Front of the Class Read online

  The principal at the final interview was a younger woman, and she stood and greeted me like an old friend. I got the definite impression that someone had forewarned her about the noises I made, so I decided to test the situation by not bringing up Tourette’s. It would be interesting to find out what an interview was like when Tourette syndrome wasn’t part of the conversation.

  Big mistake.

  Legally, she was not supposed to bring up the topic. But as the interview dragged on, the “elephant in the room” grew bigger and bigger, and I began to regret not talking about Tourette’s. By going so long without mentioning it, I allowed the topic to feel all the more awkward. The interview ended without TS ever being mentioned, and I left feeling empty and disappointed in myself. I felt as if I’d been hiding my condition—as if I were ashamed of myself—when actually Tourette’s is so much a part of who I am and what I have accomplished that to keep it a secret is to withhold a giant piece of myself from the world. By now, I’d accepted Tourette syndrome as a constant companion—a companion I could no longer imagine being without.

  I decided that if I went to future interviews, I would be up front about Tourette’s. Then it would be out in the open—and if I did get the job, there wouldn’t be any surprises. I’ve heard about job applicants with Tourette syndrome who successfully keep their noises and twitches in check for the interview, only to show up for the job and quickly find themselves with a lot of explaining to do. I didn’t want to teach anywhere where Tourette’s made people uncomfortable or where the principal was unable or unwilling to create an environment in which people’s differences were accepted.

  My day ended with the general feeling that on the first two interviews, everything had gone as well as possible. But I had no idea what the principals were looking for or how many prospective teachers they were interviewing.

  Since there were no guarantees, I continued job hunting while I waited to hear from the principals. But at this point, about midway through the summer, the stress was starting to build—in the way that anyone who’s ever struggled to find work can understand. I had a strong urge to spend some serious relaxation time in an environment where the apparent limitations of Tourette syndrome wouldn’t be right in my face.

  And so it was a perfect time to step back from the grim routine of looking for work and enjoy the fact that within the span of just a few weeks, the whole world seemed to have shown up in Atlanta for the Summer Olympics. Everyone was talking about what events they were going to see. Jeff flew in from St. Louis and my dad managed to score tickets to one of the most sought-after events—the women’s gymnastics competition. It seemed like a good idea. How much trouble can a guy get into for spontaneous shouting at an Olympic sporting event? I felt so safe about the situation that we also brought along two friends from St. Louis.

  The Georgia Dome was jammed with spectators—every single seat was occupied. We were all talking and catching up as we made our way to our aisle and crammed into our seats. We were sitting up so high that I could barely distinguish the tiny American gymnasts from those from other countries.

  As soon as we sat down, I started barking. My friends and my brother were unfazed. They hardly noticed anymore. But the people around us sure noticed. Every time I let out a noise, men and women of all ages turned and glared at me. The more I yipped and yelped, the more aggravated the people in front of us became.

  One woman shushed me. I tried to explain about Tourette’s, but she whipped around, shaking her head. Then a man stood up and stomped over to a nearby security guard. I watched his face contort while he told the security guard about all the “rude noises” I was making. He pointed to me, and he pointed to his ticket. It was easy to see his point—seats at Olympic events weren’t cheap. Each of our tickets had a face value of about eighty-five dollars.

  The security guard relayed the story to a volunteer, who came over to talk to us.

  “He can’t help it,” Jeff explained. “He has Tourette syndrome. Do you know what that is?”

  “Isn’t that where you make noises all the time and sometimes you curse?” the volunteer asked.

  “No,” I said. “That kind of Tourette syndrome is very rare. I don’t curse; I just make noises and jerk my head around.”

  As if on cue, I emitted a loud “Wah!”

  The volunteer had no idea what to do. People were complaining and it was her job to make everyone happy. The competition was about to start and she needed a quick solution.

  “I’m afraid if you don’t quiet down, we’re going to have to ask you to sit somewhere else,” she said. “He can’t help it,” Jeff repeated.

  The volunteer looked stumped. “Let me go talk to some people, and I’ll be right back, okay?”

  She left, and we tried to enjoy the event, but by now we were all feeling tense. Jeff talked about how I had as much right to be there as the guy who had reported me to security. Our friends agreed. We talked about what we would do if the volunteer tried to make us move. We agreed on principle that it was wrong. But, as Jeff said, “It’s not like our seats could be any worse.” I just wanted to watch the competition and forget about the people sitting around me, but it seemed like my internal companion had other plans for all of us.

  “Wah!”

  By now, everyone within earshot was following our conversation. They didn’t look at me when I made noises, but I could feel the tension. Remember, stress just makes Tourette’s worse. Pretty soon, I saw the volunteer marching up the steps. Jeff walked down to her, and the two met with some official-looking people to talk about the situation.

  A few minutes later, Jeff motioned all of us to follow him and the volunteer. Jeff had been through many scenes like this before; he knew what to do and I trusted his judgment, but I couldn’t really believe this. Was Jeff agreeing that we would let ourselves be kicked out? This wasn’t some hushed theater event or classical concert—it was an athletic competition. Despite my concerns, we all walked down the steps, lower and lower, until we were almost right on the floor with the athletes.

