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Begging Season
J.F. Chavoor
J.F. Chavoor
I’m not sure when I first started calling the last three weeks of school begging season. Everyone who heard it though thought it was an accurate description. For a certain percentage of our students, what happens is they realize that they are not passing and that not passing will mean not graduating and so they suddenly become actively involved in the process, even when it is too late. They beg for extra credit, or beg to redo failed assignments, or beg make up missing assignments. They sometimes just asked for a grade change for no reason. I had a feeling that Gloria would come begging. The look on her face most of the time was either disdain or disconnection. She sat in the back, often preoccupied with anything other than whatever was going on. “What are you doing, Gloria?” “Nothing.” “Yes. Exactly the problem.” “I have to fill this out Mr. Chavoor.” “You’ll have to fill it out at a different time; either before or after class, but not during class.” “But it’s important.” “I’m sure it is but right now you’re supposed to be writing in your journal.” “Ok.” The next time I looked back there—less than five minutes later—she had an emery board and was doing her nails. “Gloria?” “I’m done Mr. Chavoor.” “Hmm, I’m not sure how you finished. I haven’t seen you start.” “See? Look, Mr. Chavoor,” she said, holding up her journal. “Yes, I see that. But why is Tina laughing?” “I don’t know.” “Maybe she’s thinking I might come back there and find out that the page your journal is open to is from the day before yesterday.” Tina laughed louder. “No. I don’t know what her problem is. She’s high or something.” It was a small class and most of them clustered in the middle of the room but Gloria and her three compatriots took the last four seats in the back row. There they established their own kingdom, where almost any behavior was acceptable, especially if it was either a minimalist version or a complete boycott of whatever the day’s activities might be. There was much to do: texting behind gigantic purses; catalog browsing; makeup adjustments; and plain old note writing. It’s true you can win friends and influence your enemies; it’s also true that you can lose enemies and influence your friends. I should have split them up, but the rest of the class who would engage were also unruly and demanded attention. I went for the larger number of kids who would meet me one fourth of the way as opposed to Gloria and her three associates who wouldn’t meet me anywhere and in fact consistently moved in the opposite direction. They were seniors, not seventh graders. They knew how school, class and grades worked. If they wanted a decent grade they could come get it. Gloria’s attendance was spotty and when she was present her effort was marginal. Her grade began to sink. With three weeks to go she bottomed out at forty-one per cent. She inquired about her grade and I advised her to do well on the final and turn her journal in complete and on time and she would have a chance to pass. With two weeks left she got a B on the final and with one week before signing out she came to ask if there was anything she could do to raise her grade, which was at fifty-four per cent. “Well, Gloria, let’s see. Everything’s in but the grades are low.” She came around to my side of the desk to see the screen. “Yeah.” I flipped through her journal. “Oh wait the journal entries. You didn’t turn that in?” “No.” “Ok, well, let me have your journal and I’ll give you some points. “ “I don’t have it.” “You don’t have it? How come?” “I forgot it at home.” “Can you get that to me tomorrow?” “Yeah.” “It’s already late but if you can get it to me tomorrow I would appreciate it.” “I’ll try.” But she didn’t bring the journal to me, so when I read the final grades to the class the day before check out, Gloria parked herself at my desk when the bell rang at the end of the period. “Is there anything I can do?” “No.” “Anything?” “No, Gloria, I’m sorry. You have fifty-four per cent and you needed sixty.” “Isn’t there like extra credit?” “I did offer extra credit. Let’s see here. Hmm you declined to take up the opportunity at the time, and now the opportunity is over.” “I’ll do a book report.” “No, I don’t give book reports. I’m not reading a book report. I’m not reading any papers from seniors. The grades are done.” She stood motionless