![]() She watched every one of the Marvel movies they talked about during class. “You have to prove that you really care about them,” she said, so she’d gone to the dollar store, spent her own money on art supplies and redecorated her classroom into a movie theater on premiere night, with a red carpet and a VIP door and a banner that read: “Every Student Is a Star.” She started attending her students’ sporting events, staying after school for volleyball and basketball games, and watching YouTube videos to learn the rules for American football. She’d applied for an extension on her J-1 visa to stay in Bullhead City for two extra years as she continued to figure out how to build strong relationships with her students. She told them that it had taken her a year to pay off her debts to the international teaching agency, two years to get her Arizona driver’s license and three years to move out of a bedroom she’d shared with other international teachers and into her own apartment. “So, what do you think of life at Fox Creek?” he asked. A boy was walking up to the front of the classroom, holding out a piece of paper rolled into the shape of a microphone, and pretending to interview Obreque. A girl was starting a game of hangman on the whiteboard. A boy was standing up and intentionally tripping over his friend’s legs. ![]() “Ugh, miss teacher lady? Can I go wash off this spit water?” the student asked. A girl was pouring water from a cup into another girl’s mouth, and that girl was spitting the water onto the student next to her. Two boys were playing a version of bumper cars with their desks. A girl was taping pencils to each of her fingers and then pawing at the boy next to her. A boy was chewing on the collar of his shirt. She decided to try a tactic she’d used a few times in the Philippines, planting herself quietly at the front of the room, modeling silence, looking from one student to the next and waiting for them to recognize their own bad behavior. “Five, four, three, two, one,” Obreque shouted, but they weren’t quieting down, and there was nothing but more humiliation waiting for her at zero. “Please, have some respect!” Obreque said, but only a few students seemed to hear her. “We cannot proceed!” one of the students yelled out, as if declaring victory, and others started to laugh and yell, too. There was the scene that moved Eastman each morning, when 600 children from those same families managed to show up on time in matching blue Fox Creek shirts to a school he sometimes worried was failing them. There was the continued fallout of the pandemic, which had decimated their working-class town of casino dealers and hotel service workers, killing almost 1 percent of the population. There was the school dining room, where every student qualified for free or reduced-price meals. There was the fact that many of those teachers in the district were now working beyond retirement age and taking on extra classes because they refused to walk away from a student population that so many others had abandoned. There were the $4.5 billion in statewide education cuts over the past decade, which had left him with a shortened four-day school week and some of the lowest-paid teachers in the country. There were the standardized test scores that showed fewer than 20 percent of students were proficient in either English or math, and more than half were performing at least a few years below their grade level. There was its F letter grade from the state of Arizona, issued shortly before the pandemic. “Well, we’re going to give you a little time to adjust before we throw you in front of a class,” he said, and then he thought about what else he wanted to tell them about Fox Creek, and all the ways he could characterize their new school.
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