i just had an great conversation with the alumni relations office at my school about leading some events to include and strengthen bonds with the black alums of our school, one of which would be a wine tasting soiree. i was feeling under the weather as i padded heavily down the grey-carpeted hallways, passing other new teachers working in large, natural-lit lounge area, carrying everything i would need for my conference in boston:
binders? check.
notebook? check.
pens, paper, laptop? check
i was nervous about meeting and working with my new students at P- Academy - they are 3rd graders - am i still patient enough to work with young ones? i need to stop by walgreens to pick up more sudafed.
i jumped on the highway that took me from one of stl's richest subrubs to one of its poorest areas. i watched the landscape change from the green, reds and browns of fall to the greys of concrete. i was no stranger to these streets - i always cruise a new city the moment i move so that i am never really lost. its important to start the process of understanding the flavor of the city, i think.
exit. turn right. i make the turn into what appears to be a normal middle class neighborhood. huge house...smaller lawns, but still there...no trees, though
make a left. there used to be a house on that corner. i can tell from the rubble.
why is that house boarded up? its seems perfectly usable...
the suburban woman in me retreats as working class sensibility emerges. drive like you know where you are going. turn off the happy, turn on the focus.
make a right. where is the school? oh lord. this is the school...
i walk past noticeably tired adults trudging to their cars, empty coffee mugs in hands, burden with more than just their heavy bags announcing random conferences they've attended in the past. teachers. there is inevitably one white teacher. young, fresh, but the tint of tired coats him like a thin film.
the school is a mammoth gothic structure surrounded by crumpled concrete. as i park, i notice a house in front of me and the dogs barking in the barely fenced in yard. across the street, older teens are standing, wrapped in what looks like a blanket, as small kids run towards them, laughing. the air is electric with the energy that always surrounds elementary schools.
i walk up to the school door... locked. i bang the thick glass and iron door until i catch the attention of the custodian - "where is ... mrs. b's room" a cacophony of voices hit me at once -
"you don't say it like that!"..."the office is up dere! go dat way!"...
just go on up the steps, miss, and that lady will help you says the man with the badge.
i recognize another teacher who grabs a student to lead me to my new protegees.
they are so needy. so small. so bright eyed and so young. i find myself calling them "baby" and "sweetheart". "when were you born?" "1999."
i feel so old. at 22, i feel so old.
the classroom we are assigned to is so old. crumbling walls. bars on the windows (who would break into a school?) i look out - not at all the bucolic setting i am used to seeing.
the teachers are so harsh. so tired. i wonder why they try to harness the energy instead of letting it bubble and gurgle like kids should be able to do.
they flock to me "am i in your group?" "no" "can i be?" i am adopted against my will, my hand no longer my own but wrapped in a small cocoa one. "come be line leader with me"
after 30 minutes we settle enough to administer the diagnostic test. "johnny is feeling under the weather. bubble the correct letter under the picture that i have just described"
my adopted one shoots her hand in the air. all 7 pencils are paused as she asks:
"what does under the weather mean? "
i realize the bias in the test - these are middle class, suburban, white phrases. where people have the luxury of being under the weather. of creating new ways of looking at life.
"keira has just had her hair braided. bubble the correct letter under the picture that i have just described"
i hear nothing but confident scribbles. everyone got that one right.
...
we finish early and let them eat snack. line up: walkers in one, bus riders in another. we walk out the door and i see a student walking up the steps. fashionably dressed in cinched-at-the-ankle sweats, air force one tennis shoes and a baby phat jacket, all gold. i go to tell her to get in line but before i can say a word she takes her hood off.
her hair is platinum blond, natural, in a low fro.
one of my kids, baring striking resemblance to her runs up to her, smiling
"mommy!"
there is no time to recover as another woman enters from stage left. i notice her tattoo on her neck and her ill-fitted quick weave. she has on grey work outfit - heavily starched thick pants and a well-worn jacket.
"mommy"
they both are no older than myself. i wonder.
selah, is this another one of your lessons for me?
the school is a mammoth gothic structure surrounded by crumpled concrete. as i leave, i notice a house in front of me and the dogs barking in the barely fenced in yard. across the street, parents are standing, wrapped in what looks like a blanket, as small kids run towards them, laughing. the air is electric with the energy that always surrounds elementary schools.
(bubble the correct letter under the picture that i have just described.)
more collapsed houses. more young people than old. more used than brand new.
the neighborhood morphs from greys back to greens, reds and browns. and i wonder just how far have i come. and how far do i have to go.
