In my first year of teaching, I was never observed by an administrator. I started to think that not being observed might be a good thing, as I was struggling mightily to keep my classroom under control.
I taught 8th grade English in a public middle school in Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. The school itself was struggling and had been placed on a state list for low student achievement. The principal and assistant principal were both brand new in their jobs and in hindsight, I have empathy for the difficult situation they were in (although I certainly had no empathy at the time). I got used to the idea that administrators were people who helped when things went badly—for example, when a discipline problem forced me to call them and get help. Maybe it was better they weren’t visiting, I thought. What would they see in my classroom? That I was a failure?
Awa sobbed in our office. “Can’t you just let me try?” she pleaded.
“We just cancelled Saturday school,” said an assistant principal from another school as he walked to his car. Sleet pecked us as we paused to talk in front of our shared Bronx campus. “Only two kids showed up, and most of the teachers had to call out because of the roads.” 
Mr. Omolaja is a presence.*
Classroom 325 