19
Maria was reluctant when her department chair/emergent friend Jen Abruzzi called her up on Saturday morning, announcing she was coming by in two hours to take Maria to the football team's home game. "I've got too much work to do," she protested.
"Now, now, Maria, all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl. I think you'll enjoy it."
"I don't know anything about football!"
"You think I do?" Maria knows Jen does, but decides not to argue.
"C'mon," Jen continues. "It'll be fun. Lots of familiar faces. And I'll take you out for a hot toddy afterward."
Maria wasn't sure she was up for lots of familiar faces, but less sure she wanted to spend the day alone. So it was that she put on jeans, a long sleeve t-shirt, and a wool sweater. She also found an old scarf in the school colors that she wrapped around her neck. Almost like a real fan.
They didn't actually arrive until the game was apparently well underway -- the scoreboard clock said 6:31, whatever that meant -- and Maria found herself in the grip of diametrically opposed emotions. She felt an incipient dread over seeing anyone she knew, and yet was impressed, even awed, by the spectacle: the packed bleachers, a concession stand, cheerleaders, and the absolutely enormous players in their shoulder pads and helmets. Maria followed Jen as she skirted up the sidelines. If this was a pool, Maria would be wanting to dip her foot in gingerly. But Jen isn't giving her that option.
"Hi Ms. Bradstreet!" Maria doesn't recognize the face. "Hi," she says noncommittally.
A man she definitely does not know tips his school cap. "Ms. Bradstreet," he says evenly.
"Hello," she replies.
Jen, who's in front of her, turns around. "Hey Ed," she says. "This is Maria. I believe you two recently resolved a problem with our mutual friend Janey Wilcox."
Ugh, Maria thinks. That's a dispute over releasing a student for a soccer game that Maria would rather forget, since it required her to eat crow by e-mail. But Ed extends his hand. "Nice to finally meet you in person, Maria," he says, offering his hand. "And good of you to show up today in support of our boys." He's choosing to interpret my presence here as an act of good sportsmanship, Maria thinks to herself.
"Just trying to continue my education, Ed," Maria says. He smiles, perhaps knowing better than to say anything Maria would be quick to find patronizing.
Thankfully, Jen is pulling on Maria's sleeve, which allows her to wave goodbye in haste without making further eye contact. "Over there," Jen says, pointing to an open section at far corner the top row of the bleachers.
"Hi Ms. Bradstreet!" Maria sees her students Mia, Maggie and Tess, faces painted, arms folded to retain heat, greeting her in unison at the foot of the bleachers. She's glad to see them. "Hello girls," she says warmly. "How are we doing!"
"We're cold!" Maggie says."C'mon, she says to her pals. Let's get some hot chocolate."
Maria murmurs greetings to various people as she and Jen climb the steps. Jen, for her part, is making her way like a small-town mayor, waving and smiling her way to their seats. Maria sees English teacher Carl Kurtz, motioning them over and sliding down to make room for them. Is this why Jen targeted this location? Maria isn't sure how she feels about Carl, who she is now forced to sit beside as Jen makes her way to the other side of him.
Maria decides to avoid conversation by feigning interest in the game. In fact, she's fascinated by the spectacle: the sweep of colored uniforms on the field; the sweep of autumn leaves in against the gun-metal sky; the smell of of the grills on the ground wafting up the stands. (She realizes she's hungry.) She hopes it doesn't rain, as she has no umbrella or even a hat.
She's snapped out of her reverie by a huge roar from the crowd. She can't resist: "What just happened?"
"Complete pass," Carl answers, eyes still fixed on the field. "Not something you see very often in high school football," he continues, the wry expression on his face suggesting that it should be otherwise. "Not that it's done us much good. It's still third and seven."
Maria has no idea what Carl is talking about, though she likes the gentle tone of irony, even as she's struck by the lack of irony in his use of the collective pronoun. "Are you much of a football fan, Carl?"
"Well," he says, "I guess you could say so," glancing briefly at her and smiling. Two sets of players run on the field, and two more run off. "Not that I can claim to be any kind of expert. But I did play in college."
"Really?" Where did you play?"
"At Penn State," Jen answers for him. "Carl was a linebacker who played for Joe Paterno, one of the legends of the game."
"I was a second stringer," Carl says, embarrassed by Jen's boosterism.
"That's not what I heard," Jen responds. "Tom" -- Jen is referring to a colleague in the math department -- "told me you were a starter in your senior year. And that you had conversations with the Green Bay Packers organization."
