In this case, the administrator's stance was far less worrisome than the distress I would feel when facing myself in the mirror each morning – and especially in the late afternoon after teaching each day, if I didn't remain true to my vow.

  And so, as scheduled, that day in good ol' Bennett High, I entered the chlorinated water of the pool's deep end. Not only for my 50-minute break period, but for every period of the school day. Hundreds of students saw the live demonstration. They each got my handouts, they learned, and they loved it.

  During the last period, when everything had gone even better than expected, the swim teacher motioned for me to come close to the side of the pool. I was in full scuba gear, BC (buoyancy compensator), 24 pounds of weight-belt, wet suit, the whole bit. While movement under the surface is actually quite graceful, on top of the water it's all very awkward. You kind of feel like a large sea lion trying to climb on top of an iceberg. I slowly made my way over to him. "Laz," he whispered when I finally got in range, "you gotta get out now! Mister Z came by and says he wants to see you immediately!"

  "Hey," I responded, "I'm already in hot water, well, deep water anyhow, you'll pardon the expression. Tell Mister Z if he wants to see me he can meet me right here, in the middle of the deep end!"

  Dumb move on my part? Perhaps. Pink slip in my mailbox? No doubt. But at issue was the limited directive I had been asked to adhere to. In any sort of hearing, I was the one standing on firm, educational ground. Not so, the administrator.

  Floating in the deep end of my Alma Mater high school pool in front of 125 attentive, students, I felt strangely good inside. It was a powerful "Zen-like" moment knowing that I made the right ethical decision and forced the administration to take a closer look at their educational philosophy. Education is not the military, and schools are not supposed to be marine training camps. Furthermore, teachers should not be treated like GI's in boot camp. We've already paid our dues to become teachers: Finished all our course work, our training, and passed our teacher exams. Now was the time for the administration's support and guidance – not this ridiculous "cuz-I-said-so" sort of nonsense.

  I survived the scuba demo battle, even though the administration convened a hearing about it with the head of special education for the entire Buffalo School System. Since I had garnered the district "Teacher of the Year" award just three years prior, (while at MLK), I rightfully deduced that they would prefer not to fire me. Thus, I didn't get the infamous pink slip, but the die had been cast. It became the administration's mission to make my hours at school as miserable as possible.

  Toward that end, they put my awesome Wilderness Club on the chopping block! This was a cheap shot – a hit below the belt. When he first heard the idea about the club, the principal told me that these were inner city high school teenagers who wouldn't be too interested in the great outdoors. Nonetheless, and to his credit, he told me to give it a shot. A month later it had grown into one of the biggest clubs in the history of the school. We had more than 100 signed members. Included were yearbook editors, school jocks, punk rockers, and the druggies. They all wanted in! Our itinerary was comprised of goodies like visiting recycling centers, participating in outdoor excursions, one of which was snow shoeing -(hey, this was Buffalo) – backpacking, and yes, scuba diving, (and I wasn't aiming for just the school pool anymore). After everyone had signed on and we'd held a few meetings, the principal called me into his office. Always the optimist, I figured he wanted to give me some badly needed pats on the back. I was expecting to hear something like, "Wow you pulled it off," or, "Super job – it's the biggest club in Bennett's history." Instead, I faced a frown and a thumbs-down gesture.

  "The club has to be nixed," he told me.

  I put up my palms and just uttered, "how come?"

  I was surprised he kept a straight face when he responded with these words: "It's too big. Too unmanageable."

  For a minute I thought I had entered the Twilight Zone and was face to face with Rod Sterling. This just couldn't be for real. But it was indeed, and our "too-big" Wilderness Club bit the dust. C'est la vie, as they say in downtown Buffalo, although I think I must have muttered a few other choice words on the occasion.

