Meghan Brown
7th grade - Science
Kermit Cook
11th and 12th grade - Physics
Mariel Elguero
8th grade - English
Katy Frey
K-4 - Special Education Resource
Maribel Gonzalez
5th and 6th grade - Bilingual
Adam Greenman
7th and 8th grade - Social Studies
Liam Honigsberg
High School - Math
Anthony Jewett
3rd grade - Bilingual
Shyla Kinhal
2nd grade - Bilingual
Janis Ortega
4th grade - Bilingual
Sarada Peri
9th and 10th grade - English and Reading
Jessika Rao
10th, 11th, and 12th grade - English and Drama
Ranjana Reddy
7th grade - Physical Science
Michael Vea is a 2001 graduate of Northwestern University who majored in Education and Social Policy. Michael taught fifth grade monolingual at Public School 128 in Washington Heights, New York City.
"Welcome to the first day of school, Class 502. My name is Mr. Vea."
Like a college professor looking out to a sea of undergrads in a lecture hall, I stand at the front of Room 317 with 33 pairs of eyes watching my every move. Yes, 33 prepubescent fifth graders - some as big as me - packed in like sardines, eager to start the new school year.
There's some buzz about being in Class 502. Last year, all 32 of my fifth graders had passed the big New York City Reading Exam — the first time for a "non-designated top class" to do so in the past twelve years at PS 128. Ms. Young, the school's secretary tells me comically that there's now a waiting list of sixteen students hoping to join Class 502 this year. Later today I find out she wasn't kidding.
I'm in the middle of my first day of school speech when someone knocks on the door. I motion for the individual to come in. She is dressed in her Sunday best - velvet dress with a matching bow in her hair. Her name is Marisol.
Her mother, assuming her dual responsibilities as Marisol's mother and as president of the school's Parent's Association, stands at her daughter's side and proclaims, "Mr. Vea, my daughter is now in your class."
And there she goes. Student number 34 assumes her seat in a classroom made to fit 25.
It's a little over a month later and Marisol feels terribly insecure. She knows that many of her classmates received passing scores on last year's English Language Arts Exam. She, on the other hand, ranks close to the bottom of the entire fifth grade class. On that English exam last year, she received a one. A level one classified her as a student who fell "FAR below the standard."
Consequently, she's been very self-conscious about speaking up and working up to par with the rest of her peers. But, whenever I pose a question to the class or to her directly, she has that look of determination and that desire to succeed on her face, and that's enough for me. I completely believe in her abilities.
Almost every night, I catch myself thinking about how best to provide Marisol with the important tools to become successful academically.
It's tough, and really there's no quick fix.
My non-nonprofit friends think I'm crazy, but sometimes you can't help but to give up your Saturday afternoons to tutor your kids who desperately need it. Marisol definitely wants to succeed.
We also write to the top colleges and universities in the country to request view books, applications, and literature. The other day Marisol was reading one of those college view books during Silent Reading Time. She comes up to me afterwards and says, "Mr. Vea... MIT is pretty cool!"
And then there's that cultural exposure that many of my students don't have the luxury to experience with their families. So we go on trips to see Def Poetry Jam on Broadway or to Scholastic Incorporated in SOHO.
In the meantime, Marisol and I continue to work one-on-one. During lunch period we practice basic language skills or review reading passages that were confusing to her. Her math is also low. Today after school, Marisol, a few other students, and I made multiplication flash cards and played "The Game of Knowledge," a board game similar to Trivial Pursuit.
As I sat waiting for my turn, I watched Marisol smile when she got her question correct. Jose Luis, sitting next to her, gave her a high-five. To myself I thought, I think we're heading in the right direction.
It's now April, and Marisol consistently and proudly raises her hand to read aloud. Even her reading comprehension is surpassing many of her peers. She no longer feels subordinate - she exudes confidence!
It's 12:45 pm. Ms. Smith, the Assistant Principal, arrives during the middle of silent reading time. She hands me a sealed manila envelope, and both the kids and I know what's in it: the results of the Reading Practice Exam. This exam was big. It's generally a good indicator of the students' performance on the real exam a week from now.
Marisol received the fourth highest score in the class - a high three on a scale of one to four, just four percentage points shy of being classified a level four, a student who "FAR exceeds the standard." This is a student who began the year eight months ago performing at a level one.
It's now 2:35 pm and the class has already lined up outside for dismissal — except Marisol. There are hints of tears in Marisol's eyes as she hands me an envelope with a small smiley face on the right corner. She awkwardly races out of the room so that she doesn't see the reaction on my face.
The envelope is addressed to me with very specific directions. It says, "Read the paper first, then see the other thing." So I do just that. I open the envelope and the letter reads, "Dear Mr. Vea, Hi! How are you doing? I want to give you something that's in the envelope. I will give you this for helping me like math, reading, and more things. By: Marisol Vasquez."
I reach into envelope. It's a five-dollar bill. Of course I returned the five-dollar bill to Marisol the next day. Not the same one, though - I had to keep the original, because that five dollars from a 10-year-old child is worth a million.
Note: Some names have been changed in order to protect the privacy of individuals.
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