No Child Left Behind
Click.
The television flashes out a light that expands widely on the horizon before collapsing into an infinitesimal singularity.
Tuesday, 9:30 PM.
My bed is upstairs. My head is spinning. My homework is unfinished.
It was just one of those long days when all you want to do when it’s over is lie down and sleep until forever.
Monday was not the day to gather each classroom’s paper collection for recycling. I was supposed to do that today. On Tuesday.
I doubt many people can say they had a run-in with the Secret Service. My experience was nothing bad, but I like to pretend something happened. All they did was just open a door for me. Twice. Their cold, judging stares silently pierced me as I wheeled my barrel of paper to the recycling dumpster and back.
Homeroom bell rings.
Ms. Shevlin runs around homeroom to homeroom hunting down senior class members of National Honor Society.
“Be at the auditorium promptly after school. I promise it won’t take much of your time.”
The 2:15 bell rings. School’s out.
I take the left entrance to the auditorium with some friends. Names like McCree, Emerson, Bernstein, Quincy, and Sumner adorn the frieze above us.
There are 360 light bulbs total on the ceiling. I had counted them all myself.
Ms. Shevlin stands at the front. People stagger in while the rest of us wait in for the news. Soon the headmaster walks in and greets us with her customary introduction.
“Good afternoon, class.”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Kelley.”
This standard exchange had been used countless times over the last five years. There was no meaning in it anymore.
“Let’s try that one again. Good afternoon, class.”
Everyone always responds more brightly the second time. It’s just routine.
Ms. Kelley wasted no time.
“President Bush is traveling around the country to three different school for the endorsement of the ‘No Child Left Behind’ Act of 2001. He will be starting in Ohio and coming here to Boston Latin on Tuesday.”
Some gleaned with anticipation and excitement. You could see it in their eyes.
“Yes, the President is coming.”
Others kept a straight face.
“…snipers on the roof, riot police, canine units…”
Awesome. Snipers on the roof. That was going to be sweet.
“The President’s schedule is released only 24 hours before his events. I have been in contact with certain individuals for the past three weeks and I still don’t know enough about anything. It’s going to be held in the upstairs gym due to recent security reasons rather than the auditorium. If it were my choice, I’d prefer it in the auditorium, but unfortunately, they decided on the upstairs gym.”
As senior NHS scholars, we were chosen to sit on the rear part of the stage. That was what she told us. To promote our school’s historic and academic reputation.
“Wear your [school] sweatshirts.”
Background checks are required. If we pass, we get in.
“If you don’t want to do it, tell me now,” added Ms. Shevlin.
Point of no return. Back out now or get stuck.
I asked a friend, “[A]re you going to do it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” he replied. He then turned to Ben and asked, “Are you doing it?”
“I can’t. I’m in band,” he says.
“Hmm. I guess I’ll do it. You probably won’t get this kind of chance ever again in life,” I said to Chao. He agreed and signed up.
Word traveled fast. I told a few people the President was coming. Everyone was either jumpy, nervous, or a combination of both. Notices had gone out. School would be let out at noon on Tuesday.
Beeeeeeeeeeep!
Homeroom bell strikes again. Static buzzes before the audio on the intercom is clear. It’s the headmaster.
“Attention, all members of the faculty and student body. Please rise for the Pledge of Allegiance.”
How coincidental that President was coming on the day we recite the Pledge of Allegiance. It was the one part of school I truly loathed.
The day went on like any other day. History class was early nineteenth century politics. Calculus was indefinite trigonometric integrals. Chemistry was compounds and solutions. Spanish Literature boggled my mind like always.
The clock struck twelve. Everyone rushed out of school. Ben, Chao, Bonnie, Feng, and I went to Chao’s apartment down the street. A few hours of Dance Dance Revolution would tide us over until we had to reappear at school.
I didn’t play much. I said I was tired. Truthfully, it was because I wasn’t good at Dance Dance Revolution and didn’t want to make a fool of myself. Chao’s high heat and poor ventilation was making me nauseous too.
The walk to school only lasted five minutes. Everyone agreed it sucked to go back to school the same when we didn’t really have to.
Ms. Shevlin directed everyone to cafeteria where the agent would “brief” us. Ms. Shevlin was made conversation with students while we watied for the agent to show up.
“I said to him, ‘So who plays your character on The West Wing?’ He was not amused.”
