It was early in the year of my short-lived teaching career when an announcement came over the intercom instructing all teachers to dress in black clothing the following Friday.
We were also informed that there would be a faculty meeting immediately after school that day.
Given that it was September, we still had a measure of trust and confidence in the administration, but a faculty meeting after school on a Friday was going to put that to the test.
Most teachers followed orders and arrived at school that day wearing black.
We waited in anticipation to see what would happen at the after-school meeting.
Near the end of the school day, an announcement came over advising teachers that the meeting would be held in the band hall.
When we arrived at the room just after 3 o’clock, it was decorated for a funeral.
There was a small box on a pedestal at the front that had been made up to look like a coffin.
When all of the mourners had gathered and taken their seats, the principal and the curriculum director stood up and declared that the school was about to have a funeral for the word “can’t.”
They proceeded to eulogize the word with full-on crying, Kleenexes, falling out in the aisles, organ playing and Holy Ghost preaching.
“For too long, we’ve used the word can’t as an excuse,” the principal shouted. “No more! We are laying this word to rest. We will no longer be using the word can’t at this school.”
An hour later, we were standing outside of the building on the school grounds where a custodian had dug a hole about the size of our can’t coffin.
Each teacher was given a sticky note with the word can’t written on it. We were instructed to complete a phrase like, “Our students can’t pass their state tests.”
When we had completed that task, the custodian lowered the coffin into the ground and we tossed our sticky notes in on top of the casket.
We sang Amazing Grace as he covered the box with dirt.
During the bizarre ritual, one of the Teach for America teachers leaned over to me and whispered, “You know, the word can’t can be used in a positive context at times.”
After the funeral was over, we returned to the cafeteria for light snacks and Welch’s Grape Juice.
We all kind of stood around in silence.
We didn’t know if what we had just participated in was strange, profound or both.
If can’t was truly dead that day, its ghost came back to haunt that school many times throughout the next nine months.
Call it a contraction poltergeist or a Mississippi Miracle, but there were can’ts all over the place.
“I can’t make it another day,” the history department chair said.
And indeed, he was at home and released from his contract by October of that year.
There were a lot of troublesome students that I had to deal with.
One in particular was K.G., who was enrolled in my seventh period World History class but tended to show up for my sixth period World Geography course.
He would only show up to seventh period when a certain aspiring rapper and juvenile hall frequent flyer D.J. would return to school. D.J. was in my seventh period class.
One morning, I was checking roll and noticed that D.J. had been marked as present and was apparently back from his latest stint at the alternative school.
It just so happened that one of the professors in my master’s program was coming to observe my seventh period history class.
I knew that the combination of K.G. and D.J. would sink my letter grade.
I approached one of the assistant principals and told her of my dilemma.
“If I were you, Mr. Davis, I think I would have K.G. and D.J. running an errand for me until the professor is gone,” the empathetic principal said.
As it turned out, D.J. was gone by lunch. He had socked somebody in the face and was on his way back to alternative school.
Just before the seventh period bell rang, my professor was getting comfortable in my room.
K.G. came to the door, expecting to see D.J.
“D.J. is not here, he’s been suspended again,” I said.
K.G. looked in the room and noticed my professor, and he said, “Who is that?”
“That’s my professor,” I responded. “She’s here to observe me. Do you think that you can come in here and sit still and stay quiet for 50 minutes?”
He looked at me, and then he looked at her, and then he looked at me again.
“No, Mr. Davis, I can’t,” he said.
He turned around and walked away, and closed the door behind him, locking it.
It ended up being a pretty good history lesson that day. It was at least good enough to pass the college course.
I was grateful for D.J.’s predictable behavior, K.G.’s honesty and the fact that the word can’t was not dead in the halls of that school after all.
