Emergency Teacher by Christina Asquith

African American. And she did not speak Spanish. Judging by the stiff body language of the teachers at my table, the principal was not going to be popular.
    â€œIt’s hard to believe, but only two weeks ago the superintendent of schools called me himself. I was on the beach on vacation with my family at the time. He asked if I would be willing to be principal here.”
    She laughed a little to herself. “Two weeks is hardly enough time to prepare an entire school for a new year. I’ve been working hard each day from 5 AM until 6 PM. I am committed to moving this school up.”
    She walked from behind the card catalog in a sweeping manner, as though on stage in a grand theater. Her words sharpened.
    â€œWe have nowhere to go but up,” she began. “Julia de Burgos is one of the worst middle schools in all of Philadelphia. It has the lowest test scores of any other middle school. Student attendance is 70 percent. Teacher attendance is not much higher.”
    Another teacher shook his head, as if to say her numbers were not correct, but the new principal was looking to the back of the library, as if speaking to an amphitheater of people. She continued to tick off offenses.
    â€œThe number of violent incidents here each year is inexcusable. The state is investigating the school for problems with its special education students. Starting this year, no teacher will be allowed to suspend special education students,” she said. “We’ll find a way to deal with them.”
    This sounded ominous. Was she hinting at grade inflation? That would be a major story for the Inquirer , but of course I didn’t work there anymore. No one there even realized I had become a schoolteacher. Most people looked at me strangely when I told them. A few weeks earlier, I was chatting with a police officer in Rittenhouse Square, and I mentioned my new job. He was happy for me until I revealed the location at Eighth and Lehigh Avenues in North Philly.
    â€œWhaddaya, nuts? That place is a toilet,” he said. “We get called in there every day.”
    Glancing around the library, I tried to imagine hardened city cops arresting the kids. The principal rambled on, and teachers stared stone-faced or rolled their eyes toward the high ceiling. I wondered how often they’d heard this “there’s-a-new-sheriff-in-town” speech.
    â€œFailure will not be an option. I will work until they spread my ashes in the Poconos to turn this school around,” she promised.
    The principal gave a thirty-minute speech about her life growing up and what motivated her as a principal. She said she had moved among twelve foster homes, and although she was gifted, she also had undiagnosed dyslexia, which many teachers interpreted as stupidity. It was a moving speech.
    â€œI know what it feels like to be alone,” she said. “I don’t want any child at this school to ever feel alone. Find a way to have magic in every child.”
    We received the school-year calendar, and the veteran teachers huddled together, laughing, pulling out red pens, and circling each holiday with flourish. There were two days off for Thanksgiving, a week for Christmas, Martin Luther King Day, Presidents’ Day, spring recess, Good Friday, Memorial Day—by June 15 it was all over. That totaled five weeks of vacation out of a ten-month work year. I couldn’t believe it. That seemed like a really generous benefits package.
    The Venezuelan teacher happily flipped through the calendar. “Another holiday here,” she said, drawing a big red circle around each day she’d have off work. She looked up to see me staring at her.
    â€œBelieve me, you’re going to be doing this,” she chuckled.
    No, I’m not, I thought. I looked away.
    The Venezuelan teacher nudged the teacher next to her. They rolled their eyes and shared a knowing look.
    Later, one of them volunteered to be my mentor, which the