Carl, suddenly riveted by the action on the field, perhaps coveniently ignores this remark. "Go go! go! go! go!"
The rest of the crowd has also erupted with excitement, as Maria sees a player run down the field with the ball, the rest of the players in tow. "Did you see that catch?" she hears as she watches players with the other uniforms in hot pursuit. (She had not.) "Go Tyler Go!" she hears. "Tyyyylerrrr!"
By this point, Tyler has reached the end of the field and the opposing players are suspending their pursuit. Happy teammates swarm around him. "That's our boy," Carl says. "Only a sophomore, but already a seasoned veteran."
The player is now making his way off the field, to ongoing slaps and evident, if unheard, words of praise. When he takes off his helmet, Maria feels a sense of shock: This is her Tyler, from her history survey class. She should have made the connection -- Tyler is not all that common a name -- but it just never occurred to her to think it. Not much of a student, truth be told. Not exactly a bad student; he does his work without incident or complaint. But his prose is flat and unimaginative. But here, he's a star. He's beaming now, and his smile is just wonderfully winning. This kid has a whole life she knows nothing about. Maria sees he's now standing next to the also unhelmeted Ali, who's also in her class. She never thought of them as particularly friendly, and, truth be told, she wouldn't think a kind with a name like Ali would be playing a game like football. But she imagines that as a teammate the two share some kind of bond.
Maria is still digesting all of this when she looks down at the ground level of the bleachers and sees him, the figure she has mentally referred to "cuff man," because every times she sees this person at school, which is not all that often, he has his dress shirt open at the collar and his sleeves rolled halfway up. Today he's wearing a brown suede bomber jacket and black jeans, talking amiably with what Maria would guess is a coach wearing a team cap and carrying a clipboard. Maria feels a surprising pit in her stomach. She's tempted to ask Carl or Jen what the man's name is, and what he does at the school, but thinks better of it. They would be too curious about her curiousity. Besides, this is enough excitement for one day. She doesn't want her world to get too big too fast.
In which we see Ms. Bradstreet misjudge the dimensions of a playing field
The Maria Chronicles, #13
Maria, preoccupied with getting the Last of the Mohicans DVD into the computer in her classroom, is a little surprised to see Janey approach at the start of class on a late September Tuesday afternoon. Bent over the machine, she looks up. "What can I do for you, Janey? she asks. "Hi, Ms. Bradstreet. Hi." She pauses. "I just wanted to let you know that I have an away soccer game at Poly tomorrow and that Coach Atkins said we need to be let out of class at 2:30 tomorrow.
This was not what Maria expected her to say. She stands up, now about Janey's height. "Oh he does, does he?"
"She, actually."
"Ah. She. She needs you at 2:30." Maria puckers her lips and nods her head slightly. "You know, Janey, I have needs, too. Like that colonial history essay you were supposed to give me last week. I never heard back from you regarding that e-mail I sent you yesterday asking about it. I need to grade that essay."
Janey's eyes dart across the room and back before she looks at Maria. "Yeah. OK. I'll turn it in tomorrow."
"Wonderful. So you'll turn it in at the start of of class, and I'll let you go halfway through at 2:30. We have a deal?"
"Uh. Yeah. OK." She walks to the back of the room and takes her seat next to her pal Karina.
Believe it when I see it, Maria thinks. She returns her attention to the pending film screening. With the movie cued, she asks Willie to pull down the shades and Kenny to shut off the lights. At one point she sees Janey staring off into space during the scene when Daniel Day-Lewis rescues Madeleine Stowe from the evil Magua. Maria's annoyance is trumped by her enthusiasm for the movie, which she must have seen a dozen times now. My God, she thinks, Daniel Day-Lewis is a handsome man.
Maria doesn't think about her exchange with Janey again until the next morning, when she arrives at work and sees through the doorway of department chair, Jen Abruzzi, who is on the phone. "Morning, Jen," she says. Jen looks at her, nods, and hold up a finger indicating she wants to speak with Maria in what seems to be the conclusion of her call. She turns away for a second to hang up and then comes out the door. "Good morning, Maria," she says. "Can you tell me what's happening with the Janey Wilcox situation?"
Maria is taken aback, and responds guardedly "Well, not much. I came to an understanding with Janey yesterday that if she gave me an overdue essay I would excuse her early for her soccer game."
