excerpts are from his provocative new memoir The Battle for Room 314

Ed Boland stepped out of a twenty-year career as a nonprofit executive to teach in a tough inner city school on Manhattan's Lower East Side.

His idealism was shattered after a year in urban public schooling and he penned this provocative memoir as 'a radical call to action' to change the system that is failing its students mired in poverty, racism and violence.

He believes teachers alone should not be expected to solve the overwhelming issues their students face. Here are some excerpts from Ed Boland's The Battle For Room 314, published by Grand Central Publishing.

Chantay Martin sat on top of her desk, her back to me. A tight Old Navy T-shirt covered in rhinestones was riding up her thin brown back, exposing a baby-blue thong.I leaned over and whispered firmly in her ear, 'We had a deal, and you aren't holding up your end of it.'

She yelled back, 'What deal, mister?' in the kind of teenage voice that adults dread: belligerent, manic, almost painful at close range. She was chewing a wad of purple gum with such force and speed that she seemed to have a piston implanted in her jaw.

It was ten minutes before the three o'clock dismissal bell on a scorching hot September afternoon on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

A single oscillating fan strained to cool the classroom. Its white plastic head dutifully panned back and forth on Chantay, thirty other high school freshmen, and me, their anxious new teacher.

'Our deal was that you do your work and I won't call you out in public. "No more drama," remember?' I said in a desperate whisper, quoting a Mary J. Blige song — a pathetic attempt to find a sliver of common ground between a forty-three-year-old gay white guy from Chelsea and a teenage black girl from the projects of Bed-Stuy.

I was only five days into my new career as a ninth-grade history teacher, and precious little in the way of learning was getting done.

Crack! On the other side of the room, someone had hurled a calculator at the blackboard.

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Ed Boland stepped out of a twenty-year career as a nonprofit executive to teach in a tough inner city school on Manhattan's Lower East Side. His idealism was shattered after a year in urban public schooling and he penned this provocative memoir as 'a radical call to action'

That wasn't the only trouble.. Boland turned back to Chantay who was now standing on her desk and ordered her to sit down.

She laughed and cocked her head up at the ceiling. Then she slid her hand down the outside of her jeans to her upper thigh, formed a long cylinder between her thumb and forefinger, and shook it. What the hell was she doing? She looked me right in the eye and screamed:

'SUCK MY F*****' D***, MISTER.'

In one fell swoop, Chantay fingered me not only as gay, but as her bitch, her power emanating from a penis she didn't have. I should have simply walked out of the building, hailed a cab, and gone to the unemployment office. I had sunk the eight ball on the first break. Game over.

Four months earlier, Boland stepped out of a high-level job as development director for Project Advance, a rigorous educational program that provides the most promising students of color from disadvantaged New York neighborhoods, the opportunity to excel at studies and attend the State's elite private colleges and boarding schools in New England.

But Boland harbored a secret aspiration to roll up his sleeves and help the fiercely underprivileged kids in Manhattan schools get a better education.

He had a dream to become an urban high school teacher and move to the front lines of education. He discussed the idea with his significant other in their Chelsea apartment.

I told my boyfriend, Sam, that I had finally made up my mind to teach. I had met Sam, the unquestioned love of my life, in 1999 at tryouts for New York's gay volleyball league. His rocket-fast serve, dark good looks, and unfettered sense of creativity hooked me.

On our first date we discovered we were both Geminis, as well as former bed-wetters and English teachers in China.

But could our comfy bourgeois lives handle a huge cut in my salary? No more cabs or cleaning lady; dump my shrink; bye-bye, dry cleaning. It wouldn't kill us to learn to use a bit of Fantastik, a capful of Woolite. Sam would add cater-waitering to his repertoire. I could work in the summers.

The dream would require certification as a NY State teacher as well as two placements over five months, one in middle school, one in a high school. Encouraged by his sister Nora who was a teacher in a New Jersey juvenile penitentiary, he completed the requirement and sent his resume off to the Union Street School for International Studies.

He was accepted and joined the other well-educated teachers – 'former Peace Corps volunteers, hippie globe trotters' who had all fulfilled a requirement to have lived abroad.Boland had taught English in China for a year. His new job would be teaching ninth grade World history, three ninety-minute periods a day.

The class population was mostly black and Latino -- a few Asian kids and exactly one white child The rules list included no electronics visible or in use, no sunglasses or hats, no gang wear, no foul language, no fighting. But that was only a list and not the reality,as he learned on his first day.

'I was armed with two decades of activism, therapy, and identity politics. In my day, I had been called everything from a sodomite to a turd burglar,' Boland writes. 'What could some high school freshmen say that I hadn't heard before?'

And then there was a dull thud, followed by a crash. Near the door he had just kicked open stood one Kameron Shields in pure renegade glory, a one-man violation of every possible rule. Above the neck alone, he was flaunting four violations:

He wore sunglasses and a baseball cap over a red bandanna over iPod headphones. A silver flip phone was clipped to his baggy jeans. Everything he wore was cherry red—the hallmark color of the Bloods. I didn't know much about gangs, but even I knew that.

