Writings and Reflections

Five Years and Bust

by Lloyd B. Abrams

They give you five years. It's enough to hang yourself.

In short: Graduated from Stony Brook in four years with just enough credits for a bachelors in psychology. Started graduate school, non-matriculated, at Texas Tech, one of very few schools to accept my C-minus GPA. Hated Lubbock, the "armpit of the Bible Belt," and also didn't get accepted into the counseling program. Took the Braniff red-eye home, and walked through the door with my tail between my legs. Got a job as a welfare-worker in the city, carrying the signature black notebook and commuting three hours a day on the LIRR. Was swallowing Preludins to get the weight down, which also helped keep me awake. Topped out on Suffolk County's entrance exam, and got a job as a case worker in a mostly black community. Was swallowing Gelusils to keep the bile down as I hit 100 cases. Was offered a job teaching special education out in Westhampton Beach. Started working on my masters. Got married a year later. Took a job in a New York City junior high school a half year after that. The principal's six welcoming words to me: "I hope you stay a while."

A black principal soon took over, who was crazy, like Queeg. One of my kids referred to him as "froggy," and the teachers, much worse. There followed a mass exodus of white teachers and I lucked out by getting a coveted "administrative" transfer to a high school. I finished my masters, paid for, in part, by New York State, and received certification. Bought a house on Long Island and started driving into Brooklyn. I was granted tenure a year later - it took only three years back then. We had our first child, a boy.

Then, on a Friday in April - why, always, a Friday? - I got the letter. Paraphrasing: "You have had five years to complete the requirements for your license. Please bring your official transcript(s) for review to the Licensing Division of the Board of Examiners at Board of Education headquarters ..." I searched through an old accordion folder under boxes of shoes in the closet for the license announcement. Despite my master's degree and state certification, my course work did not exactly satisfy the city's byzantine requirements. By April, of course, it was too late to make up the two methods and curriculum courses I would have needed. Plus, I had already climbed to step 6A, plus master's, and was facing losing my license, my job ... losing everything.

I gathered my papers and drove into downtown Brooklyn after school on the appointed day. I wore a suit, which I started to sweat through as I circled around searching for a parking space. I had never come to work as a shlump, in jeans and sneakers, like some of my colleagues. For me, it was always dress pants or corduroys and a sports shirt, and sometimes even a tie.

I had to wait half an hour to see the examiner, Mrs. McC-something. Her name could've been McCormack, McConnell or McNulty; I don't remember exactly. But she was a stiff, humorless, gray-haired woman who looked at me sternly over her half-glasses. I felt like a school boy sent to the principal's office.

I tried to explain that I had completed my masters at Hofstra which, unlike the city universities, was not fully aware of the city's licensing requirements. That was met by a sneer and a lecture about being more responsible. I then showed her my annual rating sheets, on which I was deemed "satisfactory" or better, and several written observations of my teaching.

She mentioned contacting my principal, who could have possibly negotiated a postponement or a waiver. However, I didn't want to reveal anything about my sometimes contentious relationship with the administration. I had never been one to keep my opinions to myself.

When she finally said, "Sorry ... my hands are tied," I asked if there were someone else she could appeal to, like her supervisor. She glared at me and relented. She said she would bring my file to Mr. Spinoza, the Assistant Director, but not to raise my hopes up.

I was in a funk as I drove home in especially heavy, rain-delayed traffic. During the dismal days following, my relationship with my wife and child suffered. My teaching suffered. I suffered.

Three weeks later, when I emptied our mailbox, in it was an envelope from the Board of Examiners. I opened it with trepidation. Inside was a form letter, with my name, address and identifying information hand-written in ink. The letter stated: "Congratulations. You have met the requirements for your New York City teaching license in ..." I didn't bother reading any further.

Such a relief! It felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I could breathe easily again.

Thirty-two years later, I still don't know who had made the decision to grant me the permanent license. And I wonder if that person had any idea what effect he had had on our lives.

Rev 3 / April 16, 2007

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April, 2007…Copyright © 2007, Lloyd B. Abrams
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