The agent walked in. A man who looked rather young and inviting. Nothing like the scary, hard-ass people on TV. The instructions were simple.
“Always smile. Clap when everybody claps. Stand when everyone else stands. And laugh at the President’s jokes no matter how horrible they may be.”
They were orders. Like a programmed bot. The agent threw in a little humor in to lighten the mood.
“Try to stay awake if you get bored or cranky. If we see you start bobbing your head, we’ll probably use a peashooter or something to keep you up.”
The session ends. We migrate to Room 115. Everyone settles down. My head gets dizzier. David Driscoll, the state’s Commissioner of Education, comes to speak to us. I only half paid attention to his words. He mentioned something along the lines of us being the best, setting an example, and how proud he was. That’s all you ever hear from people outside our world.
The news hour commenced. We filed outside into a single line. Members of student council, class officers, band members, and gospel choir singers were strewn about. Regular people, the outsiders to our world, already had their own line. They would be sit and watch with the rest of the world. We would sit with the king. How special.
I spotted my parents waiting in line talking to another parent. They pointed to my dress shoes and noted that most of the other students were wearing sneakers. I had called them that morning during the bus ride to school to ask them to bring my dress shoes to me later. My headmaster had said to “dress nicely” which really meant “don’t wear jeans.” It really didn’t matter what I was wearing as long as I had my sweatshirt on. It only mattered that I was advertising my school across all major networks and publications.
“Hey…”
I turn to see my valedictorian speaking to me. She declined to sit on stage.
“Do you want to wear a peace sticker when you’re up there?”
“Sure,” I tell her. I take the sticker and place it on the front my sweatshirt.
My line moved slowly, but the other line barely moved at all. When I was near the entrance, I was interrupted by a childhood classmate.
“What the hell?”
“What did I do?” I asked.
I guess she was referring to the on the center of my torso. I moved it to my right arm just to be safe. I passed through the metal detector and entered the gym. The school band was warming up on the bleachers. Gospel choir stood next to them in their purple robes. News media had all their lights and camera on risers in the back.
The headmaster emphatically signaled for me as I approached the front. The commotion in the room had nearly deafened my ears. Ms. Kelley puts me on the very end of the first row of seats on the stage. I would be one of the only four males who would be on stage.
I look to my right. My friends are sitting at desks atop large risers.
“Hey… You look bored up there.”
“Yeah, I don’t really want to sit at this desk.”
What was an hour felt like an eternity. People were still pouring in: the general public, school newspaper amateurs, professionals correspondents (one of whom is an alumnus), and countless others.
When the music began, it only added to the noise. Speakers walked up on stage and took their seats. Then he came in. Everyone rose in uproarious applause and cheer as the President walked out from the left. I stood up, smiled, and clapped. Like the good dog I was trained to be.
My headache only grew worse. The bright lights weren’t helping at all. The Secretary of Education Rod Paige finished speaking and handed the stage to one of our state senators, Edward Kennedy.
“Boston Latin School has special meaning for my family as well. My father graduated from this extraordinary public school, and so did my grandfather, John Fitzgerald.”
I checked the official transcript in the future. Funny how they left out the part where he mentioned that he didn’t go to our school.
“As a token of your visit, Mr. President, I’ve brought for you a copy of an early draft of the Declaration of Independence — in the hand-writing of John Adams. The final Declaration included the signatures of five courageous leaders who had been students at Boston Latin School — Samuel Adams, Benjamin Franklin, John Hancock, William Hooper, and Robert Treat Paine. This copy was especially reproduced for you, Mr. President, by the Massachusetts Historical Society, where the original is on display.”
Nothing like namedropping our famous alumni.
“It is a great honor for me now to welcome to Boston Latin School, our City, and our Commonwealth — the President of the United States.”
More applause and cheer. More smiling and standing. I looked at the President who walked up to the podium, gave a small wave to the people and held it in air as he looked all across the gymnasium. He turns around and looks at us.
“How long should I make my speech?”
We unanimously tell him to keep it short.
“Thank you all very much, Thank you, please. You know, I told the folks at the coffee shop in [some location] that [our state senator] was all right.”
Laughter.
“They nearly fell out.”
More laughter.
“But he is. I’ve come to admire him. He’s a smart, capable Senator.”
