He’s Got Me Covered

After living in our two-story house alone until the fall of ’98, I sold it and moved into a nearby apartment. I’d had to adjust to a new lifestyle. It was my seventh year at the middle school, and I felt I was hanging by a thread. Then, on a Monday in December 1998, a guidance counselor informed me she’d cover my class because I needed to report to the principal’s office right away. I stared at her, wondering what she knew. With no students in sight, I walked down the long, quiet corridor, pondering the unusual sense of urgency in the office. There, I found the principal, Dr. Bertha Calhoun, and a well-dressed blonde lady from Human Resources (HR), the school system’s employee relations specialist. What did they want? The lady explained that a written complaint had been filed against me. She named two seventh grade girls in one of my classes. They alleged that on the previous Friday, I had intentionally pushed them in front of the class. One of them stumbled and fell. Searching for words that said more than “I didn’t do it,” I shook my head in disbelief. “Miss Bostic,” Bertha cut in, “you have been suspended with pay. Your need to go to your room, get your things and leave. Security will contact you for a statement.” The principal and I, of course, did not have a good, trusting relationship. Nevertheless, I could not believe the brazen way she’d delivered that very direct statement. I wanted Bertha to say more, that she was sorry I’d been accused, that she knew I wouldn’t and couldn’t have done such a thing. I followed her instructions; her words locked in my memory. Leaving the principal’s office, my mind raced. Why had I been accused? I was always so careful about touching students, especially when my assistance was needed during hands-on activities, including instructing them at the sewing machine. Definitely, I would never push a student or anyone else. Nevertheless, I was given the names of the two seventh grade girls who had accused me. One received good grades and was rather quiet and cooperative. The other girl had a low average and sometimes disturbed other students. Otherwise, both girls were respectful. I thought of the counselor, the messenger, who’d been sent to cover my class. She probably knew I wouldn’t be returning anytime soon, if at all. Remembering the principal’s pleased attitude as she explained the procedure for my leaving the school, I felt she was gloating. She was not at all sorry to have received bad news about one of her teachers. With those accusations, she was more than even with me over the reports I’d written against her. I should’ve anticipated retaliation. When the assistant principal harassed me and the three of us met in my classroom to resolve the issue, Bertha had turned on me, taking his side. Their unprofessional behavior was unfair to me, but I’d felt it could be resolved professionally. Therefore, I’d known nothing else to do but write the complaint. My on-going feuds with the principal were like a childish game, I thought. Professionally, Bertha had more power than me, and now so did the two seventh grade girls. From school, I drove like a zombie to my apartment. Inside was bright and sunny. I felt a mixture of confusion, disappointment, and anger. Sitting on my sofa, I tried to piece together all that had just happened. Eager to express my innocence, I anxiously awaited the security officer’s call. I stared at the phone across the room, hoping it would ring.