Jen nods. "That was Ed on the phone."
"Ed?"
"Ed Siborsky. The AD."
"AD?"
"The Athletic Director. Apparently Janey told Sherri Atkins, a part-time coach who doesn't actually teach here, that you weren't allowing her to participate in the game, so Sherri called Ed. Ed called me."
"I didn't say she couldn't participate." Maria pauses and then speaks, unable to contain her irritation. "And I didn't realize my handling of 'the situation' required three other people to get involved. Seems to me that the athletic people are encroaching on what should be an academic matter between student and teacher."
Jen maintains an even tone. "Well, I guess Janey couldn't or wouldn't finish the essay, so she reported she wasn't allowed to go. School policy is that students are to be excused for athletic events at the discretion of coaches, under the supervision of the AD, unless the kid is on academic probation. Ed checked with the high school office that Janey wasn't on probation, so he called me to find out what was going on. He probably should have called you directly, but we've worked together a lot on these things."
"I see."
"Ed's position is that when you tell a kid she can't make a game you're actually penalizing a whole team. He said Janey's coach describes her as 'the linchpin of the defense,' using her fingers as quotation marks to convey that she doesn't necessarily accept everything Ed says at face value.
"Since when do coaches use terms like 'linchpin?" asks Maria, who's only half-joking.
"Now, now Maria," wagging a finger that may also only be half in jest. "I reminded him that the burden of team spirit should fall on the child meeting her responsibilities, not on the teacher managing a course. Ed doesn't disagree. But he points out that this isn't always the way these things are understood by the student or her teammates, and that faculty don't always appreciate the impact of their decisions or the logistical difficulties the PE staff has in trying to organize games." "Should that be my problem?"
"Don't get me wrong," Jen says, refusing to engage in direct argument. "I understand where you're coming from. If you decide that Janey really should be on academic probation, we'll get that form in and I'll back you with Ed a hundred percent. And he'll back down. I just want to clarify where we stand."
"That's exactly the problem," Maria replies. "I haven't actually seen any real work from this kid yet, so I don't know where we stand. I can't tell if she's lazy, or has a learning disability, or whatever. I don't like her classroom profile much. I probably should have more work from her than I do, which is partly my fault. But until I feel like I have a sense of her, I can't really say where she is. Except that I now know that she's pretty good at gaming the system."
Jen nods. "Well, I think you're going to have to decide if this is a battle you want to fight."
Maria chuckles mirthlessly. "I didn't realize I was in a war zone."
Jen smiles at her sympathetically. "This is just one of those things that happens when you're new. Not really anyone's fault."
No, Maria thinks. But that doesn't make her any less the loser. She believes Jen really would back her -- to a point, anyway. But she can't really afford to take on the Athletic Department now. She simply doesn't have the political capital. Yet conceding the point will undoubtedly cost her with the students. Jen Wilcox will be on the bus to Poly this afternoon, and everyone will know it. God knows if or when she'll actually see the essay, and when she does, any critical comments will be seen as Ms. Bradstreet having it in for her. Wilcox 1, Bradstreet 0.
Maria exhales sharply. "All right then," she says after what has been a long pause. "I'll tell Janey she can go, whether or not she gives me the essay."
"And I'll take care of Ed," Jen says.
"No," Maria says. "Let me do it. I'll send him an e-mail and apologize for my ignorance about school policies. Sounds like he's a reasonable guy. Probably better to take my lumps directly than for this to turn into some kind of lingering thing. Who knows, maybe he'll explain the point of soccer to me."
Jen smiles appreciatively at this plan. "Not bad, Maria. Not bad at all."
"Well, not good, at any rate. Serves me right. This is what I get for cutting gym so often."
In which we see Ms. Bradstreet drive a hard bargain
The Maria Chronicles, #9
Maria expected she’d be challenged in one way or another fairly early on. Realistically, day two is about right. Still feels early, though.
Actually, there are two challenges. Neither of them is direct; the students involved may not even be aware that they’re making it difficult to do her job and are corroding her authority. At another time, she might be willing to let them slide. But she doesn’t think she can afford to now. Cede ground here and it may be very hard to get it back.
The first challenge is from two girls off toward right side of the room. One’s name is Janey. She doesn’t quite remember the other girl’s name. Katrina? No – Karina. They’ve been chatting away for a good ten minutes now. It started out surreptitious but has become increasingly animated.