  I share these events only to help pave the way for educators and administrators to experience improved relationships. We can all learn from our mistakes. I wouldn't advise new teachers to follow in my footsteps with a decision to proceed full-speed-ahead with a scuba demonstration...my situation was a bit different in that I was a veteran teacher with teaching awards under my belt. Also, to be honest, I had other job offers so I wasn't in a desperate situation. But perhaps most importantly, I was determined to remain true to my teaching convictions and I knew that in the event of a hearing I could defend the activity as highly educational and motivational. (I did have to do so at my hearing, by the way). I'll never forget what happened when I came out of that intense, hour-long pow-wow, which included the school's administration, my supervisor, the head of Buffalo's Special Education Department, and a few other bigees from the school board. Some of my ex-Wilderness Clubbers had congregated in the hallway waiting for news. There were about 15 of 'em, mostly athletes and the punkers, and they were in a mighty foul mood. They didn't take it too lightly that our club had been disbanded and that I might be getting the royal boot.

  "How'd it go, Dr. Laz?" they all asked at once. "Yeah, what's the scoop?"

  I told them that I really wasn't sure what decision would be reached, but that it was gonna all work out.

  They weren't satisfied with my answer.

  "Where are their cars?" they demanded. "They parked outside in the lot?

  "Yeah. What kinda cars they drivin'? We'll go and decorate 'em up a bit. Nobody messes with Dr. Laz or our club!"

  It was nice to know that they had my back. Of course, I urged them not to do anything, but sarcastically slipped in, "But if ya wanna wait till they're off school grounds, hey!" They understood and laughed. The next day, my advisor told me that the decision was not to fire me. She urged me to "tow the line," but I had a line of my own to keep. So, in order to keep my inner promise, I held the wilderness outings during after-school hours when we didn't need the official sanction of the school.

  This experience had not yet occurred during my stint at MLK. In fact, I had a collaborative relationship with the school administration at Martin Luther King Community School, and Dr. D was especially supportive. He always encouraged me to forge ahead with any educational experience I deemed beneficial. He frequently told me that these kinds of events were probably the only things my students would remember from their years of schooling. "If you can, bring back some pictures," Dr. D always told me. "But in any case, bring everyone back safely. All of 'em."

  That first year's scuba adventure was a tad bit less-than-spectacular because many of my students simply couldn't relax enough to breathe with the regulators. We tried in water they could comfortably stand in, but despite the safe depth, they were unable, or unwilling, to suck air from the mouthpiece and get the actual sensation of breathing while submerged under water.

  "This ain't no little swimming pool," Curtis remarked.

  "Yeah, Laz." Leland said, splashing me with some cold Lake Erie water. "You tryin' to get our black selves killed?"

  "And our white ones, too?" Tony added.

  Fortunately, I had a Plan B. We turned our scuba lessons into snorkeling sessions. That way they could still breathe from the surface air without having to rely on a hose and tank. We collected shells, body surfed on the waves, and took turns throwing one another in the drink.

  The class excursion ended with some awesome touch football on the beach. It was nice having athletic students, because we always played some fun, competitive sports. Despite the unsuccessful attempt at scuba, I was amazed to see how far we had come toward building a sense of group cohesiveness. Although they still ribbed on each other like crazy, there were seldom any real fights in our class. They were more likely to defend one another anywhere, any time. Soon, they became a force to reckon with, both at MLK, and within the community. I often heard the mumblings: "Don't mess with that dude," they'd say. "He's from Laz's class. Mess with one and you mess with 'em all!"

  For now, Jacque Cousteau would have to wait for any of my students to sign on board the Calypso.

  28

  An Unusual Shabbos Guest

  THE LAZ KIDS MET LOTS OF unusual characters at Shabbos meals. Most of our experiences were positive, but unfortunately, not all. The most difficult situation was actually with J.J., an old friend of mine. We had been frat buddies in high school and although we were not close friends, we often shared a joke and a drink. College saw us go our separate ways.

  I heard through the grapevine that J.J. went to an out-of-town chiropractic school. Apparently, his roommate was a full-fledged "born again" Jews-For-Jesus fanatic. As the months rolled by, this poor guy got sucked in. When he returned to Buffalo years later, he was a changed person. He lost weight and looked a mess. He spoke in fragmented sentences and thoughts. He seemed to experience real pain when he told me that I would burn in hell forever unless I accepted JC into my life. I was deeply concerned about his state of mind.

