A Tale of Two Divorces

A Tale of Two Divorces

Prologue

A few years ago, one of  my fellow teachers went through a divorce during the school year.  His demeanor changed drastically; his sense of humor disappeared; he became Joe Btzflspk—the sorry character with the perpetual storm cloud over his head in the comic strip Lil’ Abner.  When this transformation overtook him, I instinctively began to avoid him, and stayed away until, over a year later, he fell in love and married again.  I was horrified at the dark pall his experience had cast over him.

I

Billy was a bright, quiet senior in my 1st period General Economics & Government 12 section.  He paid attention, turned in all his work, and exhibited a streak of competitiveness a mile wide.  In the fall, he and a boy named Steve figured out how to game (i.e. cheat) the online stock portfolio competition I ran in Economics class.  At stake was a bonus of 100 points to be awarded to the student with the highest portfolio value on the last day of the semester. 

By November first, they each had amassed over a million dollars of equity (from a starting balance of $50,000) in a bear market.  I had to step in and create a separate “Duel of the Titans” competition for them, as the rest of the students had become demoralized and apathetic about the contest.  There was no chance anyone but Billy or Steve was going to win if I didn’t step in.

Billy became very manipulative.  He began to find ways to cheat beyond the cheating he had done to get to where he was in the first place.  I found myself constantly needing to rein him in and explain why what he was doing was unethical.  But it seemed to make no difference to him; he actually told me that he should be declared the winner of the contest; his opponent, Steve was cheating, not him.  I decided to end their competition, split the bonus points between them, and move on.

But Billy didn’t move on.  For some reason, this prolonged incident created a sea change in Billy’s demeanor.  He grew silent; his sense of humor disappeared; he became sullen and contrary.  I didn’t know it until several weeks later, but Billy’s parents had split, and their divorce had rapidly become very ugly.

My standard tactic for trying to engage a student who refuses to engage with me is to become more direct, to work harder at it, to find a personal commonality, to NOT GIVE UP.  It simply didn’t work with this guy.  I found myself going to his guidance counselor to see what was going on in his home life.  She told me about the dad ordering the mom out of the house, the order of protection she got on him, the way Billy and his brother painted their mother as the evil one, and so on and so forth. 

She also mentioned that Billy was adamant that he would never go to a counselor, and that the one time she had gotten him to talk about his parents’ divorce, he had sobbed uncontrollably—and then clammed up completely.  This young man wanted no help for his personal travails; he’d deal with them himself.

The way Billy wanted to deal with his own stuff was to text.  He must have had an overpowering need to stay connected with his father, his brother, and his girlfriend (Carly, whom I taught in a section later in the day).  In hindsight, and in context, this is completely understandable and even proactive on Billy’s part.  In the fog of the classroom moment, though, it was impulsive, disrespectful, and sneaky.  I lost all respect I still had for Billy, and decided to catch him being bad whenever I could.

One morning, during a quiet piece in the class, I saw Billy in what would become a familiar posture: straight up in the chair with elbows tight in to his hips—the classic pose for surreptitious lap-based texting.

Billy, put your phone away.

I don’t have my phone out.

Then maybe you need lots of counseling, Billy.

He put his phone away, shooting me a “you asshole” look.

The next week, I gigged Billy once again, and demanded his phone.  He complied, very reluctantly, and I dropped the phone in my pocket.  After a few minutes, he came up and asked me—with considerable effort, and very politely—to please take his phone out of my pocket and, maybe, would I put it on my desk instead.

Being lord of my manor, and feeling growing disgust with this particular serf, I icily replied that I was modeling proper cell phone behavior in class, and no, I wouldn’t take it out of my pocket.  Billy shot me a poisonous glare, and went back to his seat.

II

There’s a well-worn cliché about wives leaving their husbands: He was the last to figure out that there was a problem.  That cliché came to my house for a visit in December—starting on Christmas Eve.  It came back for four nights in March, and moved in for good on (of all days) April first.  I really appreciate irony, but this was piling on.

I had to endure a banzai charge full of changes.  Some were as mundane as having to clean the whole house myself (often, as we put it up for sale), and others were pretty damned wrenching, like hearing my wife of 26-and-a-half-but-what-the-hell-does-it-mean-now years call me “a pig of a man.”  If I had slept with some other woman, or been guilty of some other reprehensible act, I’d understand her rage.  But I simply couldn’t figure out how much of the rift was on me.  Not only did I have to get to the bottom of that war-crimes charge, I had to function as a teacher, and as a single person, during the toughest stretch of the school year.  I think it was the lowest I’ve ever been.  I was so low, I could have bungee-jumped off a dime..

Most of my students intuited that something was amiss; they were great.  They gave me the space and consideration I needed.  However, Billy reacted differently.  He smelled fear, or hurt, or maybe just the blood trail.  First period became a pretty tense forty-two minutes, compounded by the fact that I often spoke with my estranged wife before school. 