at my desk, waiting for me to make some offer. “Is there anything I can do?” “Yes, there is Gloria, there is. There’s night school, summer school or the GED.” She walked out. At lunch the next day one of her teachers approached me and said that Gloria was a good kid and was there anything I could do. I said no. At the end of the day I got a phone call from a former teacher of Gloria’s saying that Gloria had worked really hard to catch up on all the classes she had flunked in the ninth grade, and that she had taken night school and had really improved. Was there anything she could do? I said no. She said that Gloria told her she found her journal, and would I give her some points? I was annoyed but I thought that it might help Gloria to see me enter the late-times- three journal and discover that it wasn’t enough to earn a passing grade. “Here Chavoor,” Gloria said as she handed me the journal. “OK, now. You know that it is the week after senior checkout, right?” “Uh-huh.” She folded her hands like as though she was getting ready to pray. “Oh, wait a minute, now. There are missing entries?” “Yeah.” “You didn’t finish it?” “Unh-uh.” “And some entries are less than a hundred words.” “Yeah. I been busy.” “All right. I’m going to give you half the possible points. It’s late, very late and incomplete. That would be twelve. Let’s see if that puts you over.” “Ok.” “Oh, sorry. Your per cent went up but only to fifty-seven. I’m sorry, Gloria.” “Isn’t there something I can re-do?” “No, it doesn’t work like that. I’m looking at your grades and I only see one zero.” “Let me make that one up.” “Well that’s ten points for turning your benchmark essay in on time.” “Oh.” “The essay, the presentation, the journal all came in late and you lost a lot of points that way.” She left and I thought that would surely be the end of it, but Gloria thought otherwise. Two days later I was grading finals for the juniors. I only had two junior classes and when I finished those finals the year would be essentially over except for letting them play dominoes after they heard their grades. I put the iPod on shuffle and sat down at my desk and was ready to go when I realized I had left the papers at home. It was ten in the morning and I had a huge block of time because my three senior classes were long gone, so I decided to go home, get the papers and come back. It was going to be a nice, quiet, productive day. At home I couldn’t find the papers. They weren’t on the kitchen table, or on the computer desk in the den, or on the dresser in the bedroom, or any of the other usual places. I was in a panic, thinking I had left them in the Xerox room at school, or in someone else’s room, or I had inadvertently scooped them up off my desk with some papers I had thrown away the day before. I stood in the middle of the kitchen with my hands on my temples, and that’s when one of our five vice principals called. “Hello?” “Mr. Chavoor?” “Yes.” “This is Mr. Mendoza. You’re at home?” “That’s correct.” I had no idea why he was calling but I had no fear or even embarrassment. Of course I was home; that’s the number he dialled. I was there on school business—finding those papers— and and besides I had more years in the district than he had on planet earth. “Uh, I’m calling in regards to Gloria Esparza?” “Yes?” “She’s in your English class and she’s….” “She has fifty-four per cent and there’s nothing she can do.” I had had it with that question even if it hadn’t been asked yet. “Yes, but Gloria’s mom is requesting a conference.” “There’s no need for that. Just show her the computer screen. Fifty-four per cent. Five F’s out of the last seven grades. Print it out, put it in her hand.” “She wants to talk to you. She has some questions.” “Is this really necessary?” “Yes, Mr. Chavoor, it is. She’s in my office right now.” “What? Ok. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” When I got there though, Mr. Mendoza wasn’t in his office, so I waited with Gloria and her mom, who told me that Mr. Mendoza had stepped out about five minutes before I arrived. Ten minutes later we were still waiting when Ms. Cervantes, Gloria’s counselor, happened to walk by. When I explained the situation to her she tried to get him on the phone, then tried to get him on the walkie-talkie and then she tried the phone again and got him. She told us he was on his way back. Another ten minutes went by so she called again but once again couldn’t get hold of him. “You know what, Chavoor? I’ll conduct the conference.” “That’s fine.” So I explained about the low grades, the major assignments turned in late and the penalty for turning in things late. Mom and Gloria did not object to a single thing. “Now Mr. Chavoor,” Ms. Cervantes said, “did the students have a syllabus at the beginning of the year? Did the syllabus explain your policy for late work?” “Every single kid in that class and all my classes knew when the benchmark essay was due and the penalty for not meeting the deadline. No one in seventh period was unaware of the deadline or the consequences for late work.” I was annoyed that she would raise this subject and give the Esparzas a wedge for what was a clear cut, well deserved F. I was thinking that Ms. Cervantes’ role should be more judge than defense attorney, but then I remembered something she said a few days earlier, something like, “ Hey Chavoor, I heard you’re destroying the lives of some of my seniors.” I had assumed she was being ironic; now I wasn’t so sure. “But the syllabus, did you hand out a syllabus?” “I handed out the class rules which had the grading policy on it and I described the course for the year.” “Uh-huh.” “Can I say something?” Mrs. Esparza asked. “Of course,” Ms. Cervantes said. “Gloria didn’t do so good and she was absent a lot and English isn’t her best class. But, well, she told me that there was another girl in her class that was more absent than her and that girl she did some make up work and she got like a D.” “Mr. Chavoor?” Ms. Cervantes said. “First of all I am not going to discuss another student’s grade.” “I know that it’s not right to even ask but see, my Gloria, she turned in everything and that journal, and well, still she didn’t pass.” “I’m not going to go down grade for grade…” “I know it.” “I will not make a grade by grade comparison, but I will say this: when I took that girl’s work and entered the points, her percentage went to sixty, but when I took Gloria’s journal and added in those points it did not go to sixty.” “There’s something else,” Mrs. Esparza said softly. “Go ahead,” Ms. Cervantes said. “Mr. Chavoor told Gloria that if she did good on the final and turned in her journal she would get a passing grade.” “No. I would not tell a student with fifty-four per cent she would get a passing grade. I told her that she would have a chance.” “You told her she would.” “I’m quite sure I said she would have a chance. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure. And her journal came late, not on the day I asked. She brought it after senior check out.” “She worked so hard,” Mrs. Esparza said, her voice cracking. “I’m sure she did,” I said. “It’s true she messed up her ninth grade year, and it’s true that she doesn’t work as hard as she should...” Tears rolled down her face and she was unable to finish her thought. Gloria was crying as well. “She just didn’t have the points at the end,” I said. There was no reply. Mrs. Esparza sat with her hands in her lap and her head held high, looking neither left nor right but at a spot just above our heads. I waited for Ms. Cervantes to wrap things up, but she didn’t and we sat looking at each other like cowboys in a saloon at a poker table. I was ready to get up, thank Mrs. Esparza for coming in and just walk out when the phone rang. It was Mr. Mendoza calling his own office saying he wouldn’t be able to come back to conclude the conference and suggested we go to Ms. Harrison’s office as she was available and was a vice principal. So we trooped to the opposite corner of the office where Ms. Harrison introduced herself to Gloria and her mother while Ms. Cervantes faded away like a car dealer handing off a buyer to the closer. We sat down and Ms. Harrison asked me to catch her up, so I told my story, then Mrs. Esparza told hers while Gloria remained uncharacteristically quiet, trusting her mother’s negotiating skills. “Let me just open your file here.” “Why don’t you print it out?” “Good idea, Mr. Chavoor.” She handed Mrs. Esparza a copy of her daughter’s assignments and grades in the second semester of English IV. She glanced at it, then turned it face down and put her hand on it. “Ok, what I see here is quite a few D’s and many more F’s. I see five F’s in the month of May.” “She got a B,” Mrs. Esparza said. “That’s correct, she got a B on the final, and that’s good but there are so many other