Radical by Michelle Rhee

different environment with a different teacher, they could be calm and learn. It was me!
    This point was driven home by mentors from the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, who came to observe my class as part of our certification program. Two of the faculty pulled me aside after one class.
    â€œYou should think about changing your profession,” they said. “This classroom is not safe for the children. This environment is not good for them. They are not learning anything.”
    W HEN I WENT HOME for Christmas during my first year as a teacher, my mother took one look at me and said, “You don’t look so good.”
    I had developed a condition—when I scratched myself these huge, crazy red welts appeared. My roommates affectionately referred to it as “the Itch.” My mom saw them and said, “There is something seriously wrong with you! This is not normal.”
    She took me to the doctor.
    â€œIs there any stress in your life?” he asked. “Usually these symptoms are a sign of extreme anxiety and pressure. You should avoid that to the extent possible.”
    â€œAre you kidding me? My entire life is stressful,” I answered.
    On the way home from the doctor’s office, my mother said quietly, “Don’t go back. Stay here. You weren’t supposed to be a teacher anyway. You went to an Ivy League school. Cornell, for goodness’ sake! Apply for law school in the fall and just stay with us. You’ll be fine.”
    Sounded good to me. Law school rather than Harlem Park? Why not?
    The way I rationalized it in my head was that my kids were not better off with me in the classroom. I told myself I wasn’t quitting because I couldn’t handle it; I was quitting for the good of the children.
    Besides, word through the first-year TFA corps was that teachers dropped out on a regular basis. Some lasted a few weeks, some a semester, many left after the first year. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out to be a teacher. I started warming to the idea.
    â€œNo, lady,” my dad said as I was explaining my change of course. “You are going back. Pack your bags.”
    I tried to protest. But as always, my dad’s word was the last. Shang packed my bags, loaded them into the car, and sent me on my way.
    W ELTS AND ALL , I returned to Baltimore an obsessed lady.
    My new strategy was to throw spaghetti against the wall, hoping something would stick. I tried everything. I changed seating configurations. I tried every discipline system in the book. If one system didn’t work, I’d introduce another a few days later. The constant changes weren’t good for the kids, but I was a woman possessed. I was bent on figuring out a way to be successful.
    Eventually I found a seating arrangement that actually worked. Instead of having kids sit at tables, I had them sit in a big U so that I could see what everybody was doing at all times. I could put the troublemakers in the middle, too.
    Harlem Park had some excellent teachers. Their students walked through the halls in quiet, straight lines. Their kids did their homework. They were quiet in class. Bertha Haywood, who had taken Tameka Tagg into her classroom for an afternoon, was perhaps the best teacher in the school. I was reluctant to bother the veteran teachers, but one day I stopped into Ms. Haywood’s classroom after school.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I just don’t understand that child. Tameka was wreaking havoc in my class all morning. She spends a few hours in your class, and she’s an angel. She returns to my room, and she’s making the class nuts again. What’s your secret?”
    â€œNo secret,” she said. “The first thing you have to do is establish your authority. You’re the boss. They need to know that. Next, you have to keep things interesting for the kids. A classroom should be exciting for students. Every day I have one surprise planned for class that I