The Chicanery of Harry Wong

Teachers call Harry Wong a guru. They buy his books. They pay money to see him speak. School districts spend taxpayer dollars to ship this small Asian man, presumably in a box, to their counties so he can bestow his ancient teaching wisdom upon their dim, unenlightened masses. I think Harry Wong is an asshole.

Harry Wong is a charismatic man, and, as I’ve mentioned before, he is very, very tiny. He is packaged in a gaudy plaid suit. He stands on a stage in front of a mock classroom and says things like, “You are working too hard. I’ve been teaching for 30 years and I have never worked a day in my life.” Teachers seem to see this as the paradoxical wisdom of the East.

He looks like a chipmunk that stumbled upon a pair of oversized bifocals, this Wong, and I had to spend the better part of three days with him at my county’s New Teacher Induction Ceremony—three of my last summer days blown at the Seashell Ballroom of the Days Inn. Because I’m new to teaching, the county thought I would benefit from the ways of the Wong. Of course, they were very sorry Mr. Wong could not be there in person. Instead, we were subjected to his televisual image, so our heckling, shouting and throwing of piping-hot, complementary Days Inn coffee would do no good, for the real deal was off entertaining the higher bidders.

If it hasn’t occurred to you yet—the combination of this man’s name and my pure disdain for him… well, let’s just say from here on out I’ll be referring to him as Harry Wang. To be honest that was the first thing I thought when I heard his name, though my tablemates—a group of nine other new teachers with no discernable personalities—didn’t find it as universally unfortunate and hilarious as I did.

Though I speak ill of Harry Wang, I do so only in retrospect. As a teacher of reading, I ask you to recall one of the basic elements one brings to the act: prior knowledge. For those of you who are kind enough to read this blog chronologically, you already know my school has a serious discipline problem. So, now, please imagine your humble narrator in the Seashell Ballroom of the Days Inn, prior to ever meeting any students. In fact, at this point, I’ve only been to the school once, for my interview. I am sitting there, despite my inherent cynicism and tendency to turn names into sexual puns, bright-eyed and ready for this silly man to give me some good advice. You see, even though he looks funny, I, completely new to education, am paying very close attention to what this man says. I believe every single word.

Before the video begins, our induction leader asks us to open our tote bags and find the book entitled “The First Days of School,” by guess who? That’s right, our friend Harry can’t be here, but at least his book is now a high-end piece of SWAG. I’m thrilled to have the book, for one because books just feel nice in my hands, and also because books in the genre of “education” are ridiculously expensive. (Just today, my department head gave me a book on reading, a thin paperback of about 170 pages, which sells for thirty dollars.) So I’ve got the shiny new copy of “The First Days of School” in my novice grasp. I’m flipping through it and reading the table of contents and thinking, this book has all the answers to my questions about the first days of school, and it does.

The thesis of the book is that the fate of the entire school year rests on what happens in class those first few days. You must establish clear rules and consequences, as well as classroom procedures. Sounds logical. Don’t make more than 5 rules, or the kids will stop paying attention. Make about 3 to 5. At this point I’m scribbling ideas on my free legal pad… two rules: 1) RESPECT… include a few subcategories: do not talk over people, keep hands to self, etc, etc. I even have the idea of making my syllabus interactive and asking the students what their definition of respect is. Brilliant! 2) Follow all school rules. This way I cover my ass (CYA, or “cover your ass” is an oft-repeated motto among teachers) and make it the students’ responsibility to go through all that grueling crap they should already know. Just refer to your student handbook, I will tell them.

Rules are one thing, but you also need procedures—how to turn in homework, the policy for bathroom use, and my favorite: bell work. Harry Wang promises that bell work is one of the greatest tools a teacher can have. Bell work is an assignment that is on the board everyday in the same spot (students hate change like teachers hate students). Students come, sit down before the bell rings, and know exactly what to do: quietly work on their bell work assignment. They won’t ask, “What do we do? What are we doing today?” etc.