low grades.” “Several low grades were even lower because of assignments turned in late,” I said. “Gloria, what do you say about these late assignments? Can you explain why they were late?” “Sometimes I forget and sometimes I just don’t want to do it. I procrastinate.” “She’s always had this problem,” Mrs. Esparza said. “I see. I have an additional concern. I’m looking on the record here and it shows that Gloria has not passed the Exit Exam in either English or Math. Is that correct?” “Yes,” Mrs. Esparza said. “Uh-huh,” Gloria said. “She’s been trying real hard,” Mrs. Esparza said. “Yes but here’s what I see: Gloria hasn’t passed the Exit Exam for English. She’s going to have to go to summer school for that.” “She can still walk at graduation though. She can get her certificate of participation.” “That’s true but she also had this apparently on-going problem of procrastination. She herself acknowledges it.” “There was this other girl,” Mrs. Esparza began. “We have already discussed that,” I said. “The grades of other students are not relevant to our conference here. This is about Gloria and her grade, not someone else.” “Yes,” Mrs. Esparza said. It was quiet. I made myself ready to get up from the chair when Mrs. Esparza went back to the story of the other girl getting a D. I must have grimaced or made some kind of face to inspire Ms. Harrison’s next move. “You know? I’m going to ask Mr. Chavoor to step outside for minute so that we can talk about this some more.” I looked at Ms. Harrison and she nodded. “All right,” I said. “Come right over here Mr. Chavoor, and wait in the principal’s office.” I stepped into the principal’s office. Ms. Harrison followed me in and Mr. Desmond was there, seated at his desk, fiddling with his cell phone. “Oh hello there, Jack,” Mr. Desmond said and resumed fiddling. “Hello.” “I just wanted to bring you over here,” Ms. Harrison said, “because it looked like it might get heated.” “What?” “On their part.” “This isn’t complicated,” I said. “She’s ridiculous. The girl hasn’t even passed the CAHSEE.” “That’s right.” “Don’t worry.” She went out. “How are you, Professor Chavoor?” “Fine. Better in three days.” “I hear you, brother. Put a fork in me, I’m done!” “Yeah, no kidding.” “That was a fine quote you posted today, sir.” “Thanks, Boss.” We talked for a few minutes and Ms. Harrison came back. “Did you offer points for having the class rules at the end of the semester?” “Yes I did. But that was the first semester.” “Ok.” “And the amount of points was marginal.” “No worries. I told them Gloria was not going to pass.” “Thank you,” I said and started to get up. “But they want to appeal the decision.” “What?” “They want to take it downtown. They want to go there in like an hour.” “I can’t believe it. Did you tell them not to?” “It’s within their rights, Jack,” Mr. Desmond said. “Can you get me your syllabus for English IV?” Ms. Harrison asked. “What for?” “They’ll need it downtown,” Mr. Desmond said. “You’ve got one on file here, don’t you?” “I think so, maybe,” Ms. Harrison replied. They couldn’t find one. I told them I would look for one in my room but I hadn’t handed one out in years. “I’m gonna call down there right now,” Mr. Desmond said, picking up the phone. “We getting our story in first?” I asked. “You bet,” Mr. Desmond replied, smiling. So the phone call was made, the facts were faxed, and I scrammed to my room and typed up a syllabus. It was twelve-thirty. I had spent two and a half hours on explaining why Gloria got the grade she deserved. Their appointment with a downtown suit was at one-thirty. I walked to Fung’s on Butler Avenue and had a mountain of almond chicken and spare ribs. The man in the booth behind me was explaining to his out of town brother that his son was a good for nothing no-count. The ribs had a faint but distinctive taste of mothballs. I walked slowly down Cedar Avenue wondering what happened to the sneakers that hung from the telephone line for so many years. Two students asked me why I was walking in their neighborhood; I told them it was mine. It was close to three when I saw Ms. Harrison in the parking lot heading home and she told me that they got a call from downtown and they said that Gloria and Mrs. Esparza never showed, and unfortunately, sadly, neither I nor Ms. Harrison were surprised. © J.F. Chavoor. All Rights Reserved Millionstories.net |
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