The other challenge is from the back left, a kid named Derek. He’s hiding behind his long mane of hair and his laptop. Maria allows them, reluctantly: they’re too hard to fight at this point. She sees it as her job to keep students focused on the class; if nothing else, and upcoming test or essay should command their attention. But not Derek. His eyeballs are obviously scanning away at something unrelated to the class. He hasn’t gazed up since the start. Maria knows many of the kids in the room are aware of this, even though they’re pretending not to be. Just like she’s pretending, too. But she's going to have to act.
Now where was she? Oh yes. “So as I’ve been saying,” she tells the class, “Europeans justified their presence in the Americas in terms of helping the Natives, which typically took the form of saying they were going to Christianize them. She points at the the Smart Board where, before class, she googled and projected the official seal for the colony of Massachusetts. Can you see the words coming out of the Indian's mouth?
Apparently not. Maria reads them herself: "He's saying, ‘Come over and help us.’”
Wilhelmina, whose nickname is Willie, gives a wry smile. She perceives the irony and is trying to show her attentiveness. Eddie smirks, as if this euphemism for a naked power grab by adult figures is the story of his life. Another kid, Maria still doesn’t know her name, raises her hand. Maria nods to her.
“The Indians didn’t understand the concept of private property,” the girl explains authoritatively. “They had no word for ‘our,’ or ‘mine.’”
OK. Maria thinks, Now. “Well, I don’t know about that,” she says says, beginning to walk slowly toward the right side of the room, all eyes on her, wondering, literally and figuratively, where she's going. “Certainly, there were a lot of Indian languages, and I don’t know how much variation there was in the understanding of the concept of ownership.” She pauses before Janey and Karina, who stop talking and are looking at her expectantly. Maria ignores them. “I do think there was some notion of ownership on a collective level. You could say, for example, ‘this meadow is Choctaw land,’ or ‘that river belongs to the Huron.’ But Natives did not typically divide up property on an individual level, and since they moved around a lot, a notion of ownership was not always permanent. In any case, many of them at least initially had a hard time understanding the idea that you could buy or sell land or water for cash.”
“They probably thought it was dumb,” another kid, Maria thinks his name is Matt, says. “Here’s this white guy handing me over money and the Indian probably says to himself, you want to give me money to fish in this lake? Go ahead, pal. Fish there. I’ll let you. Not that you’re going to keep me from fishing there.”
“Yes,” Maria says, encouragingly, “Something like that.” Maria shoots a glance across the room. “Like our friend Derek here.” Derek looks up from his laptop, surprised. “Derek here is a Narragansett Indian. Derek, we’d like to buy the air rights in this room from you. Would that be alright?”
Derek looks dazed. “What? You want to buy the air what?” Some giggles. That’s Derek, they seem to say.
“The air rights, Derek. We’d like to buy them from your people. Would you consent to sell them to us?”
Derek, as it turns out, is a relatively quick study. He processes this for a moment and then smiles. He gets it. “Why yes, Ms. Bradstreet. I’ll be happy to sell you the air rights.
"You are authorized to speak and act for your people, are you not?"
"Yeah. I am."
“Wonderful,” Maria replies. “Always a relief to know you're dealing with the the right person. How does 10 hogsheads of tobacco sound to you?”
Derek purses his lips. “I dunno. Let’s make it 20.”
Maria changes her expression and inflects her voice with irritation. “Fine,” she says, as if it’s anything but. “Twenty it is. Get out of here, Derek.”
Derek tilts his head, furrows his brow. “Leave?”
“Yes. Go. Right now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What part of ‘go’ or ‘now’ don’t you understand?” Willie’s brows are raised. Janey and Karina are looking on, fascinated.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“I dunno. Did you? I can tell you one thing. If you don’t leave this room immediately we are going to have a problem that’s bigger than me and you and any imagined Indians you claim to represent.”
“I don’t get it,” Derek mutters, closing his laptop. He gets up and walks out of the room disgusted. “Hey,” Maria says as he leaves, “It’s nothing personal, Derek.”
“Jeez,” Maria says to the rest of the class. “I mean, he did sell the air rights, didn’t he?” A couple smiles. Do they understand what she did? “I mean, who would have figured he was so eager to stay? I tell you, those Narragansetts,” she says, tapping her forehead with her index finger.“Loco, you know what I mean?” The nervous laughter loosens up. “Next time, I think I’ll just stick with the rum. Makes it easier to reason with them.” Some full-throated laughter now. “See you tomorrow, kids.”