  Then the volunteer stopped and pointed out four seats to us—four really great seats!

  “Well, Brad, how’s this?” she asked, smiling at us like a co-conspirator. She had just helped us to beat the intolerance of the complainers by granting their wish to see us moved. But these seats were far better than the others—instead of the eighty-five dollar seats, we were now sitting in the two hundred eighty-five dollar seats and were only about twenty-five rows from the floor. I wanted to hug her but had to settle for thanking her profusely. After she left, as we sank into our newer, better, far more comfortable seats, I couldn’t keep the grin off of my face. Sometimes, in unexpected ways, Tourette’s allows me glimpses of how a total stranger will feel empathy and make courageous decisions on another person’s behalf. I even managed to get a laugh out of Jeff and our friends by wisecracking, “As you can see, there are advantages to having Tourette’s. Enjoy the view!” We all gave each other high fives.

  So the Olympics helped put me in a good mood, even though my job search was stalled and it was getting later in the summer. A nice day at a sporting event doesn’t change the reality of things. I knew most principals had already hired their new teachers. So far, I’d successfully refused to let myself get discouraged, but that hill was getting harder and harder to climb every day. Everyone kept reminding me how hard it is to land your first job out of college. I always smiled and said that I was sure something would turn up soon.

  For a long time, I believed it.

  I was still getting by with my work at Camp Alterman when I got a call from a principal who wanted to interview me later that same day. This would be approximately my eighteenth interview.

  “Sure,” I said, thankful I was still keeping the suit hanging in my car. I drove out of camp and found a nearby church parking lot where I could change clothes.

  By the time I pulled up to the school I was already running through the usual interview questions in my head. Ho
w will you work with slow readers? How will you communicate with parents? At this point, I knew the routine so well that the answers spilled out of me on command. Even so, there were now only a few weeks until the school year began, and I still wasn’t any closer to landing my first teaching job.

  I always drove to each interview with the air conditioner on full blast, hoping to keep from showing up looking rumpled. Mid-August in Georgia can be stifling. Still, no matter how hard I tried to remind myself of the importance of appearing relaxed, I knew that desperation is hard to camouflage.

  When I arrived for the interview, my tics were especially rough. As I turned off the ignition, I chomped down hard, and from deep in my diaphragm came a loud “Fa … fa!”

  I kept extra pens in the car, as biting on a pen sometimes helps to settle my nerves. So I pulled out a green plastic pen and bit down on the cap. It seemed to help a little and the vocal tics took a pause. There wasn’t any more preparation that could be done. Ready or not, it was time to go inside.

  From the moment I entered the building, I realized this school felt different from the others. My first clue was that the hallway was dimly lit. Also, in the summer, schools typically smell of cleaning solvents and fresh paint, but here there was a musty odor. It generally smelled of neglect.

  “May I help you?” The secretary smiled at me as I walked to the front desk. She could see I was there for an interview, wearing my winter blue suit in the middle of summer and toting a portfolio bulging with certificates, awards, and newspaper articles.

  “Hi. I’m Brad Cohen,” I said in my most confident, upbeat voice. “I have an eleven o’clock appointment with the principal.”

  She asked me to take a seat, but as soon as I sat down I knew it was only a matter of time before my everpresent companion would start to act up. And while I could temporarily keep the barking, yipping, and chomping at bay by physically struggling to stifle the tics, by suppressing them while I waited for the interview, there was a real risk that they would explode out of me at some point during my conversation with the principal.

  The first yip slipped out as I squirmed in the hard chair, trying to get comfortable. The secretary flinched. She looked around and up at the ceiling, trying to find the source of the noise. At this point, she didn’t even think to look at me. I decided not to take the time to speak up and explain, and continued running interview questions and answers through my head.

  What all the interviews needed to boil down to, I figured, was my belief that every child can learn. No matter what other questions the different principals asked, I felt sure that this assurance was what they wanted to hear. Each child can learn—must learn—for the child’s own sake. If I were in these principals’ shoes, interviewing prospective teachers, I know this is the kind of attitude and work ethic I’d be looking for. While I was doing all this thinking and still waiting to go into the principal’s office, my neck suddenly jerked to one side, whipping the muscles so hard that the stiff collar on my dress shirt cut into my skin.

  “Rah … rah, RAH!”

  It burst out of me with such force that my torso jerked forward.

  The secretary jumped from her seat as if a rock had just crashed through the window. Her eyes darted around the room, then settled on me—they were open wide. She looked as if she were staring down a ghost.

  I still didn’t say anything. The giant wall clock showed almost eleven fifteen. Where was this guy? The waiting was just making me more agitated, setting the stage for an even more spectacular introduction to the various facets of Tourette syndrome.

  “Wah!”

  My mouth opened as wide as it possibly could, and my neck jerked back and snapped forward. This time the secretary looked right at me, and I locked eyes with hers.

  “I can’t help it,” was all I could say.

  There wasn’t time for more than that—a tall figure finally appeared in the doorway. “You must be Mr. Cohen.”

