Urban Education

      Urban Education  

It was a typical teaching rotation.  The halls were packed with teenagers traipsing the halls and gyrating in circles while teachers and campus security prodded them toward their 8 am classes.  Profanity, some quite vulgar, was openly used as if no concerned adults were around.  It was like herding cats.   

I stood outside my door waiting for the throng of hooligans to find their way inside.  They swarmed like locusts.  Chants of “We got a sub!!!” echoed through the hall while dreams of salvation were fading fast.  A cadre of ruffians were now in my charge.  Or I in theirs.  

  As they filed right pass, some of them mouthed hip-hop verses that bounced rhythmically to the beats in their heads.  A few greeted me with the standard “wuddup bro” or “OOH OOH!  You know who you look like??"   

Some even quizzed me about my racial identity. "Excuse me, but what are you??"  

Whatever background I claimed mattered little.  As far as they were concerned, I was just another "a sub".  End of story.  

The 90 minutes ahead was gonna be long.  Since the days of “subbing” at LA's Compton High in the early 90's, I knew what to expect. Hoping to make a difference, I had once looked forward to this kind of work. But at age 59, it was time to hand the vision over to the next generation of dreamers.  $98 per day was reward enough.

The class assignment, left by the regular teacher, was on the board.  Half the group sat on top of their desks and paid it no mind.  They jostled back and forth between what was once an aisle just moments ago. Calamity was heard along the second floor corridor, where our classroom marooned at the end of the hall. Asking them to take their seats does not typically work in these volatile situations, nor does yelling or raising one’s voice.  I made a valiant attempt to tame them nonetheless.  The objective, I decide, is to keep them in the classroom and ideally from killing each other, not nearly as easy as it sounds.  To achieve this goal, I stationed myself at the front door so they could not escape; but this too invited confrontation, something best to avoid if possible.

  Amongst the mayhem, there are generally two or three students—sometimes more—who stand out. Not because of their uncontrollable or wild behavior, which is pretty much the norm, but because they sit quiet and do their work.  When they speak, it is usually in whispers.  They raise their hands and address me as "sir" and seem to be in a world of their own. These are the “brainiacs”, AKA "crazy A-students" — college- bound to be sure. 

  They are nothing like LaQuanda.  A plus size, dark skin, do-or-die rebel who yells, screams, and chants non-stop near the top of her lungs.  Her disciples respond favorably to her antics prompting new and clever ways for her to be obnoxious.  

 I glared at her like she had lost her mind only to have her glare right back.  When I asked her what her problem was, she demanded to know mine. Her companions insisted that she stand her ground. 

"Don't let him talk to you like that!" 

  Processing my inner disgust I searched for remedies; not necessarily to gain control of the group, but to survive the moment, now measured in microseconds.  

I explored my bag of tricks to call out her bullshit. This meant risking getting unprofessional. Insulting. Low down and dirty, even.  In other words, ghetto.  Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire, or speak the only language they understand.  In my previous life, as company boss, I could slice open a staffer with my sharp tongue.  Surely I could concur up similar skills with LaQuanda. 

  “Excuse me. Did you forget to take your medication?” 

  I always worry this kind of verbal assault might find its way back to the district office.

"Humph.."  She grunted, as if to say, "Is that all you got?"

With an armor thicker than teflon, my words barely registered. She was street tough; a kid who had seen and heard it all. 

Breakthrough ?

    I was close to giving up. Resigning to being just another push-over sub. Instead of praying to Jesus, I was now worshiping the minute hands on the clock.  Would they favor me this day?  Would they grant me grace or at least transport me to a dimension where I could catch my breath, blink my eyes, only to return with five minutes left in the class instead of the seventy-five-minute I was currently facing.  Short of that, staying out of the kid’s way was the only practical solution.  

I remained vigilant and on high alert.  A bad joke could ignite a powder keg leading to school wide lock-down.  

  None of my ideas to calm the crowd was working and I found myself circling back to LaQuanda.  Like a fastball, I threw her a line. 

  “How much would it take to keep you quiet?” fully aware that her comeback line might escalate into something I had not bargained for.  I was expecting her to name a figure well beyond reach—hundreds, thousands or maybe even a million of dollars. 

  “One dollar.”she said flatly. 

  I waited for the punchline. I waited some more.  And waited more still.  

“You mean if I give you a dollar, you’ll sit quietly, open your book, work on the assignment and not say a single solitary word until then end of the class?”

  She shook her to indicate that that was exactly what she would do.  

  Do I look like Bozo the clown? 

“You have to remain dead silent” I told her, or the deal was off.  She signaled agreement once again.  Her cohorts, by chance, did not overhear my comical proposition.  

  “Fat chance”.   I thought to myself, as the test was sent to begin.

For the next 30 minutes LaQuanda sat tranquilized.   Her friends began to ask if she was ill.  She ignored them. 

 For the remaining hour, she sat still and never flinched.  What’s more, she kept her head buried in her textbook.  When the bell rang, she collected her dollar and walked out of the class, seemingly still in a daze.  

  So was I.  

  Throughout the day I thought about her, and how such a small amount of money could wield such tremendous power, at least over her; at least at that moment.  I wondered what she would do with the money—a whole dollar!— whether she would spend it right away, or just keep in her wallet.  I imagined the place where she lived, a place where a single dollar bill was as scarce as the love and affection she never received as a baby.   She would ask for a dollar on occasion, but the answer was always No.   One day, she just stopped asking and was sent off to school—angry, bitter, hungry and alone, except for her gaggle of friends who felt the same way.  

  Weeks passed and I would occasionally reflect on that defining moment with LaQuanda.  Was my success (in prompting her compliance) a fluke, or was there more to it?   The answer would come soon enough by way of Beach High school, a place for students, at least, where substitute teachers are considered gourmet meals of the boneless variety.  

  I was tossed into a windowless room with some pants sagging, gold teeth wearing, freshman boys—boot camp for blossoming young thugs.  For these kids, terrorizing a sub is always a good way to earn some quick “street cred”.    

Not unlike the previous class, there were too many misfits to coral at one time, so I narrowed my target down to one or two unwitting guinea pigs.  I waited for about 30 minutes to select the worst of the worst who happened to be called “Slim” (not his real name).  I approached Slim who would become only the second student to hear my unorthodox pitch:  

“Young man how much money would it take for you to sit quiet in that chair, not say a single word, and at least pretend to do your work.”

  “$100!!!” he retorted, like a man bidding for a glock at a neighbor auction. 

 “Look man. All I got is $5 bucks.  Can you do it for that?”

  He paused for a second not sure what to make of my off-brand offer.  It took him a moment to realize I was serious.

“...but you can’t tell ANYONE because I might get in trouble offering you money like this..” — admittedly, a mind game to signal that I was “down” and could be trusted as someone willing to game the system.  A partner in crime, so to speak.  

  “Bet!” he said. 

  He promptly bolted himself to his seat and never moved.  For the next hour, he busied himself  reading the trade magazines that were on the shelf.   It was odd to see everyone in the classroom out of control; everyone that is, except Slim.  

By now I was convinced I was on to something monumental.  Ground breaking. Historic. The implications of having the worst of our children adapting to the highest level of classroom standards has profound implications, not only for inner city black youth, but for American society as a whole. 

It was time for a more formal analysis.