“See you tomorrow, Ms. Bradstreet!” Willie says. My eager beaver, Maria thinks. A few of them have smiles on their faces, but others are expressionless.
“You sold the air rights, so you had to leave,” Maria hears someone explaining to Derek, still clearly around the corner. “That was the point, you idiot.”
Not quite, Maria thinks to herself. She may have overplayed it. “Derek?” she asks loudly, hoping to summon him from the hallway. “You there?” He appears, looking thoroughly confused, a combination of fear and anger. She’s going to reassure him now, flatter him for thinking on his feet (even if he didn’t do as good a job as he thought he did). And let him know he’s going to have to do a better job of pretending to pay attention from now on.
In which we see Ms. Bradstreet make her classroom debut The Maria Chronicles, #8
First class, first day of school. Maria has emerged from the stall of the faculty women’s room, where, it turns out, she didn’t have to throw up after all. She has splashed cold water on her face and wiped it off, smoothed out her hair, straightened out her blouse, and sailed into that classroom like she’d done it a thousand times. The sudden hush that had overtaken the room in her wake almost unnerved her again. But then her anger at herself kicked in; she'd pronounced “Good Morning” in a strong clear voice (“G’mrning” was the collective, murmured reply) and she’s worked her way steadily through the attendance sheet she left in her in-box yesterday in preparation for this moment. Almost done.
“Wilhemina?”
“Here! You can call me Willie,” she says brightly. (Sweet face, Maria thinks to herself.)
“Kenny”?
“That’s me.” (Oh yes – the kid who helped me with the computer a couple weeks ago. Nice smile, even if there is an air of goofiness about him.)
“Derek?”
“Yeah.” (Dark hair, dark eyes. Only glanced up from his laptop only momentarily. Could be a problem.)
“And, last but not least: Vanessa?”
“I’m Vanessa.” (Pretty, in an edgy way. Definitely wants to be heard.) “All right then,” Maria says, standing up and walking over to the Smart Board. She spent an hour here earlier this week practicing with it. Now she turns her back to the class and writes a single word with the red magic pen. Then she boxes it, presses the upper-right hand corner of the box and voila:
F R E E D O M.
“So let’s plunge right in,” she says. “We’re going to start talking about Native Americans tomorrow, but by way of getting started, I thought we could have a brief discussion of a key concept in this course. So tell me: What does this word” – she points at the Smart Board – “mean to you?”
A pause. Maria has braced herself for silence. She’s relieved that it turns out to be brief. “It means the ability to do something,” Vanessa says.
“The ability to do something,” Maria repeats.
“Yeah,” Vanessa says. “The ability to do something, like speak out. Freedom of speech.”
“I see. And presumably that would include the ability to do other things too, like worship?”
“Sure,” Vanessa replies. “Whatever you're into.” Some chuckles at this.
A boy raises his hand. “Tell me your name again?” Maria asks.
“Well, it’s Andrew on your class list, but call me A.J.”
“O.K., A.J. And what does freedom mean to you?”
“I think economics is an important part of freedom.
“Yeah, if you've got money,” Matt interjects.
“Is money a form of freedom?”
“Absolutely,” Matt replies. “Most important kind of freedom there is.”
“Is there any kind of freedom money can't get you?”
“I don't know,” he says. “I'll let you know when I feel like I have enough to find out.” Maria hears a cackle to her right: “Ha!” It’s Vanessa.
A girl raises her hand, and Maria nods to her. Anticipating her question, she says, “I’m Maggie. To me, freedom is not only the ability to do or get things, she says. It's also the ability to not have to do things. Freedom from.
“Good point,” Maria says. “We all like freedom from rules we consider pointless or oppressive. The term that’s often associated with this idea is ‘negative freedom.’”
“Like homework,” Matt says. “That’s freedom I’ve just lost.” Some chuckles.
Wasn't there like a famous speech that talked about freedom from, the girl with the pleasant smile asks – Willie, Maria remembers. “Freedom from fear?
“Yes. That's Franklin Delano Roosevelt's ‘Four Freedoms’ speech. We'll talk about that in this course, probably sometime in May. I'm impressed that you know that, Willie.” She beams.
A black haired kid – Jose? No, it’s Jake, Maria thinks – raises his hand. She nods to him. By staying silent, there's no mistake, but no confirmation, either.
“Freedom is relative,” he says.