He turned his grinning face to the ceiling and howled,'WASS . . . UP . . . N****S?'

I stood in front of him before he could complete his round of gladhanding. He turned 90 degrees toward one of his buddies, Fat Clovis, looked me up and down, and asked, 'Who dat?'

His question had a ring of genuine curiosity. I started the morning with first-day jitters made worse with too much caffeine; I was now approaching full-blown panic. My palms got clammy and my mouth sour.

'Hey, somebody forgot to tell this n***a that it's supposed to go like this.'

He took his index finger and made a f***ing motion into his rolled-up fist, while simulating what I supposed was a female orgasm.

'Mister,' he continued, staring at me, 'it don't go like this.'

He clumsily jammed the tips of his two index fingers together and accompanied the motion with falsetto male groans. Christ, I had barely said a word. Could he really smell the gay on me that readily? I'm bent, but I'm not Richard Simmons.

'What's your name?' I barked.

'Nemesis.'

'Well, Nemesis,' I said, summoning what I thought a real teacher would say, 'you can't just walk in here like that and disrupt this class.'

He laughed. 'I can't come in here and do that? Well, it looks like I just did, don't it?'

He had me there. Luckily lunch time came fast. I bolted into the faculty lounge and sought out a few of the veterans.

'Who is this Kameron Shields?' I asked, and then in an attempt to camouflage my fear in humor: 'And why isn't he chained to a rock somewhere?'

There was a range of frowns, laughs, and moans.

'Oh, you met dear Kameron, did you? He was the pride of the middle school here,' said Monica with a sheepish smile.

'Oh yeah, he's brutal. He threw an electric pencil sharpener at Miss Dimitriopolou's head last year. That should have gotten him expelled, but our fearless leader thinks it's a failure to throw any kidout,' added Marquis, the sophomore history teacher.

The class population at the lower Manhattan school was mostly black and Latino -- a few Asian kids and exactly one white child. The rules list included no electronics visible or in use, no sunglasses or hats, no gang wear, no foul language, no fighting. But that was only a list and not the reality, as the author learned on his first day.

When Kameron threatened to blow up the school, Boland reported him to the principal, Mei Vong. She was required to report it to a superintendent who in turn notified Homeland Security. Kameron wasn't arrested but he was sent to a suspension center in the South Bronx for two months.

I secretly hoped I might earn a little credibility with the kids since I was the first teacher in the three-year history of Union Street who managed to get Kameron suspended, though many had tried.

But no such luck: I had sold their hero up the river on a trumped-up charge. Despite my victory, the damage he had done to my reputation that first day was beyond repair.

Instead of the gay witch hunt dying down after he was gone, as I'd hoped, the rest of the boys declared open season on me in his name.

To confirm what both Chantay and Kameron had insinuated, they took the trouble to conduct a battery of oblique questions about my girlfriends (none); appetite for contact sports (zero); and other butch hobbies (only opera and gourmet cooking). They never asked me point-blank if I was gay or not, but they came to the correct conclusion.

In case I had any doubt as to what was going on, someone scrawled on a bulletin board outside my room, 'Payback is a b***h. Boland is a b***h.'

Not for a second did I expect my students to welcome a gay teacher with open arms, especially not a white rookie. After all, many of the 'good' kids were the children of fire-breathing evangelicals, and many of the 'bad' ones had been born during the height of the AIDS epidemic to homophobic parents.

But I was armed with two decades of activism, therapy, and identity politics.

In my day, I had been called everything from a sodomite to a turd burglar. What could some high school freshmen say that I hadn't heard before?

Sticks and stones . . .

Boland's sister, Nora, offered some advice on managing a classroom:

'I hate to break it to you, but ultimately, you need to realize that your students are people with free will. Just like you and me. You can do all you can, but in the end, it's not you who has the power over their behavior'.

'Welcome to their world. They have very little power in their lives, so they will use it where they can. Either of us would do the same.'

I thought I was forgiving. I thought I was understanding. I thought I was mature. But, so quickly into this experience I began to loathe my students, resenting everything about them that was their lot—their poverty, their ignorance, their arrogance.

Everything I was hoping, at first, to change. I was supposed to be the adult, but I had to check myself repeatedly as childish resentments and judgments flared up over petty things like Mariah's body odor, Lu Huang's single four-inch strand of facial hair, or Nestor's disgusting bag of chicharrones.

'I so wish it were a different ending for me and for the kids, but some stories have to end like a seventies movie—gritty, real, and sad' he writes

Next, Valentina, a new student, was transferred to his classroom.

She had a high, sassy ponytail, an oversize nose ring, and, most noticeable, an epic derriere showcased in a pair of acid-washed jeans carried with ostensible pride. Her T-shirt was emblazoned with the flag of one of the smaller Caribbean islands.

