A Trip to the Theater

If the five seasons of The Wire taught me anything, it's that there is no character as reviled (not even you, Policeman) in inner-city neighborhoods as the Snitch.* To residents of these neighborhoods, snitching is unjustifiable under any circumstances, and results in - at best - the complete ostracization of the Snitch from the rest of the community.** Though typically used in reference to one who provides police with information, the term "snitching" can be heard frequently in my classroom as well. For example, I recently asked Jermica, who sits next to my desk in the classroom, if she knew anything about the whereabouts of a missing bag of lollipops I had stored there to reward well-behaving students at the end of the week. "Mr. Martin, you know I ain't no snitch!" was her response. I left it at that.

All of which brings us to this morning's field trip, where we headed downtown to see a play called "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere." Somewhat shockingly, my students had never heard of the play's protagonist, and as such were unaware of the reasons why he is considered an American hero. We were the first school to arrive at the theater, and were ushered into the first few rows of seats. The kids were excited but well-behaved as they waited for the play to begin. Ever vigilant, I walked the aisles adjacent to my fourth graders, arms crossed and unsmiling, clenching a list of parents' phone numbers I had brought for the sole purpose of intimidating unruly students into good behavior. I never once needed the list, and as the play began and the kids were uniformly captivated by the action taking place mere feet in front of them, I remember thinking "Maybe this won't be a complete humiliation after all." (At this point, all three of my faithful readers should see where this is headed.)

The behavior remained outstanding as the performance drew to a close; two of my students even took a nap.*** The trouble began, however, as Paul Revere mounted his horse to spread the word of how the British troops were assembling. As Paul rode through the Massachusetts countryside, alerting fellow patriots that the Redcoats were crossing the Charles River, I detected excited whispering from the direction of Alonte, Montee, and Izeah a few seats over. I leaned forward and directed a withering glare at them, and all was quiet again until the end of the performance. At the play's conclusion, each actor stepped forward individually and bowed in acknowledgement of the crowd's applause. When it came time for the actor who portrayed Paul to take his bow, he was greeted by a near-unanimous cheer of approval from the few hundred students in attendance, with the notable and very audible exception of Alonte, Montee, and Izeah, who shouted boos at the man from a few feet away. Face flushed with anger and embarrassment, I managed to silence them and walked all three up the aisle and into the theater's lobby, where I asked what reason they could possibly have for booing a man who had just spent over an hour trying to educate and entertain them. They looked puzzled. "Why would I cheer for him?" Montee asked. Quivering with anger, I implored him to explain himself. Pausing a few seconds, Montee finally spoke with such innocence and sincerity that I lost all anger and broke down in laughter. "Paul Revere a snitch!" he declared.

*Slang for an informant. If you can't realistically request the next two weeks off work for "urgent personal business" to watch The Wire in its entirety, then at least do yourself a favor and watch this fascinating interview if you doubt me on this assertion.

**For you English majors, a comparison can be made here to The Scarlet Letter's Hester Prynne, if you permit yourself to envision her in decidedly less Puritanical surroundings. And with the name La'Hestra.

***Given that these students were not in the very first row of seats, I was completely fine with this. Any teacher who tells you that they would rather have two of their students wide awake than silently asleep during a play in a darkened theater is lying to you.

A Glimpse into the Future

A critical aspect of teaching at an inner-city school is knowing which battles to pick with one's students. Because my students tend to be more defensive, combative, and high-strung in nature* than those at, say, a county school, I have to construct my disciplinary approaches to the dozens of various daily incidents in my classroom in a manner that prioritizes the overall welfare of the class. 

This is why, when I saw Tye'Naisha completely ignoring her Math exercise this morning so she could cut sheets of white paper into small strips, I chose to simply look the other way. As I've already written, she can be rather difficult to handle at times, and I knew that any attempt to discipline her would result in a defiant outburst that would undoubtedly disrupt the other students, each of whom were working quietly at their desks at the time. Besides, she's one of my best students, and I have her desk deliberately tucked away in a corner of the classroom that makes it impossible for her peers to see what she's up to. The decision to ignore her was a relatively easy one to make, but proved regrettable.

About an hour later, it came time for us to make our morning trip down the hallway to the boys' and girls' rooms. While stationed outside the restrooms, doing my best to keep my students in a quiet line while they waited for their classmates to finish up, I realized that the girls were taking an unusually long time to leave their bathroom. When they finally began to emerge, most of them were conspicuously trying to conceal something on their arms, and attempting to suppress a fit of giggling. Then Tye'Naisha walked out, head held high and arms outstretched, and slowly spun around so her classmates could see what she had done while in the bathroom. The students erupted in raucous laughter, and heads soon poked out of every door in the hallway to see what my class had done this time.

As it turns out, Tye'Naisha had not been cutting up sheets of normal white paper. Over the weekend, she had somehow managed to get her hands on a pile of papers bearing a vast array of temporary tattoos - the kind you apply to your skin by pressing a wet paper towel against the back of it - and had spent the entirety of her morning cutting out the individual tattoos so she could share them with her girl classmates while in the bathroom. To her credit, it was an ambitious and bold plan, carefully orchestrated and flawlessly executed right under my nose. To make matters worse, these tattoos were not exactly something one could purchase in a Disney store. She had applied roughly 15 to each arm, creating veritable sleeves of ink that ranged thematically from "tasteless" to "overtly sexual." Running the length of one forearm was an Afroed vixen in a bikini, and her other wrist was now graced with the words "Sugar Baby."