“What do you mean by 'relative?'”
“It's always limited. You can't have complete freedom, because otherwise you'd have chaos.”
“I believe the correct term is anarchy.’”
“Fine, anarchy. But the other thing is that your freedom always gets in the way of someone else's.”
“Always?”
“Pretty much. Like if I own a business on some land, and a river runs through that land, and I pollute it, I have the freedom to do that and the freedom to deprive an environmentalist of a clean river.”
“Another girl raises her hand, and takes Maria’s eye contact as her cue to go ahead, which it more or less is. “I don't think one person's freedom always has to interfere with somebody else's, she says. My decision what to wear doesn't really hurt anyone, for instance. I think people should have as much freedom as they can as long as they don't hurt somebody else.”
“Don't be so sure, Olivia,” Matt says.
“Don't be so sure of what?” Olivia responds.
“That what you're wearing doesn't hurt anyone,” he answers, suppressing a smile.
Olivia wrinkles her face with distaste, and sticks her tongue out at Matt.Maria is a bit disappointed; for a minute there, she thought the class might be headed toward a discussion of sweatshop labor. “Are we going to be tested on this?” Vanessa asks.
“Not directly,” Maria answers, hoping she doesn’t betray her irritation. “This is more like an ice-breaker.”
Maria glances up at the clock. About 10 minutes left. She decides to buy some good will by not trying to squeeze out every last drop on the first day.
“All right then. I suppose that's enough for now. You can go.”
“Thank you, Ms. Bradstreet! a voice says amid the chatter of this first exit.”
“Thank you!”
“Is the homework on the website?”
“Yes, yes.”
“See you tomorrow!” Willie says.
Yes you will, Maria thinks. Tomorrow, and the day after that, and the week after that, and month after month after month after that. Maria feels another flittering of panic and despair: “I'm in this thing for real now,” she says aloud to the empty room. And then the sense of dread passes. This is the ground, these are the terms, of her vocation.
In which we see Ms. Bradstreet weigh how much homework is enough
The Maria Chronicles, #2
Maria is conflicted. It's a Sunday night in mid-July, and she's sitting on the deck outside her frighteningly expensive, but at least unpacked, little apartment on Southside Avenue. She believes that what her landlord told her is true, that it will afford a view of the Hudson come winter when all the greenery is gone. For now she settles for occasional pedestrian traffic and the occasional sound of the Metro North train coming into the station a couple blocks away. She's been bent over her laptop for hours now, the container of lo mein she brought home from dinner last night long since forgotten, as is the half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio. Standing up, she realizes that her back and neck are sore from her unnatural position. It hadn't been her intention to spend so much time on the syllabus for this new course, which she looked at after she came home from a jog in the park, but once she got started her immersion had been complete. Until a few minutes ago, anyway, when she got stuck. Now she stands, realizes it's getting dark, and moves her stuff inside to the kitchen. No more wine. She's tired. And about a week into her new life, a little lonely.
The problem is with her new "Advanced Topics" class. This is actually a plum assignment in a portfolio that includes the year-long survey and other staple courses. The school recently decided to drop its AP curriculum as too restrictive, a move she thoroughly endorses. This has opened up a space for an elective of her choosing, and Maria has decided she would like to try her hand at historiography in a class she's calling "Great Debates in U.S. History." She's using the latest edition of a nice course reader that she got as a desk copy last year, having then decided it was something she would like build a course around someday. That came to pass sooner than expected -- along with the end of her marriage, a new home, and a new job, which she hadn't expected at all.
The issue at hand is how much work she can or should try to get out of her still-imagined students. Maria knows she's going to ask them to write a couple short pieces on readings of their choice. She also knows she's going to ask them to do a final project on a movie with a historical theme, like Last of the Mohicans or Saving Private Ryan, that she'll want them to situate in terms of academic scholarship at the time of its release and/or today. What she can't quite decide is whether to require them to read and write a review of a major piece of historical writing from a list she'll give them, something that will include classics like Garry Wills's Lincoln at Gettysburg or Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's Good Wives. The books would have to be short. And she knows it will be tough for students who will no doubt also be taking similarly challenging courses in science and math, not to mention playing soccer, performing in the percussion ensemble, or whatever. But shouldn't they have a sustained encounter with a major piece of historical scholarship? Especially since they're taking this course because they want to be challenged? Or maybe she should be thinking, as education guru Ted Sizer says, that Less Is More. Maybe three short reaction pieces, the movie essay, and class participation is enough.