I squinted down at the papers. 'Everyone, please welcome Valentina.'

As she made her way to an empty desk, Valentina's new classmates greeted her with a long string of moos and oinks. But this newbie was giving as good as she got.

'Step down, all y'all n***as, or I'll stab you in your neck. Don't get me tight, b****es.'

Her script was spot-on, but the voice was all wrong. She spoke with a high, wet lisp that utterly undermined her street cred. All thirty kids laughed at once. I tried to rein in the chaos, but happily the class ended before it got worse.

On the following day's assignment, Valentina answered with complex vocabulary and in complete sentences. She dotted her i's with little hearts.Her answer was 'on the money' and Boland whispered to her, 'Nice work'.

Done with the assignment, Valentina quickly became bored and started to exact revenge for the previous day's unfriendly reception. She started on Norman: 'What you looking at, you crossed-eyed piece of s**t? N***a, those frames ain't even from LensCrafters, they from Medicaid!'

Then she turned to Dannisha: 'Did they give you that nice book bag at the shelter, honey? You fat black b***h.'

When everyone else had left the classroom, Boland complimented her on her answer.

'It was very insightful and well written. You can't fool me. I can tell from just that one sheet of paper that you have a very fine mind.'

Her face went deadpan; she may have even been embarrassed. 'If you choose to turn that mind on, you will really go places. But all this fooling around will get you nowhere. I can help you develop that mind, but it's your choice.'

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. 'Sure, anything you say, mister.'

A week later, Boland was advised that Valentina had accused him of sexually harassing her.

I laughed. 'Jeez, between being a full-time faggot and sexually harassing girls, you wonder how I find the time to teach.'

Boland had taught English in China for a year. His new job would be teaching ninth grade world history, three ninety-minute periods a day. Of this picture he writes: 'I'm not sure what I was so ticked off about in 1989 in Guangzhou China but it must'a been something'

In the spring, Boland decided to teach world religions with field trips to a Jewish synagogue, a mosque, a Buddhist temple. Outside in the spring air, the same old question came up.

'Hey Mr. Boland, you got a girlfriend?'

'No,' I answered, for what was probably the two hundredth time that year.

That afternoon Stephan Epperson said what no one else had the temerity to ask all year:

'Have you got a boyfriend?'

Without much thought, I answered with a simple 'Yes.'

'Have you got a picture?' Blanca asked with genuine curiosity. Warily, I pulled out my phone, which had a tiny magenta stickerphoto of Sam on the back, smaller than a postage stamp. They gathered around the phone and inspected the image with care and intensity, as if they had uncovered a rare coin.

'Ohh, Mr. Boland's boyfriend is black!'

Stephan said. 'No, he's not, actually,' I said.

'Ohh, Mr. Boland's boyfriend is Lat-in!' said Nestor.

'No, he's actually Jewish.'

'Ohh, Mr. Boland's boyfriend is rich,' a voice at the back said.

'No, he actually makes very little money.'

'Jewish? Oh yeah, that's right, I heard when you can't tell what they are, they Jewish.'

'Does he got a big d**k?' asked Fat Clovis in an earnest tone, as if he were asking Sam's name.

'Yeah, tell us about that salchicha [sausage]!' said someone at the back of the pack.

'Salchicha! Salchicha! Salchicha!' they chanted in unison.

I was standing on East Broadway surrounded by a group of thuggy teenagers chanting about my boyfriend's junk. This was to be the greatest moment of communion with my students?

Boland shared 'worst of' stories with his former boss, Helen at Project Advance. He suddenly tasted euphoria when she offered him his old job back with more money, a better title, and an assistant.

He savored the thought but reflected guiltily on who would help these students with so few resources in life when even middle-class families struggled with their student loans and rent. He knew he had to move on and took the job at Project Advance but stayed in touch with many of the students and came back for graduation at the school three years later in 2010. One of his most defiant former students asked:

'You were an amazing history teacher! Why did you leave?'

Even three years later, the mindf**k continued. My god, how I wished I were tougher, more resilient, more organized, harder working, and less in love with bourgeois pleasures, but I was not, am not. I have reenacted every fight, insult, and outburst but cast each scene with a better version of myself as a veteran teacher, and I always emerge victorious.

But would it really have worked? Would it have made a difference?

I still wrestle with flashes of guilt, shame, and betrayal. A white guy with a salvation complex is bad enough, but how about one who couldn't save anybody? Every time I walk by a school or see a band of rowdy kids on the subway, these demons revisit me.

I so wish it were a different ending for me and for the kids, but some stories have to end like a seventies movie—gritty, real, and sad.

The majority of students who did graduate from were able to enroll at community colleges and remedial programs, but ultimately only a handful of students graduated from university on time. The school was designated a 'priority school' in 2012, performing in the bottom five percent of statewide schools. Ed Boland learned that no silver bullet or quick fix will change the educational system as it exists. Poverty eradication and education reform are mandatory.