III

The real maelstrom started on the day I was almost sure Billy was texting in his lap again.  I had received a call from my wife (whom I was daily becoming more certain had become possessed by aliens) just before leaving for school, and it hadn’t gone well.  I came to school with a dark cloud over my head, and I had lost my sense of humor.  I was one miserable son of a bitch, and I needed to take it out on someone.

Billy answered the call with alacrity. 

Billy!  Put that phone away now!
I don’t have it out.

Nonsense.  Put it away RIGHT now.  (This in a low growl.)

Don’t be such a jerk, Cortese—I said it’s not out.

Yeah, well, you’d better not let me catch you with it.  (I admit I might be wrong.)

Fuck  you.

Get out.

I walked Billy to the door, and as he turned to leave, he hesitated and turned toward me.  Direct eye contact:

Douche bag.

And he strode toward the principal’s office.  By the time he hit that door, his dad’s call was ringing there.

Billy was awarded five days out of school.  I was wishing I could have served that time in his stead.

IV

The climax of the relationship—the confluence of the two divorces—came unexpectedly and fast.  I was showing the film "American History X" to the Government classes.  It’s the centerpiece of my hate unit, and it always receives riveted attention from the kids.  On the last day of the viewing, I realized that it was going to end at precisely the class-end bell. 

It was a social studies teacher’s fantasy come true: a powerful film on a topic teens really need to ponder, ending just in time for them to do just that in their own space.  I’m at my desk, getting choked up by the horribly sad end of the film, when I see Billy stand up and gather his books.  There are three minutes left in the film and the class.  He comes to my desk, books in hand.

Can I go to the bathroom?

No.  (The growl again.)  Sit down.  Watch the end of the movie. 

Billy turns away, and I’m fairly sure I hear, in a stage whisper,

Fucker.

The “Fu” is there clear as day, but I can’t make out the “-cker” part.  No matter.  I’m vaguely aware of the very short debate my superego had with my id.  I remember the superego saying

Don’t.  Don’t!  DON’T!!!

The id won.

GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY ROOM!

For good measure, I slammed the door so hard behind him I’m still surprised the windows didn’t shatter.  I don’t even know how the other students reacted.  I was in my own little universe of rage.

Of course, Billy was dialing his father as soon as my door exploded; the principal’s phone was ringing as Billy got there.  I was visited by the Vice Principal, Principal, and union rep in rapid succession.  My basic reaction was “I don’t give a damn.  Put a letter in my file—I deserve one.  I know I screwed up big time.”

My principal, a guy I love like a brother, told me that Billy was a good kid who had temporarily become a very mean person because of how he was dealing with his parents’ acrimony.  That, and his understanding and acceptance that my divorce has done something almost as traumatic to me, assuage my guilt a bit.  But I still know that I really screwed up.

So we got the ground rules for the rest of the year in order.  Billy (who didn’t get tossed out, but neither did I) was to go to the principal or the teacher across the hall if he felt tension building between us.  I was to send Billy to either place if I felt the same.  His dad kept calling the principal; if we could have put him in another teacher’s Government section, we surely would have; Mine was the only game in town. We had to coexist.

So, other than reminding him of big assignments (as I’d do for any student), I left Billy to his cell phone and his world of woe while I wallowed in my own.  Gradually, I was able to piece together a form of normalcy outside school—I moved out of the house into a nice place of my own, and I adapted to a solo existence.  Billy seemed to be doing somewhat the same as far as his actual presence in my classroom, but I didn’t want to kick over his anthill by trying to bond with him or anything.  It was live and let live.

On the last day of school, I told the kids in first period Government that we had gone through some very unusual times together, and that I’d never forget any of them; they'd always be special.  I worked my way over next to Billy, and asked him to stay a moment.  As the other kids filed out at the bell, I stuck out my hand and said “Billy, I’m sorry about how this year went.  It’s been a really tough time for both of us.”  Billy shook my hand, looked in my eye for a moment, and started to leave. 

Then, he reached to his desk and carefully picked up some perforated end strips from the piece of notebook paper on which he’d written the last assignment of the year—the kind of litter I usually gather up after each class.  He placed them in his palm, and carried them to the wastebasket on his way out the door.

Epilogue

It’s graduation day.  Despite the lousy spring I’ve just had, I’m compelled to attend the event.  As the kids process out at the ceremony’s end, I’m having a ball congratulating them.  Carly—Billy’s girlfriend from the other Government section—corrals me.
Hey, Mister C!  Will you get in a picture with us?

Hi, Carly!  Sure—who else makes “us”?

I was sure it’d be her best friends and seatmates Valerie and Terri.

Me and Billy, of course!

Whoa.  She’s either kidding, or it’s a setup.  As an experienced practical joker, I sense bad things coming.  But what can I really do?  Billy did make that gesture of reconciliation on the last day...

Jeez, Carly, are you sure?  I mean...

No, seriously—Billy and I really want a picture with you!

And so, my 2008-09 school year ended with my arm around Billy, the kid with whom I got divorced.