I laughed even though I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Speaking about September the 11th, I want the young folks here to know that the mission we are on to rid the world of terror is a noble and just mission. I long for peace. But we learned a terrible lesson, and that lesson is we must rout out terror wherever it exists, in order for you and your children to grow up in a free and peaceful society. This Nation will not tire; we will not rest until we bring those who are willing to harm Americans to justice. And that’s exactly what we intend to do.”
The audience goes wild. The applause was even more ear-shattering than before. Cheers were thrown all around the gym. One woman in the front practically leaped ten feet throwing her fist up. Like everyone had just won the lottery.
My night was ruined. What does stopping terrorism have to do with supporting education?
The audience simmered. The President resumed his speech.
“This is what Boston Latin is about. It’s about expecting high standards, understanding every child can learn, demanding the best, insisting upon hard work, rewarding success, solving failure. It is a great school, and I am grateful that I could come and herald the signing of an important piece of legislation here at this school.”
What better place to highlight education reform than our school? After all, we are the oldest school in America. We are known for its academic reputation. We’ve had great people come out of our institution. I felt proud and stuck-up. I wanted to brag about it. Too bad everyone I knew went to the same school as me.
“I know there’s a lot of folks who look at Washington and say, ‘Can’t they ever get along? All they do is argue. All they do is call each other names.’ But on this piece of legislation, on this important piece of legislation, we figured out how to put our parties aside and focus on what’s right for the American children.”
I hoped it would hold true in the future.
“I wish you could have seen the piece of legislation. It’s really tall.”
That’s what the official transcript says. I recall the phrase was, “It’s this tall,” while holding his hand above the ground.
“And I admit, I haven’t read it yet.”
Might as well replace the laughter with a laugh track at this point.
“You’ll be happy to hear I don’t intend to.”
People find that funny? Sorry, Mr. President, but you just failed humor. Thanks for putting the ‘F’ in funny. I remember my headmaster telling us that when Bush writes a speech, he’s very unyielding on changing it much. Sounded like it was true. Perhaps someone ought to give him an education in comedy.
“Thank you for letting me come. May God bless.”
Flash.
Cheer.
Applause.
I spot my dad’s camera pointing up from the crowd. He’s been doing that all night.
Exit stage right. The President disappears behind his magical red curtain and flies away in his private helicopter. People begin to dissipate. The students on stage disperse and talk. Our class president takes the water bottle and paper napkin coaster left behind by the President.
My headache still hadn’t gone away.
My parents waited outside for me. I climbed in the back of the car and rested my head against the interior frame. I was too tired to care how hard my head hit the side when my dad went over a bump.
I wished I had been home the entire evening. I could have better spent my time on homework or protesting outside my school as some of my friends did. I probably would’ve watched TV anyway if I did go home.
Instead, my face was plastered in all newspapers. I falsified my own persona broadcast over the news. I was no more than six feet away from the President’s chair, no more than ten feet from the podium. I was right there when everything happened. I had to endure a massive headache. I had to pretend to be a supporter for ####. Dice is too chanceful for politicians to play. Chess is their game. All I had to do was sit there like a pawn. A prop for the night. Look pretty for the nation. Exemplify the school. Cater to the President.
After all, we were the best of the best, and this was our last year here. We proved we were able to live through six years of rigorous academics, extracurricular activities, and a slow, painful renovation of our school. Six years of growing into unique individuals. And I made the choice to have it taken away from me in one night.
Click.
I turn the television and check if I could see myself on TV. Nothing. Tomorrow’s newspaper had a picture on the front page of President Bush and the students behind him, me included. My dad has a whole envelope of pictures from the event. Is this the price I have to pay for selling myself out?
Two and a half years later, I am across the street from my school in the auditorium of Harvard Medical’s newest building. Richard Clarke is signing his book for me that I purchased earlier in the day. He signs with a purple marker, a color reminiscent of our younger days at the Latin School. I felt less sorry for myself about that night sitting on stage with Bush after hearing Richard Clarke speak about the Bush administration and the war in Irqa.
“I guess the point of the story is to ask the right questions,” he said.
He’s made his mistakes, and I’ve made mine.
Plato once said, “Those who are too smart to engage in politics are punished be being governed by those who are dumber.” I didn’t care about politics back then and thought I never would. I made a choice back then and that was to make other people look better at my expense. I gave myself up for my school, the President, publicity, bills, and politicians. I sacrificed my identity to have my face in newspapers, television broadcasts, and the Internet. That night I vowed I would never be used as political prop in the future. For all the time I spent and the experience I had, it was not worth it.
