Hypnotized

By Jeremy Glazer

Biggie’s new song, Hypnotize, dropped on Tuesday. The rest of the week it was wall-to-wall, as my ninth graders would say. All of them—black, white, Cambodian, the one jewish kid—were loving it, but Catherine had gotten especially hooked. She surprised us on Friday by walking into the classroom in a flea-market hoodie with that picture of Biggie as king, crown tipped in sideways cool, on the front and back. And, she was singing. Catherine, who had said about four words all year, was chanting that mesmerizing chorus over and over and over and over. Hypnotized, indeed. 

I tensed as soon as I saw her, anticipating the shredding she was about to get from the group of boys who sat in the back of my classroom and slung insults at everyone, including me. But Daryl started nodding slowly, grooving along with Catherine, and then even joined in for a round of the chorus. It was a signal to everyone else that she should be left alone, and so she was.

“That’s the Biggie-lovingest girl white girl I ever seen,” Daryl said to no one in particular. 

I was relieved. Catherine was my only ally in that seventh period class. They’d pile in at the end of the day, sugared up and full of chaos, and I’d spend the hour playing whack-a-mole, moving from student to student trying to get them quiet, in their seats, and working on whatever assignment I’d put in front of them. Through it all, Catherine would be sitting silently in the third row, hard at work. When the bell rang, they’d shove their way out the door, some throwing half-finished worksheets my way, others leaving their papers on their desks or on the floor. Catherine would wait, and then walk by my desk neatly placing her completed work in the basket. She never looked at me when she did it. I imagined she didn’t want to call even more attention to my incompetence, which her compliance somehow emphasized. 

That particular Friday we were in the middle of an overly-ambitious unit about slavery I’d designed. I had given my kids a sheet of proverbs from the Yoruba and Igbo that I had spent hours making, and they were supposed use these to figure out what these cultures valued. Instead, they were jabbering at each other, and it was driving me crazy. After half an hour of the usual mix of scolding, wheedling, coaxing, cajoling, there was a lull in the noise, most likely because they were starting to contemplate the weekend that would start in a few minutes. In that moment of relative calm, we suddenly heard Catherine, who was still chanting her Biggie incantation as she worked on her assignment. 

I took aim at the only target in the class I was sure I could hit. 

“Catherine,” I said. “That’s enough. No one can work while you’re singing.” 

This was laughable, and she kept going as if she hadn’t heard me at all.

“Nah, she alright,” someone called out. “It ain’t distracting.” That could have been my reprieve, but instead of taking the offer to to shut up and save face, I doubled down.  

“Catherine, you need to stop,” I said. Again she ignored me. 

The rest of the class was silent now, curious about how far I’d take this, no doubt wondering why I was burning my only bridge. I was too, but I couldn’t stop. 

“Last chance before a referral,” I said. 

Catherine continued. I stomped over to file cabinet, and with extra noise pulled open the top drawer and snatched out a discipline referral form. I started to fill it in, making a show of what I was writing, then I walked it over to her. 

“Take that to the office,” I said. 

I tried to hand it to her, but she let it drop on the floor, still singing. She looked up, into my eyes, grabbed her bag and stood,loudly pushing her desk so it skidded across the floor, an elephant blast. She walked toward the door.

“That’s going on your referral too.” I yelled at her back, which was Biggie’s face. He stared at all of us from her hoodie as she walked out. His lyrics, in Catherine’s voice, echoed through the hallway for a minute and died out. T

he kids erupted. Two got up and acted out what everyone had just seen while the rest cheered them on, and then the talking, arguing, laughing started up in full. No one even pretended to work for the rest of the period. I sat at my desk—utterly defeated—until the dismissal bell rang and they piled out. 

I took the referral to the assistant principal of discipline and was told Catherine had gone to his office and told him the story and that she would be in indoor suspension on Monday. It was an ugly end to the week.

I got drunk that night and spent the weekend ignoring my roommates, nursing my wounds, and preparing more lessons that would surely fail the following week. Sunday night I was watching the news and saw that Biggie had gotten killed.

The halls were quiet on Monday, funereal, and during my period off, I went to the indoor suspension room. Mr. Ringold was in charge there and, with a power I envied, he had every kid sitting up straight, heads down, scratching out answers on worksheets. I asked if I could give something to Catherine. He nodded, and I and walked to her desk. She wouldn’t look up, so I left her the card I’d made with Biggie’s picture from the morning’s newspaper inside. Under it, I’m sorry for your loss. 

I looked back as I walked out of the room. The card remained untouched, but it was a small relief to see that her lips were still moving in silent Biggie prayer. 

About the Author

Jeremy Glazer is a writer and educator. His fiction has appeared in Tablet, Hobart, Bellevue Literary Review, Tahoma Literary Review, and on the public radio program WLRN Under the Sun. He lives in Philadelphia and teaches at Rowan University. He’s working on a collection of short stories set in and around schools.