by Kayla Diaz-Janes
Though not uncommon in a South Carolina classroom, the current onslaught of seventh-grade boys chicken-fighting surrounded by girls placing bets with snacks and cheering on their crushes was enough to distract Ms. Jones from the classroom’s dilapidated state. Despite working as a substitute teacher for almost thirty years, she regularly struggled with managing student behavior, evidenced by her helplessness at the scene before her, and dealing with the school’s obvious underfunded state. This North Charleston middle school had black mold littering the ceiling creases and taped-off toilets flooding the floor below. She had only left the classroom for a few minutes to stop by the powder room to fix her pin curls and ensure her pleated skirt hit below the knee when upon returning she was toppled by a stray chicken fighter who had fallen out of bounds. In a fit of anger she screeched at the class about their conduct.
“Does this generation not know how to behave?!?” she questioned in a thick drawl as the students scurried to their seats. “All your assignments are posted online, all you have to do is sit down and do them!”
The students glanced among themselves, and one of the boys leaned back in his chair to share a look with someone across the room. He fell backward with a bang and the classroom erupted into raucous laughter.
Overpowered, disregarded, and forgotten, Ms. Jones gave up and made her way to her desk. Passing by a student, Ms. Jones paused to study the girl’s book.
“What’s this?” Ms. Jones asked.
“Umm, it's The House on Mango Street,” was the hesitant reply. Ms. Jones took a moment to assess the student before her; she’s not black like most of the students here, but not white as Ms. Jones preferred to teach. Instead, she seemed a certain type of Hispanic. Likely undocumented, Ms. Jones thought to herself with a grimace.
“Hmph,” Ms. Jones scoffed, “this book is banned in South Carolina; find something else to do.”
With that Ms. Jones snatched the book off the girl’s desk, noticing her bitten cuticles with disinterest, and proceeded to her own. The girl sighed before placing her head on the desk.
Ms. Jones had known the book was on the banned list, as she memorized each month’s updated list ever since her son came home years ago asking about “homosexuality.” She deeply approved of the government’s actions to stop the poisoning of young minds, having submitted her own recommendations of books to be banned after reading certain online reviews.
A group of students’ voices had risen with the excitement of their discussion to a point that Ms. Jones couldn’t tolerate.
“Shhhh,” Ms. Jones said. “You’ll disturb the other classes.”
The students glanced at her before returning to their conversation, voices only slightly hushed.
Surveying the classroom, she noticed the girl, whose book she had taken, sleeping. Ms. Jones headed to the girl and knocked on her desk.
“Sit up, this class isn’t for sleeping.”
“But I already finished the assignment.”
“Then stare at the wall; you have an imagination for a reason,” Ms. Jones said, irritated by the student’s response.
She returned to her desk, and out of curiosity picked up The House on Mango Street, to learn what these authors were plaguing children’s brains with.
She began reading, the copy worn and annotated, pausing on the first page where a handwritten Spanish note bled through the page. South Carolina substitutes were more for the sake of having an adult in the room than actually teaching. The only words Ms. Jones recognized were “Camíla,” and “Adios.” Ms. Jones prided herself on being able to communicate with all her students, given they spoke English, but occasionally had to learn a few phrases for those who hadn’t bothered learning the language of the country they lived in. Reading further, Ms. Jones became immersed in Esperanza’s journey, ignoring raised hands and the ticking clock as the story’s characters jumped rope like Ms. Jones used to in her childhood, only to be interrupted by the crackling PA system with its half-broken speaker: “Attention campus, we are now entering a secure lockdown. Ensure everyone is inside and lock the doors. Stay out of sight.”
Ms. Jones rose immediately. Having read the handbook, she knew what to do and quickly led the now-sobered class to barricade the doors and hide in the far corner of the room. Of the many lockdown drills Ms. Jones had experienced, none had amounted to any true danger, but she had read enough articles regarding shootings to be cautious. She passed the girl she had taken the book from – Camíla, who sat picking at her nail beds with shaking fingers while staring at the wall. After ensuring the door was locked, Ms. Jones returned Camíla’s book to her as she walked by, hardly sparing her a glance.
About Kayla Diaz-Janes
Kayla Diaz-Janes is a junior at Charleston County School of the Arts, where she studies creative writing under Danielle Detiberus, Francis Hammes, and Beth Webb Hart. A Cuban-American who grew up traveling across the Balkans and southeast Asia with her family, Kayla is an award-winning writer who has been published in literary journals and collections. After publishing a novel as her senior thesis, she plans to attend college and pursue a career in international law and business.