By: Mr. Adams
Editor: Hien Bui
Online Editor: Kira Self
The teachers fawned. “Oh, Mr. Milton, you’re so devoted.”
The students laughed. “Look at how that man’s gonna look!”
Everyone. Every single one of them—parents, students, teachers, my wife—had some visceral reaction to the prospect of Mr. Crawford hacking hair away from the sides of my head. They, e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e, thought it was a hilarious-inspiring-foolish move.
Checking out at Blockbuster, the week before LEAP testing, I heard the couple in front of me talking.
“Did you hear about the principal over at Southeast?” the wife asked.
“Yeah, yeah. He’s getting himself a, a, yeah, a Mohawk,” the husband replied.
“Right! Like if they ABE? That’s right?”
“Yeah, attendance, behavior, and enthusiasm.”
“Attendance, behavior, and effort. That’s what ABE stands for. It’s an acronym,” the young man scanning their DVDs interjected.
“Effort, yeah, yeah, I heard that,” the man stammered, correcting himself.
“I’m just so impressed that he’s willing to motivate his students like that—willing for himself to be made to look like a darned fool.”
But now I’m ready to say, and this is my confession: I wasn’t trying to motivate the students. I was looking for an excuse. Because…I’ve always wanted a Mohawk.
I’ve never been more excited than this: the morning of the Mohawk. The students did their part: more than 95% of the school had ABE’d during LEAP testing. I‘m light on my feet walking into Southeast this morning. The whine of crickets vibrating through the still-dark air. 5:46.
I put on my tie at my desk, easier than every single previous 2,681 times. It looks perfect, but I still check it six times in the mirror I keep in my desk. I run my hands through my hair over and over. 6:13.
Ms. Davis asks me how I was doing—or at least I thought that’s what she said.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I reply.
“Excuse me?”
I stare at her blankly for a moment. Then I say, “Sorry, Ms. Davis. What did you say?”
“What is your observation schedule today?”
“Oh…I’ll send you an email after the whole,” I run my hand through my hair again, “Mohawk thing.” 6:37.
Students are pouring in through the doors. They don’t seem to come in waves today. Not bus after bus, like usually. They are flooding the halls in a sustained surge, a current that I could have tried to fight, but it was one of those rip tides you read about. I’m being carried to the gym. 6:56.
I’m a live wire. There are dots in my vision and sparks are shooting from my fingertips. The wireless mic is out of batteries, but no one notices, because they still hear my voice through it—my own direct current is broadcasting it out as far as Shreveport. 7:12.
MOHAWK! MOHAWK! They’re chanting. I couldn’t agree more. Light-headed by the time the clippers send tufts of hair to the gym floor, I faintly hear Crawford over my own laughter in my head. 7:24.
It’s 8:07, I’m in my office, alone. I’m looking in the mirror I keep in my desk. The only thought running through my head is: I. Look. Awesome. I strike a few poses. Flex a muscle or two and it’s time to get the rest of the day started as the Mr. Milton I’ve always wanted to be.
