The Knock

4.21.10 By Kellyanne Mahoney

The story begins with a knock at the door. I am in my classroom late on a Friday afternoon. LATE for this school, I explain to my students. Very late. My seventh-graders are new to the building, I figure. They are used to schools with a lot of afterschool programming, and this school I remind them has very little going on after 1:40 aside from sports. This explanation immediately invalidates my story from a few weeks ago about how most schools have a secret room tucked behind the main office with rows of bunks like on a Navy ship for teachers to sleep in at night—save for one weekend a month if they are good. Unlike that story, this one is true, I assure them. Yes, as real as the clandestine ceremony whereupon all new teachers entering the profession must give up their first names.

Was Ms. Herold at your ceremony?

I don’t know. It was dark. We were all wearing hooded cloaks.

I frown. This is serious. Back to the knock.

Is this an “anecdote”?

Yes. You guys are so smart and charming, but I have not forgotten how unhappy I am with you.

I point to the door where I heard it. The students who are now sophomores were my students that year. You do the math. I am an English teacher. Yes, this is a true story.

It was around 4 o’clock. I was sitting right here, stapling papers or finishing up my grades before the weekend. At first I thought someone was messing with me, because when I looked over I didn’t see anyone there at first. Remember, most of the lights are out in the building. But when I heard the knock again—polite yet assertive—gentle but in no way timid—a purposeful tap: confident, entitled, earnest—I glimpsed a little head peer over the window frame.

When I open the door the boy extends his hand warmly and tells me his name. I can picture him rehearsing this in the mirror before he left, or mouthing the words to himself as he made his solitary ascent up the wide concrete steps to our door.

Excuse me, I am looking for the main office.

Oh no. I sensed his urgency. It closes at three. Can I help you?

He tells me he is a seventh-grader at another school in the district. He just emigrated here from the Dominican Republic last year and missed the entrance exam to our school. While he is careful to say nothing bad about his current school, from what he has heard about our school—what a great place it is, and how serious our students are about their education—he is certain that this school would be a much better fit.

I have to tell him the next chance he has to get in won’t be for another year and a half. I encourage him to come back on Monday and introduce himself to our headmaster. That she would be glad to meet him too. But, no, it is unlikely that he could transfer here anytime sooner. Well, I have never heard of such a thing happening. I’d hate to say it is impossible. He smiles graciously, but the way he drops his shoulders as his silhouette shrinks down the long corridor and out the door tells me he is at least a little defeated.

So does he go here now? Did he get in?

I don’t know. A lot can happen in a year and a half. I forgot his name.

What I am sure of, I tell my students, is that at 4 o’clock on a Friday afternoon—when most teachers are already home with their families—that it is unlikely that any of them are as preoccupied with their education as this boy that day. They are more likely on the playground or at home watching TV or playing video games.

I wonder a few things too. I often replay his story over in my head. I try to fill in the details on my own. Was his mother waiting in an idling car outside, or did he walk here on his own? How many doors did he knock at before he found mine? What was his impression of me?

This year the story ends with a card on my desk.

It is wrapped in cellophane with a red lighthouse on it crafted out of heavy card stock. I let it sit there for a few periods, concluding it might be from a parent upset over a child’s warning notice. When I finally open it, I can tell it was written by a student’s hand.

“Dear Ms. Mahoney, Today in class I was really moved by your story about the young boy. It made me remember why I am here and what my purpose here at Boston Latin Academy is. Your story made me realize that I take [too much] for granted here and that my seat could easily be filled by someone else. Maybe the next president of the United States or maybe the CEO of a banking company. I will never take anything here for granted again. For 7th grade is just the walk to the starting line. Next year is when the race actually begins. Will I finish the race? That I do not know, for that’s my choice. Do I want to finish, yes. But that’s only if I am willing to walk the mile. Thanks for opening my eyes to the task before me.”

I close the card with a heaviness in me. Her note is not only infused with her prodigious character, but also firsthand insight. It makes me consider not what it means to occupy a seat in my school, but conversely about the perceived capital of owning a seat elsewhere in the district. I think about the storyline unfolding in her head, about the next president or CEO: Is it the seat that unlocks their potential?