Mr. Barcik

There was only one teacher that I smiled in the halls; it was Mr. Barcik, the music teacher. Partly because he had just as many behavior problems in his classes as I did, and partly because we were both awkward white guys, I was often called Mr. Barcik and he was often called Mr. Slaughter by both students and staff. There was a moment our first year of teaching that I think solidified our relationship as the white guys who had no idea what was going on. There was a security guard, Officer Morrison, who took me under his wing to teach me the ways of behavior management. His way included a strong yell and phone calls home; both were big no-no’s in my handy dandy handbook.

One day during music class, Mr. Barcik called security for help because my kids, as usual, were terrorizing his classroom. Colin had grabbed one of the cymbals, and he was running around the classroom banging it as Lauren and Sean gleefully slammed their hands down on the piano. Just like me, Mr. Barcik had run after Colin a few times, trying to corner him unsuccessfully and then, defeated, he called security. I happened to be walking upstairs to pick up the kids, and there was no mistaking which room my kids were in. The screaming made the walls shake.  When I arrived, security hadn’t come yet, so I tried to line up some of the kids to go even though it was clear they would much rather be in Mr. Barcik’s room. So when Sean wasn’t looking, I grabbed him and dragged him towards the line while Mr. Barcik grabbed and dragged Lauren. At least the piano playing stopped.

At this very moment, Officer Morrison came bumbling in and yelled, “What are you all doing! Get in line!”, and they all looked up and then straightened up, well, except for Colin, but by now everyone knew Colin was an exception. Colin was one of two kids in the whole school that was actually classified as emotionally disturbed, even though a quarter of the student body fit the qualifications. So when Officer Morrison saw the children line up so easily without complaint, he had an epiphany. Why did the kids act up with Mr. Slaughter and Mr. Barcik, but they listened to me? His answer was written on our faces; we were white, and he was black! So with his new discovery, he felt he had to share it with everyone, including the 2nd graders. As he started explaining our racial backgrounds, they nodded repetitively. “You see, there is a certain way that black people talk, and both Mr. Slaughter and Mr. Barcik talk in a white way, a more educated way.” This was when Mr. Barcik and I started to wince. He continued, “you all should listen and learn from them because they’ve come here to teach.” Both Mr. Barcik and I were too embarrassed to react; Officer Morrison both described himself and the black race by default as uneducated and then pointed at the elephant in the room--Mr. Barcik and I were white. Mr. Barcik and I pretended like it never happened.

This year, we were struggling again, and Barcik mentioned how my class had steamrolled him last week. I asked him, “Is my class the worst in the school?” He smiled, “Two years in a row.” At first, I took a little pride in the statement, and thought, “It isn’t me, it’s those darn kids.” It was a classic teacher line, and I was sticking to it. But it didn’t have the same crunch as last year, the line had gone stale.