By Dhanpaul Narine
Once upon a time reading was in fashion. The feel and smell of the book, and the joy of turning a page were priceless. Parents read to their children and imagination was used to craft beautiful stories. The poets, Byron, Dickinson, Frost, Keats, Rumi, Tagore, and others, ruled the roost. Every play of Shakespeare was eagerly awaited and the incomparable Julius Benjamin Nathoo of Guyana, a graduate of the University of London, taught English literature with vim and vigor. “The lotus flower bends its head at dusk and celebrates the glory of the morn in splendor,” he would remind his students.
It was 1988 and one of Mr. Nathoo’s students, Ravi, was in New York on a holiday. He decided to ‘try a thing’ and look for a job. The lady at the Board of Education gave him a writing test and hired him to teach in a special school. The Board would sponsor him for a green card if his rating was satisfactory.
Principal Roza was a tall lady with small-rimmed glasses and a ready smile. Ravi could see she was a no-nonsense person. She said at the September assembly that the school was in a crisis. It was on the list of the most violent schools in New York City. “They give us two years to fix it,” she explained. “If not, they will close us down and we will all have to look for jobs. Any questions?” There was none. Ravi was to teach a special education class of eighth graders. He did not know anything about special education, or teaching. “They have been classified as special education because they are emotionally disturbed, but you’ll do fine,” the principal assured him.
The long yellow bus stopped outside the school. There were already several fights on the bus that continued in the classroom. Ravi didn’t have a clue as to what he should do. Principal Roza walked in his class with a report “A Nation at Risk” and explained that reading and math scores were abysmally low in America and even those in special education were accountable. Ravi was nervous. He gave the class a short passage to read. Then the unexpected happened. Carlos said that Michael took his pencil. Ravi quickly gave Carlos a pencil but he refused it. There was a full-scale brawl with Principal Roza and Ravi breaking up the fights. Principal Roza, badly shaken, wanted to see Ravi in her office.
“You lost them in the first five minutes,” she said. “Your lesson lacked structure. There was nothing there. And there was a fight. We could have been hurt. You did not circulate in the class. You just stood there without giving any directions. Your classroom is bare; where is the student work? The bulletin board has nothing. The teacher is the leader. He acts with command.” Ravi pictured Mr. Nathoo with book in hand, taking charge. “You are right,” he replied. “I once had a principal who was like a general in the classroom. He owned the space.” Principal Roza was curious. “And what happened?” she asked. “He said I was the least likely to succeed,” Ravi replied.
“You know there are other jobs out there,” she said. “This is already mid-October, and we have lost them. I dread to think what would happen as we get near to June. And another thing. One more ‘unsatisfactory,’ and I will have to let you go.” Ravi felt his world come crashing down. If he was fired, it was goodbye to the green card and America. He summoned a courageous response, “I am not going anywhere. I will turn it around.” Principal Roza smiled sympathetically and placed his file on her desk. “How did it go?” the Assistant principal asked. “I don’t know what to do with him,” Principal Roza sighed.
Ravi addressed his class: “I want each one of you to go to a good high school. I want this ‘special ed’ label to go away, and for you to realize your dreams. I believe in you.”
There was a knock on the door. A short lady with jet black hair and a busy walk entered with outstretched hands.
“I am Miss Levee. I will be your para,” she said.
“Welcome,” said Ravi. “Tell us a little about yourself.”
“I was into fashion and I can bake. Today, is my first day in a classroom,” she said.
The students looked at each other and laughed. Oh, my goodness, Ravi thought, why didn’t they send me a strong pair of hands?
“What do you want me to do?” Miss Levee asked.
“We need to get the classroom to look like one, and the bulletin board too, for starters,” he said.
Ravi pulled Miss Levee aside. “We have to get through to Michael. He is the ring leader. The others listen to him,” he said. Ravi introduced basic Algebra, using textbooks, and he and Miss Levee helped those that struggled. The reading classes worked fairly well until a fight broke out over an argument over ‘someone’s mother.’ Miss Levee quickly placed herself between Michael and Javon to prevent an escalation. As academic work increased, the fighting lessened. By the end of October, the hallway was noticeably quiet. But there was something missing. Ravi knew that the quiet was short-lived. He had to hold their attention. He looked at home for any material that might be of use. Sitting in the far corner was a bag that he had brought from Guyana. There were a few poems and two books.
Ravi went to the chalkboard and wrote: “Here’s lies a bully who thought he was wise, until he met someone who was his own size!” The class laughed and this prompted responses about who might be a bully. “Well, this was found on the headstone in the cemetery. Obviously, it didn’t go well for him. I don’t know who wrote it. It didn’t say,” Ravi said.
“But you wrote it,” said Ali. “They are your words.”
“They are not mine, that is why I used quotes. One should always use quotes when directly using other people’s words. If you don’t, you can be accused of plagiarism. That has destroyed many careers. Keep it real, but keep it honest,” Ravi said. “Now let’s look at the poem. You will see that it rhymes with the words ‘wise’ and ‘size’ but poetry doesn’t have to rhyme. And it doesn’t have to be long. There was this poet, Langston Hughes, who wrote a poem with only thirty-three words, and it is one of the most powerful in the English language.”
“Let’s see it Mr. Rav,” the class said.
“Okay, but you have to tell me what it means: “Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams die, Life is a broken-winged bird, That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams, For when dreams go, Life is a barren field, Frozen with snow.”
Ali had his hands in the air. “It means we must never give up on our dreams,” he said.
Randy: “Life is nothing without dreams.”