  For a year or more he came to our house for a Shabbos meal. Sometimes, he'd sleep over. He told me I was the only friend from his past that maintained any contact with him. I wasn't surprised. To an outsider he actually appeared dangerous. I always felt, however, that he'd never do anything to hurt me or my family. Sometimes, a person underestimates the turbulence within a man's soul. Unfortunately, I made that same mistake.

  It happened during a Shabbos afternoon meal. An array of college students and another old buddy of mine, Steve Lipman, (who was a writer for a local Buffalo paper), were there for the meal. We were sitting around the crowded table sharing some Torah and conversation. J.J. was lying on the couch in the sunroom.

  "Hey J.J." I called out. "Why don't you join us for some good ol' home grub?"

  Five minutes later J.J. stood up and slowly, very slowly, made his way toward the dining room. I noticed him approaching, and not paying any mind, went back to reading from the book of weekly stories on the Torah.

  Suddenly, something slammed into my head. My first reaction was that a brick had fallen from the ceiling. But wait! We didn't have bricks in the ceiling! I brought my hand to my mouth, in reaction to the stinging pain, and noticed it was covered with blood. My blood! I looked up. J.J. was standing over me, leaning into my face. His fist was clenched. He had a strange, impassioned look in his eyes.

  It only took a split second to glance around the table and see that everyone was in a state of shock. I forced my focus back to J.J. and then to my blood covered hand. Momentarily, I flew off the chair in a rage of self-defense and anger. I don't remember exactly what happened after that, but Steve told me later that I went ballistic and basically beat the daylights out of J.J. "Let's put it this way," Steve explained. "Imagine what King Korab would do if someone gave him a cheap shot on the ice! You definitely got a two-game suspension for major fighting!" (Jerry Korab was one of the Buffalo Sabre's great defenseman, a monster on the ice, and his nickname actually was King Kong Korab). "At least you won," Steve added with a smirk.

  It all happened so fast, I didn't remember anything except holding him by the shirt with both hands, feeling drained and very tired, and telling him to, 'Get out of my house. Now!'

  "Get my jacket," he had responded, with no apparent emotion in his voice.

  Then, like in some sort of weird dream, I started hearing voices – like I was back in the classroom at MLK. Maybe he had hit me harder than I thought!

  "Yo Laz!"

  "Whaddup, Mr. Laz?"

  "Hey. Looks like you need some backup!"

  "This dude messin' with you, Laz?"

  "Yeah, let's kick his butt! Laz needs us!"

  When I spun around, I saw four of my motley crew, led by Leland, standing in the front hallway. I was still holding onto J.J. and they could see that there had been trouble. Blood dripped from my lip and J.J. was sporting a few bloody bruises of his own. Talk about timing. Of all the Shabbat afternoons to show up, they pick the one time there's physical violence. My neighbor was probably calling the National Guard by now. If my students had arrived a minute or two earlier I was convinced that we'd be taking J.J. out of the house in a bag. "Uh, hey guys. Uh, what the heck... good to see ya," I muttered, taking my hands off J.J.'s shirt. I was kind of embarrassed, because I was a teacher who urged them to settle their differences in a peaceful manner. "Try talking it out," I would tell them. Now, I had done the talking with my hands. They say actions speak louder than words. I knew I would have some explaining to do.

  "We got it, Mr. Laz," one of them said. "We'll take over."

  "Yeah, nobody messes with our teacher."

  In a split second they had J.J. surrounded.

  "Yeah, well... thanks fellows. I appreciate it, but I got it under control," I said.

  I motioned for J.J. to hit the road. A few moments later he headed toward the front door. The scariest part for him was walking between my students who were standing their ground in the most intimidating manner possible. Two had their fists raised. One had his hands on his hips. Leland was sending him low growling sounds as he passed. My boys clearly had my back. J.J. wisely kept his eyes low to the ground and made a beeline for somewhere – anywhere but my house.

  Although my mouth and jaw hurt, I was more concerned about J.J. and what he would do next. What was he capable of doing?