  I got up and hustled toward the principal, glad to get away from the secretary’s stare. For the sake of my own self-confidence, I didn’t need to dwell on what she must have thought of me. I could feel her stare as we left, but I didn’t want to think about her and psych myself out, so I focused on the principal.

  He was a thin man, sharply dressed, and although he was older than many other principals, he looked to be in good physical shape. When he extended his hand, I reached out expecting a firm, athletic grip, but his hand was limp against mine. It felt symbolic, somehow, of how different this school was from the others, even though I tried to force any negative thoughts from my mind. There was no way I could be picky about a job. Not this late in the summer.

  Even so, most new teachers understand that it’s especially important to get a good principal with your first teaching job. An elementary school is like a small town, and the principal is the mayor. The principal’s position is a job that requires political savvy as well as strong leadership. That strength of leadership will ultimately have a direct impact on the teacher’s ability to do his or her best in the classroom day after day. The importance of the principal’s role makes a questionable proposition out of simply grabbing a teaching job just because it is offered. An uninvolved or uninspired principal may have little or no concern for the very things a new teacher will need most to succeed in the position.

  Nevertheless, I willingly followed along when this tardy, limp-handed man in the musty-smelling building asked me to come back to his office. I wanted to see his work domain and how he decorated the room. After visiting so many principals’ offices over the summer, I’d come to think that the quality of the office decor bore some correlation to the quality of the school itself.

  His office jarred me when I walked in. I felt as if I had left school and entered church. The walls were covered with plaques bearing religious expressions and biblical verses. There were pictures of angels, and one of Jesus. A sign said, “SCHOOL RULES FROM 1812,” and the first rule was “START EACH DAY WITH A PRAYER.”

  “Please, have a seat,” he quietly began.

  He told me about his school, and about the kids. “If it weren’t summer, the kids would be here right now running through the halls and acting wild. These kids are tough. They need discipline. Let me just be frank about this—it’s hard to work here. This is a school where teachers are expected to put in long hours.”

  “I’m all for that,” I said. “I anticipate working hard.”

  My shirt collar was suddenly tight around my neck, and I could feel sweat forming on my temples. Without warning, my neck jerked back and forth, and I let out a lone, irrepressible “Wah!”

  I knew I was going to bring up Tourette’s, as I’d resolved always to do, but this forced the topic to the forefront. However—unbelievably—the man continued talking about his school as if he hadn’t noticed the noise. I wondered if he was attempting to be tactful. His voice remained congenial, even though he spoke with authority. He seemed to have done this interview process a lot and to have a clear idea of what he was looking for. He told me there was an opening in fifth grade, which sounded promising since I’d already worked with fifth-graders as a student teacher. He also needed someone to teach math. I told him that would be fine, too.

  His eyes took me in. “Tell me your philosophy of education.”

  I began my story, which by this time I could tell in my sleep, touching on the importance of hands-on activities instead of relying upon the use of mandatory worksheets as “babysitters.” I stressed my opinion that a teacher needs to work closely with parents. I told him about my flip-chart reward system, and the need for weekly notes to parents.

  He picked up my résumé.

  “I see you graduated from Bradley University. That’s a small college, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “A small Catholic college, right? In the Boston area?”

  “Well, no,” I began evenly, trying not to lean too hard on his mistakes. “Actually it isn’t a Catholic college. And it’s
located in Illinois. Peoria.”

  It was as if I hadn’t said a word. “A Catholic college, isn’t it?” he repeated.

  “No, sir. The school isn’t Catholic.” By now I had to wonder. Why would he think I would either lie about that or somehow did not know the correct answer?

  He continued to insist that Bradley University was in Boston and was a Catholic school, and his persistence was just irritating enough that I abandoned common sense and repeatedly corrected him, despite my need for the job. Right about the time that I was ready to give up on the whole interview, he conceded that perhaps he was thinking of another school.

  “Brad,” he finally said, “I see you have Tourette syndrome. I don’t know too much about that. Tell me about it.”

  At last! It was out. He seemed eager to learn, and I was relieved to see that he wasn’t going to try to ignore my tics and avoid the discussion.

  “It’s a neurological disorder,” I began. “It causes my body to twitch and to make noises that I can’t control. The tics are worse when I’m nervous, but once I relax, they quiet down. Children are curious about Tourette’s, but once I explain it to them, they are fine with it. I tell them that it’s like having the hiccups. Sometimes I compare it to the need to sneeze. They relate to that.”

  When I finished, he leaned forward and issued his verdict. “To tell you the truth, Brad,” he said, then paused as if he didn’t know quite how to proceed, “I can’t see you as a teacher. I feel like Tourette syndrome would get in the way. I just don’t know how you could teach.”

  “Excuse me?” I had to mentally rewind what he’d just said: I can’t see you as a teacher.

  He shook his head. “Brad—they’d laugh at you all day long. They wouldn’t be able to concentrate or do their work. In all my years as an educator, I’ve known a lot of teachers—and I have never met one with Tourette syndrome.”

  I felt my cheeks get hot. And of course at this worst possible of moments, I released a piercing yip and my neck jerked to one side, once again hitting my shirt collar so hard the skin on my neck was rubbed raw.