Emergency Teacher by Christina Asquith Page A

Philadelphia School District provides for all new teachers. I was grateful and thanked her. Then she told me we’d spend exactly six sessions of forty-five minutes each together, and each time I’d have to sign a piece of paper so she’d get paid.
    â€œOh, okay,” I said.
    I was the only new teacher on our team.

    Despite Eppy’s foot-dragging, my persistence paid off, and I landed a processing date before school started. Processing took four hours, during which I received a speech from the union, an explanation of all benefits, an official teacher ID card with photo, and—most important—my pick of school.
    When they called us up, more than one-third of the group didn’t have proper documentation (such as an original copy of our college diploma), and were sent home.
    I imagined the thirty-three kids who would now have to start school without a teacher—and only because some teachers had brought photocopies of their college diplomas. The only reason I knew to bring the original (which my parents had sent by FedEx) was because I called Eppy so frequently that he finally happened to mention it.
    Then the big moment: They handed us a computer printout of all the open positions and began calling our names. “Pick the school you want,” we were told ... and nothing more. How completely random. We didn’t even interview with the principal? Teachers all around me were mumbling, “I have no idea .. .” And the union workers circled us, saying things like “Don’t go there!” and “That school is outta control.”
    I scanned the sheet and recognized a lot of the schools’ names. These schools routinely made the evening news for shootings, arson, and violence against teachers. The veterans steered clear of these schools and left them for the new, untrained teachers, who were given last pick. I quickly found Julia de Burgos and saw two openings for sixth grade. That was what I wanted. Forty-five minutes passed and they still hadn’t called me. What if someone else requested that position?
    A librarian sat next to me. “I was going to pick Olney High School, but the union lady said it was one of those bad schools, you know?”
    I wanted to tell her that I planned on picking a so-called bad school, because I was going to turn around a classroom, and then take what I’d learned and change education policy so schools everywhere could be improved. But something held me back. Perhaps a realization that, one day, I might not feel so holier than thou.
    Finally, my name was called. No one else wanted Julia de Burgos. I got it!
    When I got to school, I raced down the hallway with my good news. I couldn’t wait to tell my team their vacancy was filled.
    About sixty teachers sat in the library and there were some leftover doughnuts and orange juice during a break between meetings. I saw Marjorie Soto, the ESOL teacher who had introduced me the other day. She used to work in finance in Manhattan and still had a hardened-chic look, with her short, spiky hair, and a rainbow-colored ring on her finger. I rushed over to tell them my good news.
    As I sat down, Marjorie Soto looked up, bemused.
    â€œOh, you’re back?” she smirked. The conversation stopped.
    â€œYou’re here?” asked another.
    â€œWe thought you transferred somewhere else,” said a third.
    â€œWhat? I called to say I was being processed this morning,” I said weakly.
    Marjorie Soto turned to her friends: “No, that’s the rumor you all started. You said, ‘Oh, I bet she bailed. She doesn’t belong here.’” They laughed together and went back to their conversation.
    She doesn’t belong here? I slipped my teacher card into my bag. Why not? Maybe I asked a lot of really dumb questions, but it was for the right reasons.
    Afterward, the head of the Bilingual Team, Mrs. G., approached me. She asked if I wanted to be the sixth-grade