Deshaun: “It’s like in the winter, and nothing grows. Dreams make things happen.”
Jose: “That bird, it can’t fly. Dreams give you wings.”
Evan: “Keep dreaming. Martin Luther King, he had a dream.”
Miss Levee: “Dreams got me to this country. It pushed me to leave Bulgaria.”
Mr. Ravi: “I had this dream that one day I would teach children.”
Miss Levee copied the responses and placed them on the wall in beautiful calligraphy.
“Okay, you were all great,” said Ravi. “Now who will come in front of the class and recite Langston Hughes from memory? Eight lines.”
Ali was the first to volunteer. After several tries, he succeeded, followed by the others.
“That was amazing, now write me a two-line poem. It doesn’t have to rhyme. Go freestyle,” Ravi said. Michael came up with, “I might live in the projects, but don’t judge me. I can be somebody just like you.” Everyone applauded and Michael beamed. “You know, a famous poet wrote a poem with your name,” Ravi said. “Let’s read it Mr. Rav,” Michael replied.
The following morning, the class was in a circle reading William Wordsworth’s ‘Michael.’ Ravi assigned short summaries on the poem that Miss Levee placed on the bulletin board. Principal Roza observed the class again before Thanksgiving. “This room looks like heaven,” she said as she entered.
“Simile,” said Rashon. “Actually, it is heaven,” said principal Roza. “Metaphor,” said Deshaun. Ravi explained that he had taught a few figures of speech that he called: i-shampoo, using idioms, simile, hyperbole, alliteration, metaphor, personification, oxymoron, and onomatopoeia.
“I see, the first letter of each, clever,” said Principal Roza. Ravi’s observation lesson was based on a writing prompt which the students had mastered. “Wow, your lesson was so good, I feel as if I was hit by a ton of bricks,” Principal Roza said. “Hyperbole,” the class laughed.
“What’s next?” asked Principal Roza.
Ravi smiled. “Plato, Aristotle and Socrates,” he replied.
Miss Levee baked one of her special cakes to celebrate the successful lesson. Ravi explained that the real test was in March to determine High School placement. He wanted improved scores from all.
“This can’t be right,” the District Superintendent said, discussing the March test scores. “These kids, except one, are from the projects and group homes. They steal, stab people, push drugs, and have all sorts of criminal records. It’s impossible for them to get these writing scores. Do you know one of them wears a bracelet on his ankle for attempted murder? The district cannot accept these results.”
“What do you suggest?” Principal Roza asked.
“They have to retake the test, away from the classroom, and be supervised by the district,” the Superintendent replied. Ravi had the class write essays from past exam papers, reinforcing that a good High School was the prize. The students came out smiling after the second test. “They wanted to know what we’ll do if we won a million dollars,” Michael said. “We did that in class when you were going to buy that penthouse in Manhattan!” Ravi laughed and nodded.
Principal Roza asked the school for a strong performance for the end of year assembly. Ravi introduced “Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou. The class was swept by the power of the poem.
“Ali, you will recite it on stage, from memory,” Ravi said.
“No, I will not,” Ali said.
“Yes, you will,” Ravi said.
Ali became angry and Miss Levee intervened. “You should get someone else. He won’t do it,” she advised. “No, he will do it, the poem was written for him,” Ravi said. He pulled Ali aside at lunch. “When Maya Angelou wrote this poem, she had you in mind,” Ravi said. “You can refuse, or you can show them why you are going to a good High School.” Ali was quiet.
“One more thing,” said Ravi. “I need to speak to your mother.”
“Then I am definitely refusing,” Ali said angrily. “You might say it’s an oxymoron.”
Ravi called Mrs. Faison and invited her to the assembly. She gave him a mouthful. “I have high blood pressure and diabetes. I haven’t left this apartment for months. I am not coming there to see him make a fool of himself. You deal with it,” she said.
“Mrs. Faison said you harassed her,” Principal Roza informed Ravi. “Next time, please clear it with me first.”
Ravi and Miss Levee bought white shirts and ties for the students. They looked impressive at the packed assembly. “There are two items remaining,” said Principal Roza. “The first is a poem by Ali Faison and then our District Superintendent will address us.”
Ali took to the stage as if it were made for him. He went into the first three lines of ‘Still I Rise’ with emotion, and it soon became clear that Maya Angelou could have written the words for him. There was a resounding ‘yes’ when he said he was the dream and hope of the slave. The last three lines of ‘I rise’ had the auditorium rising and applauding. A lone woman remained clapping. It was Ali’s mother who was weeping openly.
The District Superintendent congratulated Ali and his class. “I have in my hands the results of the writing test for Ali’s class. Each student improved his score and will go to the High School of his choice; no more ‘special ed’. I never for one moment doubted that they would do well,” she said smilingly.
“It’s crazy,” she told Principal Roza. “Imagine Plato, Aristotle and Socrates at the eighth grade.”
“And Julius Caesar and Cicero, and Rumi and Tagore,” the principal intoned. “The basics.”
Ravi and Miss Levee worked together for twenty-five years, with reading and writing scores always above average. Miss Levee proved to have had more than a strong pair of hands.
In 2026, Rose Horowitch wrote in ‘The Atlantic’ that ‘The end of reading is here.’ She might have added that poetry is dead. The NYC Department of Education released its 2026 figures to show a decline in literacy proficiency at the third and eighth grades. Too many i-pad tests, and distractions, and too little teaching have led to deficiencies. But there was a time when teachers turned and smelled the pages and engaged the classes, and the results were spectacular. Who is listening?
Discussion