Talking in class.

I sat in on a ninth grade English class taught by a Fellow - a nervous, balding, bespectacled Fellow - who seemed tired. He had scribbled a writing assignment on the board:

"What do you like and dislike about your neighborhood?"

"How come you never answer these questions?" the girl in front of me asked. Her teacher sighed.

"I like that my neighborhood is close to Central Park, and what I don't like about it is that it's too expensive. Ok?"

And then, among his exasperated "speak up please"-es, the class read their answers.

"I like that, when you're from my neighborhood, you can represent."

"I don't like all the crack-heads and drug dealers in my neighborhood."

"I like that there's a lot to do in my neighborhood, but I don't like that they closed my favorite basketball court."

All the while, I slumped in a back row desk, trying not to feel like a ninth-grader.

The same talkative girl in front of me turned around to whisper,

"Are you gonna work here next year?"

I glanced at the teacher and tried to make it quick,

"Maybe."

"Did you teach high school where you moved from?"

"Yes." (Lie.)

"Where?"

I told her the name of my high school. It just came out.

Then her teacher called her name and she whispered,

"I hope I get you," and turned back around. Trusting kid. Little does she know that I'm not going to allow whispering in class.