I may as well just stop here, because Harry Wang says a lot of things in this three-day period and they all sound like educational gold. But bell work is my favorite concept and, by the time induction is over, I’ve already concocted bell work assignments for the entire first week of school. My expectations are higher than one of my students on a Friday evening and I’m ready for the upcoming week of pre-planning.

Pre-planning is the time teachers get (one week; not enough) to prepare for the onslaught of the adolescent mass that floods the school on day one. This week happens to be jam-packed with meetings of all sorts, and information overload occurs halfway into the first day. But all this information, I begin to realize, is abstract. Nothing I’m being told is very practical. And many topics being discussed, such as hall passes, referral slips, student code of conduct, are pointless without any kind of hard copy to reference. I’d much rather be working on lesson plans, finding out what textbooks to consider—remember, I’ve never taught, nor have I taken education classes… I have no idea what my students are supposed to be reading, what they already know, or what they need to learn this year.

One good thing about pre-planning is that lunch is provided for three of the five days. And during three of the five lunches, quite an interesting event took place. (If you happen to be Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitches, please avert your eyes from the remainder of this paragraph.) This event is what theists call prayer. All the teachers, who are mature enough to fake it, joined hands with the administration, and addressed someone named Lord. I suppose that was general enough. Jesus’ name was not invoked; though I’m pretty sure Lord is a Christian term. So we prayed, or they prayed, or most of them prayed, and I thought, “Man, this is really fucking weird.” I felt like I was home for the holidays, only everyone was gracious enough not to ask me to lead the prayer. I must say it was all a bit uncomfortable for me, not because I felt pressured, but because I didn’t know how to act. Do I bow my head with the rest of them, close my eyes, or simply stare out into the circle of people? It was strange enough to hold their hands. I certainly didn’t want to act like I was praying and not actually pray, but then again, it’s not like I’d be offending a god that I don’t believe exists, because you have to be religious to do something sacrilegious. I should have been concerned about offending my peers. But then again, why the hell were we praying? Sure, it wasn’t doing any harm, but it just seemed archaic and inappropriate. I suppose, in the end, if I had to be surrounded by a bunch of Christians, I would choose that group in particular. Because, as you know, teachers, despite their religious views, are more often than not quite progressive people, and while we may not agree about a white-bearded guy in the clouds (not to be confused with my former white-bearded co-worker, who looks more like Santa than anthropomorphic portrayals of god), we agree on almost everything else. But I digress… You should know that I did pray for something in that awkward circle. I prayed that Harry Wang knew what he was talking about.

So by Friday of pre-planning week I knew exactly what I was going to do the first day. I had my Wang strategies down and I was ready to enjoy a long weekend of visiting friends and drinking copious amounts of beer.

Weekends go by too quickly, and the first day of school arrived like a Jehovah’s Witness. I sat in my swivel chair waiting for the first batch of young men and women ready to be molded into mature, freethinking adults.

Enter Students. A brief and appropriate poem comes to mind. Ezra Pound wrote it. It’s called “In a Station of the Metro” and it continues to say, “the apparition of these faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black bough.” The students appear to fit this description, a blur of faces. They bob around me, swaying like the poem’s petals, and they speak: “You the teacha?” “Bell work? We do work already?” “What bell work is?” “Yo palm sweaty. You nervous.” Nah, I say, not really aware of what’s happening, it’s just hot. “Shit. I ain’t doin’ no bell work.”

The room is loud. As their faces come into focus, I notice they are looking me up and down, as if I’m a museum display of modern man from 2007, a wax sculpture they’ve come to observe, looking back in time from a post-apocalyptic dystopia. Who is this guy in the tie? What was his purpose in the old days? But this analogy breaks down quickly. Why would a post-apocalyptic dystopia have museums? It is more likely, that they would all be eating each other. I don’t have to begin talking about the syllabus and the rules and consequences and procedures before I realize that Harry Wang is wong… very, very wong.