Thunderstorms

Thunderstorms are my favorite kind of weather. My first memory is of being held by my father during a thunderstorm. We were sheltered by the awning of the front porch. The whisper of rustling trees twining about the roar of rain hitting pavement made up the storm's insulating quiet. This thick cushion of noise was interrupted by thunder, the ripping snap of a whip or the rumble of a distant avalanche. Lightning flashed pictures of havoc: silver leaves twirled, street signs shuddered, and tree tops swayed. In the warm circle of my father’s arms fear was elsewhere, leaving me free to be swept away in exhilarating chaos.

This ability to be fearless in the face of mayhem is part of what allowed me to teach English literature at Dallas’s McKinney North High School. In my eyes a horde of bored and undisciplined teenagers is akin to a force of nature. If you don’t believe me feel free to step into my world on any given Monday afternoon. After a dull morning, students are get antsy. They are eager for entertainment, and discussions on Hurston or Fitzgerald fail to hold their attention. Like with any natural disaster, mitigation is possible. I like to fall back on educational movies or debates over the racier issues in the classics (homosexuality in the works of Shakespeare and drugs in Poe). But you can’t be prepared for everything.

This year was particularly rough. The principal’s daughter, Karissa Theret, and two of her cronies were in my 1:30 class. On game days the three wore their cheerleading uniforms, which were a pleasant reprise from the typical skimpy outfits consisting of low lying camisoles, miniskirts, and fm boots, yet the street corner costumes were unnecessary. These girls screamed naughty and available in the way they carried themselves. It would come as no shock to me when it was later uncovered that they had posted numerous pics of themselves in suggestive poses on MySpace.

They are glitter girls; everything about them glistens. Their nails sparkle gesturing and darting about glossy lips and their smiles reveal perfect rows of pearly teeth. In their seats by the window the sunlight reflects off varying shades of blond manes creating halos of platinum, strawberry, and gold. I realize this description makes them sound like fragile butterflies or flighty birds. But these girls weren’t fluttering about in the wind; they were the wind. They were a force to be reckoned with, kamikazes.

For two years I had seen the devastation left in their wake. I had heard rumors of a group of five cheerleaders regularly skipping classes, talking on their cell phones during class, and flicking off the teachers who tried to discipline them. I could hear it whispered in my classes of how these girls would verbally attack other students in the halls. Guns and knives aren’t the only lethal weapons a student can bring to school. These rumors came to haunt me at the end of last year. On my way to the gym for my morning run on the treadmills I passed Jennifer Shield’s office and could hear sobbing. At the time, Jennifer was the gym teacher and assistant cheerleading coach. Later at lunch in the teacher’s lounge I heard the full story. I heard how Jennifer’s cell had been stolen by one of the girls on the cheerleading team and how it was used to send lewd text messages to her husband and the head football coach. The worst blow for Jennifer came when she tried to discipline the girls and received no support from the principal, who actually went so far as to imply that Jennifer was lying or being influenced by depression medication. I began to dread having these students in my class.

The day of the big game between North and our rivals the Pilot Point Panthers shook the very foundations of my confidence and poise. By 1:30 most of my students were in their seats with three very conspicuous absences. At 1:45 the girls strolled into my class, their raucous laughter slicing through my reading aloud of Midsummer Night’s Dream. I felt helpless and simultaneously disinclined to tame the storm. I stepped under the shelter offered by Shakespeare’s words as easily as one steps under an umbrella. I followed my usual procedure and ignored them, while trying to draw as many other students away from being Karissa’s swirling vortex of reckless abandon.

At the end of class I returned yesterday’s test on Huxley’s Brave New World. One of the three, Elizabeth Griffin, had scored lower than usual, a B+. None of these girls were stupid. Elizabeth’s thin brows shot up in surprise and then darted back down in outrage. Her lips pouted and her knuckles whitened. I saw the lightning flash and braced for the thunder. She stomped to my desk. With the sharp cock of hips, her skirt swirled and swished an unspoken challenge. I refused to be intimidated and waited for her to speak.

With a huff she spoke, “Ms. Yamamoto, you’ve graded the essay on this test wrong. It’s unfair just because you disagree with my opinion.”

“It’s not your opinion that displeases me it’s the way you present yourself. The way you present your opinion leaves no room textual support. That is the grade you earned for yourself and I will not change it.”

I received her glare with frank blandness. She turned to leave and muttered under her breath.

“Damn chink,” the thunder of that storm left me deaf for years.