23. Anthony
twenty-three
anthony
The one thing I’m still getting used to when it comes to being a part-time administrator is the meetings.
Lucy, Nathan, and I are in over our heads with the behaviors. Put together two kind-of-rival schools, and tell them they’re going to have to get along for one calendar year, and I’ve seen more fights in one month of school than I ever did watching wrestling as a kid.
“You know, something I tried to start at Meadow Ridge that never quite got off the ground was behavior management,” I say, opening my file folder. “I got my Master’s in behavior, and we ran a program similar to yours in my old school. I was head of the committee by the time I decided to take the job at Meadow Ridge.”
“Why did you switch schools?” Lucy asks as Nate takes the folder and begins flipping through it.
“I wanted to finally build my dream house, and this is the district I grew up in. I wanted my forever home to be close to my family. It made the most sense.”
They don’t need to know that I also gave my ex-girlfriend the apartment when we split.
Lucy nods, then scoots closer to Nathan. With their heads bent together, they start whispering, pointing, eyes widening.
“This is exactly what we were trying to start last year, only like, on steroids,” Lucy says excitedly. “I could pick your brain for hours.”
“You said they didn’t want this implemented at Meadow Ridge?” Nathan continues. “How could they not want something that would so clearly benefit the students?”
I tug at my collar.
“It’s not that they didn’t want students to benefit. It was more about teacher buy-in.”
I show them the behavior management system, the way we collected and tracked data—which Lucy says she and Claire started working on in a very novice way last school year.
“So, teachers bucked against having to log behavior incidents?”
“That was just the tip of the iceberg,” I nod. “As soon as I mentioned having monthly data meetings to go over behavior trends, there was an uproar. And, being that I was the new guy, it kind of made me the ‘overachieving outcast.’”
I flush and shove my hands into my pockets. When I was fresh out of college, I joined the behavior committee of my first school, and the entire staff rallied around the initiatives I cooked up during my Master’s program. Over the years, I moved up in the ranks, and found myself in a leadership role that took on behavior plans and worked one-on-one with teachers and students to curb them. Lucy’s mentorship program that started last year is something I spearheaded in my old building.
“So, how do we get people to buy in?” Lucy asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, pacing Nate’s office as I scratch the back of my neck. “They shot me down in one meeting.”
“We could simply implement it from my position,” Nate suggests. “If it comes from administration, they don’t have to like it, but they will have to do it.”
I wince. It’s a thought, but one that will immediately make people resent him. I don’t want that. Especially when he already has so much on his plate.
“What if we show them the data from your old school?” Lucy suggests. “Prove to them that it works, and that it will be beneficial in the long run.”
As I hem and haw on her idea, too afraid to be turned down again, Nate cuts in.
“What do you say about piloting it between the three of us, and inquiring for a few more volunteers?”
“You mean form a behavior committee?” I ask, palms already itching to have something under my belt. Something that will do good.
“Absolutely. I’ll leave you and Lucy in charge of it. Hopefully this will clear up some of the time that we spend disciplining behaviors. You might even get back into the classroom sometime this semester.”
Nate grins, but his comment reminds me of the conversation I had with Penelope.
“While we’re on the subject… We need to come up with a way for me to be in the classroom more before we tackle this project.”
A project that will probably pull me away more often, at that .
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m supposed to be filling in as a part - time administrator, but the district has made no moves to hire anyone yet, since Rita’s maternity leave is supposed to end soon. I’m pulling almost the full duty, which leaves Penelope hanging more often than not, and it isn’t fair to her. She doesn’t deserve to have double the kids with no support.”
“Look, Anthony, my hands are tied. I can’t do anything more than push the application and see if they’ve conducted any interviews. Penelope is one of our strongest teachers. If anyone can handle the extra load, it’s her.”
He folds his hands on his desktop. I can see the apology in his eyes. Nate’s a pretty by-the-book guy. He’d do something if he could, but I won’t stand for not trying.
“That isn’t fair, though. I’m sure there are plenty of others who could ‘handle the extra load,’ but we’re only making her take it on? No. Sorry, boss man, but either someone else needs to help out with the administrative tasks, or we need to pull in an extra set of hands to be in that classroom with her. I’m not worried about me—I can handle the chaos. What I can’t handle is the inequity of Pen not getting support with almost forty kids in her classroom all day.”
I don’t usually silence people, but Nate and Lucy both stare at me wide-eyed, and I immediately start to apologize. Nate waves his hands between us.
“No. No, you’re right. I apologize. It is unfair. I’ll see what I can do.”
Lucy and I make a game plan to get a meeting for the behavior committee organized and head out. Nathan’s office is connected to the main office, so we wind our way past the front desk, through the teacher mailroom, and into the lounge where several teachers are having lunch. Before we part ways, Lucy grabs me by the bicep.
“Hey. This stuff is amazing . I’m sorry your other colleagues weren’t as passionate about it as you clearly are. You’re in the right place, Ant. Keep doing what you’re doing and we may have to steal you from Meadow Ridge at the end of the year.”
My chest tightens with an unknown feeling. Pride .
I felt it back in my first school, when our committee built like Legos from the ground up beneath my hands. So often in my childhood, I was just the screwy kid. The one who couldn’t control his impulses.
“Ant in the Pant ,” as my mother so affectionally called me.
Here, I beam. Something I don’t get to do very often.
“Thank you,” I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets.
“And, hey. Standing up for Penelope like that? That was pretty cool.”
She tilts her head, gives me a sly smile, and heads out.
I stand there dumbfounded, chest glowing with confidence, not quite sure what to do with it all.