  "Yo Laz," Terrence whispered in my ear. "You all right, man?"

  "I'm fine guys. Appreciate it. Y'all want something to eat or drink?"

  "Naw," Leland said answering for everyone. "We good. We was just stopping by on our way to the park. We'd invite ya, but we know it's your Sabbath thing and all."

  Gittel brought them all some drinks anyway, which they gratefully downed.

  "You done good, Mr. Laz," Phil smiled. "Wait'll all the boys in the hood hear 'bout this one!"

  "Just don't make it bigger than it was, okay? You know. I protected myself using just two fingers, that sort of thing."

  They laughed and headed for greener pastures on their bikes.

  For nearly two weeks I didn't see or hear anything from J.J. Then one weekday afternoon our doorbell rang. Our kids had been informed that if they ever saw J.J. they should get inside the house and not let him in.

  "J.J.'s here," our oldest daughter Hindy called out.

  "Don't let him in!" I called from my upstairs study. "Tell him to wait by the door!"

  I moved into action, making a quick phone call to the Chabad House. Thank goodness Big Mo was there.

  "Listen Mordy," I explained. "J.J.'s here now. I'm going to try to get him into my car to talk this out. We'll park in front of the Chabad House. Just keep an eye on us and make sure everything's all right!"

  I know it was crazy and childish, but I picked up my barbell and began pumping weights. I wanted to meet him on the porch "pumped up" and psyched. I was still angry, and I accepted that. He had belted me without warning when my head was down! I was the only guy who had ever tried to help him out, and this was how he paid me back. I had been discussing the situation with my wife and the rabbis. I had also spoken to one of my life-long friends, Irv "the Curve" Stein. Irv and I have been cruisin' together since our grammar school days at PS #86. In high school, we were in the same frat with J.J., along with Wolf Blitzer. Yes, that Wolf Blitzer!

  "Don't lose your cool," Irv told me. "What are you gonna do, beat him up again? Big deal. It's a big pity. The guy's whacked out."

  Intellectually, I knew it was wrong to do anything to him. He had lost control of his life, and himself. But emotionally, it was a different story. I felt betrayed and ambushed. I put a can of spray mace in my pocket and bounded down the stairs. My shirtsleeves were rolled high, accenting my muscles.

  J.J. was on the porch, looking a mess and holding two flowers.

  "What do you want?" I asked. My voice sounded like cold ice.

  He looked me over. "You want to beat me up, don't you?"

  "You blame me?" I said, staring into his eyeballs. I actually felt pretty silly – like I was acting out a part in some dumb muscle-beach movie. I controlled myself. "I thought I could trust you, J.J. But after what you did, I can't. I probably never will, either. Why did you do it?"

  He didn't say a thing. He just stood here.

  "Here," he said, extending the arm that held the flowers. "These are for your wife."

  I didn't take them, so he put them down and started walking away.

  "I asked why you did it," I shouted, "and you're just walking away?"

  He was, indeed. I got into my car and followed him down the street. Catching up with him at the corner I said, "J.J., you owe me an explanation! Why did you hit me in the mouth unprovoked?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry is no explanation. Why did you do it?"

  After some coaxing, he finally got into my car. I drove straight to the Chabad House and parked in front. I was afraid he might have a weapon. My left hand clutched the mace. Mordy moved the curtain from inside the building and I felt a bit more reassured.

  "J.J., I need an explanation. Friends don't hit other friends like that. I guess you're no longer my friend, but I want to know why you did it."

  He shuffled nervously in the seat. My fingers wrapped tighter around the mace, index finger ready on the trigger.

  "I'm not at liberty to tell you," he said, finally. My God, I thought to myself, what was he, some kind of Son-of-Sam killer?

  "Look," I said. "I don't care what your beliefs are. You're not going to change me and I'm not going to change you, but you were once a friend. Why did you do it?"

  I said no more and waited. After a couple of minutes he spoke.

  "Okay, I did it for a reason. You might not accept it, but here it is. When I was lying on the couch I was staring at a picture you have on the wall."

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21