Maria knows that the issue isn't entirely intellectual or pedagogical. It's at least as much about the kind of tone and reputation she's going to establish, how she's going to be perceived. Will they see her as a hard-ass? Is that a bad thing? She knows from experience that setting the bar too high discourages kids, some of whom will drop out -- and a sharp melt early on will not be good for her image. On the other hand, setting the bar too low conveys a lack of seriousness, and paradoxically may mean she gets even less work out of them. It's more important than usual that she get this right.
The sudden burst of Los Lobos's version of "La Bamba" from her cell phone comes as a relief to Maria. She's glad to have the diversion and human contact, particularly when she sees that it's her daughter Felicia calling from Seattle, where she's now a few months into her job as a reporter for the History News Network website (thank God her boyfriend, a software designer, has a salary they can live on).
"Hello darling!"
"Hello Mama! How are you?"
"I'm great. Really great!"
"Oh no you're not. I can tell from your voice."
"Now honey, don't you start."
"What is it, Mama? You feeling all alone out there? How could you not? You know, the Labor Day weekend coming up, but I bet I could even -- "
"Nevermind about that. You tell me how you are."
There's a pause. Maria knows Felicia hears the edge in her mother's voice. The right answer is to answer. Good girl: Felicia does, with talk about the office, her boyfriend David, a recent visit to Vancouver. This goes on for a while. When Maria senses that Felicia wants to turn the conversation back to her, she shifts the ground again.
"And your brother? Have you heard from him?"
"Yeah, I talked with him yesterday," Felicia answers. "I didn't get the sense things were all honky dory with Doreen -- he sounded a little tired, maybe even down -- but I didn't press and he didn't say much on that. His work is going well, though. And what about your work? Are you preparing for classes?"
This is safe ground. "Indeed I am. Maria describes her curricular planning, including the work she'd done that afternoon. She also decides that Felicia is a good sounding board, and asks her opinion.
"Oh I would definitely assign the book," Felicia says. "Let 'em do some real history. You're talking as if you're going to inflict pain on them. It'll be fun!"
"Well, it would be fun for you. You were always the golden girl when it came to homework. I'm worried about it being perceived as too burdensome."
"Burdensome, schmerdensome! If you're really worried about it, have them read the book over spring break."
A good idea. But Maria shoots it down. "Can't. I was told when I was hired that they really try hard not to make the place too much of a grind. School policy is no homework over vacations."
"Well, that may be the policy, but you and I both know there will always be kids who do homework over vacations, whether they want to or not. So don't actually assign it for the break. Set it up so that anyone who wants to can read it at the airport while waiting six hours to board the plane to Orlando, but no one will actually have to read it, because the review won't be due for a week or so after that."
"Honey, you're brilliant."
"Of course I am. That's why I'm making a fortune here writing news digests for HNN. Have you asked my good-for-nothing brother what he thinks?" Maria knows Felicia really is fond of Evan, and really thinks of him as lazy.
"That good-for-nothing brother of yours is making about twice as much as you are. But no, I haven't asked him."
"Well don't. You know what he'll say."
Maria does. That's why she's tempted to call him. But she knows that he's going to a Coldplay concert tonight.
Maria gazes back out toward the deck. It's fully dark now, and she's fully tired. "You know, Mama, David has some frequent flyer miles. I could get out there to see you maybe even next weekend."
This is all too tempting an offer. "Nonsense. Maybe Labor Day. We'll see. Let me go, honey. I want to catch some re-runs of In Treatment on HBO."
"OK, Mama. You think about that visit. I can be there at a snap of your fingers."
"I know, sweetheart. Thank you. Love to David."
Maria has no intention of watching In Treatment. Instead, she puts her wineglass in the dishwasher, turns off her computer, and turns on a lamp in her bedroom, where a paperback copy of Elizabeth Strout's Olive Kitteridge awaits. She had already thought of what Felicia had said. But hearing her say it has emboldened her. It's going on the syllabus. She can change her mind later. Ted Sizer says less is more, she thinks as she takes off her shorts and crawls into bed with the T-shirt she put on after the shower that followed her run. But he also talks about patient expectation. Something like that. I'll aim high, at first, anyway. That's always been my way. Mark would say that's why he had the affair -- that my standards are too high, but . . . .
Maria is grateful for her exhaustion. She's barely opened the novel before she falls asleep.
