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classroom is your résumé”—but I was blank on how to begin. Feeling like the greenest rookie in the world, I aimlessly rearranged stacks of textbooks until the magical arrival of Fran Baker, a kind and soft-spoken twenty-year teaching veteran. Mrs. Baker went to work expeditiously, bringing in her own magic markers and confidently assigning the helpers to make specific signs. I fashioned a Weekly Trivia Corner, my embellishment on the bare requirements. My first two questions were, “Who is the governor of New York State?” and “Who is the all-time NBA leader in assists?” Mrs. Baker half opened several hardcover picture books and placed them on the tall, protruding heater vent near the front of the classroom. She said, “The kids probably won't read these anyway. All they [the administrators] care about is that it looks pretty. In case Dilla Zane comes.”
    The mysterious name of Dilla Zane echoed in my head. It sounded like it belonged to a swamp beast. Who was that?
    P.S. 85 received a special pass from the city to continue with Success for All (SFA), a scripted, “teacher-proof “literacy curriculum that the rest of the city had scrapped the previous June. The veteran teachers apparently hated SFA (“Slowly Fading Away” or “So Fucking Annoying,” take your pick) but were stuck with it for ninety minutes every day, which, in the past year, had driven a deep wedge between the faculty and the administration.
    Orientation meetings ran like doomsayer conventions, punctuatedwith gallows humor. During one particularly baleful meeting, the math and literacy coaches, Al Conway and Marge Foley, worried me when they both guffawed while slamming Region One; the “half-retired administrator,” Mr. Randazzo; and “the Queen,” Mrs. Boyd, for alienating teachers by insisting on sticking with poor curricula. Al and Marge also explained that the PA announcement “The red passes are in the office” means to close your door and allow no students to leave the room because of a security breach. However, when you hear “The green passes are in the office,” you know the threat has been
neutralized.
    Apparently our
Math Trailblazers
was a confusing, “jumpy” text.
Everyday Math,
used by kindergarten through third grade, was more fluid and kid-friendly, but a bureaucratic tie-up prevented using it in grades four and five. There was no science textbook. For social studies,
New York
was supposedly a great text, but there were not enough copies to go around. I was lucky to find a class set in my closet. For science and social studies, we received pacing calendars with two or three lines dedicated to monthly focus concepts. Nobody got a full set of supplemental workbooks for any subject, and teachers had to bring in their own paper for photocopies.
    My parents drove up from Cherry Hill to bring a boatload of supplies, including a blue stuffed dinosaur, Mr. Lizard, to encourage class spirit, and their old rocking chair, now rechristened as my Reading Chair. They also delivered boxes of magic markers, chalk, and construction paper, compliments of my roommate Greg's art teacher mom. As an extra touch, my mom brought several rolls of vibrantly colored, school-subject-themed border to enliven my bulletin board edges. The science border, speckled with microscopes and dino skeletons, was a particularly nice touch.
    The following day, Ms. Guiterrez visited me. “Mr. Brown. That border is company made,” she declared.
    I nodded in cautious concurrence.
    â€œIt's distracting. Take it all down or turn it over. We're not acompany. We're a school.” And she stomped off. Guiterrez was technically the second- and third-grade interim assistant principal, but she took on supervisory responsibilities for fourth grade because Mr. Randazzo was often busy “crunching numbers.”
    I understood the push to avoid mass-produced inspirational posters