He just laughed at me. And, to be
fair, it wasn’t the sort of arrogant laughter you get from young teens. He wasn’t looking for the best way to tear me
down. No false bravado to save
face. It was honest laughter. He genuinely thought my question was
funny. He even apologizes.
“I’m sorry, man. I’m not trying to disrespect you. It’s just I haven’t read a book since the
third grade. The girl’s name in the book
was Julie something and she had a funny way of saying things.” Junie B. Jones. That’s the girl. Junie B. Junes is the star of a series of
great books geared towards second graders.
He stands close to six foot, I’m guessing. Looks like he’ll start shaving before the
school year is out and the last book he read was about fifty pages long,
complete with some drawings, and a vocabulary set for an eight-year-old. He’s not alone. I am standing in a remedial reading class for
eighth graders. About twenty-five of
them, all on the cusp of those changes that make us women and men.
“Don’t you find that sad?” I ask.
“Nope.
It hasn’t changed my life. I read
no books and I always make it to the next grade. Every time.”
Scattered nods around the room empathize with
him. A young girl speaks up.
“And because of the budget, they don’t
even have real summer school no more. So
they gonna move you on no matter what.”
This elicits a few high-fives.
The system is clearly being played.
“Who else remembers the last book they
read?” I ask the room. For a room full of kids that have officially
retired from reading, they seem to enjoy talking about their last books. The answers coming from a room full of
thirteen and fourteen years olds are staggering.
“Oh, what is it called? You know, the one with the elephant that
hears the little people inside the flower.”
For those of you keeping score at home, that would be the Dr. Seuss
picture book, “Horton Hears a Who.”
“What’s the one about the greedy little
boy that keeps taking from the tree?”
“Giving Tree!” Somebody shouts. Now, “The Giving Tree” is on my short list of
all-time favorite books, too. And,
technically, it was the last book I read.
Of course, I read it to my five-year-old at bed time. And we spent some time talking about giving
and sacrifice and being kind to others. As
a reader, a writer, and a lover of knowledge and eternal questions that drive
us all, it’s a bit gut wrenching. I’m
getting angry and my anxiety level is rising.
I start to feel like a college professor on the run form a totalitarian regime. In my frustration, I pathetically go full
cliché on them.
“So, do you guys want to flip burgers for
the rest of your lives? It’s fine at
sixteen, but it’s a tough way to make a living at forty.” Many have heard this routine before. Nothing but sighs and eye rolls.
“Why do adults say that? We don’t have to flip burgers. We could work at the mall. It is air conditioned. You dress nice. You get good discounts. You can make commissions.” Yes.
The mall. Ask not what your local
mall can do for you, but rather what you can do for your local mall. A generation answers the courageous call of
retail. I am not knocking retail. I’m definitely not knocking any work. All work has honor. But it was a bitter pill to swallow to hear a
room shrug off education and choose the mall as a safe haven against books and
learning. Statistics are on my
side. College grads make over a million
dollars more over the course of their lifetimes than someone with only a high
school diploma. College grads have lower
unemployment numbers typically, and often enjoy greater job security. Thomas Jefferson was one of the biggest
advocates of an informed and educated electorate. Sadly, Jefferson cannot help me with this
one. I needed to enter the heart of darkness. I needed to entrench myself in the belly of
the beast. I needed to go to the mall.
Two days later, David from JC Penney is
standing in front of my classroom.
Intrigue has filled my students who usually view the school day as a
nuisance. No one is quite sure how to
read him, so we have a small window of silence from which to work. David passes out job applications to
students.
“You have fifteen minutes to fill out your
applications.” The kids are
bewildered. I finally speak up.
“Look, you guys mentioned working at the
mall the other day. David is here to
give you a few tips, maybe some insider secrets. I may not be the one able to help you, but
maybe I can find people who can.” They
seem to like this idea. “And, for the
sake of this lesson, you may put down that you are all high school
graduates. Congratulations and sorry I
wasn’t able to attend the ceremony.”
They seem to like this new mock status even better. You can hear the pencils scratching at the
pages. It’s the most focus I’ve seen all
year with this particular group. Most
are done with time to spare. David
collects papers, studies the first application, and begins.
“This one would never get an
interview. C-U-Z is not a word and I
don’t want you saying CUZ to my customers.
David then lets it fall into the trashcan I have placed to his
left. He continues.
“This one would never get an interview
either. This sentence contains a double
negative and again, I don’t want a person who will represent the store poorly.” Filed again in the trash. Then David chuckles. “My goodness. This one reads like the person
hasn’t read a book in years.” No
lie. Those were his exact words.
The trashcan is pretty full by the end,
but he does have a few he would consider.
The few. The proud. The mall bound. He hands those students a booklet. They grab at it as if it is some sort of
prize. Their faces sour as they flip
through it.
“What is this?”
“A basic aptitude test.”
“Grammar questions?” A girl moans.
“I get a ton of applications so I can
afford to be choosy.” Kids sigh. There is a sense of surrender in the
room. You can feel it in the
silence. And then, for an encore, David
holds up a paper. He is not quite done.
“Even if you do well on the aptitude test,
one of these will surely eliminate you.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an application from a stay at home
mom.” The kids are curious. “See, she went to college. She has real world business experience. She’s been at home raising kids, but now the
kids are in school or grown and she’s looking for something part time. I already know she has a good work
ethic. She is college educated and will
represent my store well. She wins. Hands down.”
“And she don’t even need no job,” one
student laments.
“And she doesn’t even need a job,” David
corrects.
I thank David and the kids say their
muffled goodbyes. It is a dejected
room. Was it cruel? Maybe.
Was it valuable? I believe
so. I believe it would have been far
crueler to never make the point. Will
they forget it? Doubtful.
I call David that night. David isn’t really David. He’s a retired teacher from another
district. He chose JC Penney because it
was the only retail name tag we could find.
“And the line about the application
seeming as if the person hadn’t read a book in years?”
“Brilliant,” I say. He is quite proud of his performance. “Correcting that kid’s grammar right at the
end was probably my favorite part.” We
share a laugh.
“It might not work,” he adds.
“It just needs to work for one kid,” I
say. “That would be success.”
“True.”
He seems to agree.
Later that week, a few more kids are
actually reading. Not all. Not a majority. But more.
At the end of class, I’m collecting some papers.
“That book is pretty good so far,” a kid
tells me.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“Hey, it beats flippin’ burgers, right?”
“Exactly,” I beam.
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