I examined the other girls, and was dismayed to see that not all of them had demonstrated Tye'Naisha's restraint, and had in fact applied their tattoos to their faces and necks. Shy, quiet Denisha sported a pair of puckered lips on her forehead, and N'Dea's neck was now adorned with a set of wings, against which was superimposed the script "Hood Angel." I silently walked the class back to our room, sent Tye'Naisha to the office, and attempted to continue the Math lesson as if nothing had happened. It was 9:45 on Monday morning, and I was ready for the weekend.

*This is an apparent source of pride to my female students, who not only wear homemade shirts emblazoned with the word "Diva," but also often identify themselves on tests and quizzes as such (e.g. "Iyana aka Queen Diva aka Miss Priss Priss"). I fully expect this to be a problem in June, when we take our state-mandated standardized tests.

A Phone Conversation

They are typically unpredictable and unreliable. They have been both endearingly sweet and unconscionably disrespectful to me. They really like clothes made by Apple Bottoms and FUBU. I am referring, of course, to my students' parents.* Parent-Teacher Conference Day, with its "will-she-or-won't-she-show-up-for-her-scheduled-meeting?" tension, "will-she-hate-me-as-much-as-her-daughter-does?" excitement, and "wow-(student's name)'s-dad-looks-JUST-like-(rapper's name)" dynamic, is the most adrenaline-packed and weirdly enjoyable day on the academic calendar. In addition to enabling me to meet some interesting characters**, conference day also affords me an opportunity to gain some valuable insight into the home lives of my students. I learned this morning, however, that it is possible to have too much insight into these lives, over the course of an increasingly bizarre conversation with one of the parents.

It all started in this morning's Math class. Despite several warnings regarding the consequences of his behavior, Alonte (uh-LAWN-tay) continued to dispose of a seemingly endless cache of arrowhead erasers by throwing them with impressive velocity and remarkable aim at Kristoffer, seated across the classroom, to the considerable distress of those in his line of fire. Needless to say, all of this was to the detriment of my lesson on adding decimals, and I was compelled to ask Alonte, in comically exasperated fashion, "Why can't you pay attention?" Ever quick on his feet, he immediately countered, "Why is you so white?" in a manner that uncannily imitated my inflection on the question originally posited to him.***

Within seconds, I was on the phone with his mother in front of the class, who sat in transfixed silence. She was repulsed and infuriated when told what her son had said, and when told that he was currently next to me in the classroom, demanded to be put on speakerphone so that his peers could all hear what she had to say. In a moment largely attributable to a petty desire to exact a measure of revenge, I quickly acquiesced. What follows are a few choice excerpts, as best as I can remember, from a diatribe that could probably have gone on for hours had I not ultimately intervened:

-You is not my Valentine anymore!

-You act more like your daddy every day!

-Listen! [muffled grunting] Do you hear this!? I'm taking off my belt right now! [more grunting, followed by something that sounded like intermittent clapping] This is me slapping the kitchen table with my belt! I'm slapping the table with my belt! OOH! Just warming up for your butt when you walk in the door!

Mortified, I immediately took her off speakerphone after that last threat, and thanked her for her time. She seemed out of breath, I remember thinking. The class was silent for a while after I hung up, and many students even offered sympathetic glances toward their former tormentor. Alonte, who really is a pretty pleasant kid on most days, paid close attention for the rest of the lesson, and earned an A on an afternoon pop quiz on adding decimals. I called his mom to inform her of the grade and his improved behavior as soon as school ended. 

*It would be clearly irresponsible, even in a blog that three people read, for me to label these parents as uniformly untrustworthy or immature. With a few truly memorable exceptions, my kids' parents have been generally supportive and amicable, if a bit eccentric. More on this later.

**For you English majors, there's something sort of quintessentially Faulknerian about these parents, in that there's a tragic element to their unvarnished personalities (i.e., one mom went the duration of our conference without once removing a Slurpee straw from her mouth, and another thought it apropos to have a serious conversation with me about her son's academic performance while breastfeeding her infant child) that's more reflective of their impoverished, decaying neighborhood than anything else.

***Although it's certainly possible Alonte was genuinely interested in my genetic makeup, and would listen, enthralled, as I explained the ramifications of my Scandinavian heritage, it's probably more likely that he was making fun of the whiteness of my skin. Although rarely directed at teachers, this is a common form of insult at my school, which ironically is comprised of a 100% African-American student body. This does not stop bullies from picking on their relatively light-skinned peers by calling them names like "George Washington" and "Hannah Montana."

A Minor Disruption

My classroom is rarely a quiet place. It's always peaceful once the students have left, but the broken pencils, wadded-up paper, and knocked-over chairs that litter the floor at the end of every day betray seven hours of semi-controlled chaos. Occasionally, however, an event will transpire that inspires a unique and remarkable degree of pandemonium.* Such a moment occurred yesterday morning.

I have never allowed my students to engage in any organized "show-and-tell" activity, for the sole reason that I don't trust them to bring in anything appropriate. This did not deter Velquisha (vel-KWEESH-ah) from bringing in a small cardboard box, taped shut, that she insisted she had to share. Given that it was another pleasant Friday morning, I'd allowed my guard to slip, and failed to consider the possibilities of the box's contents. She stood before the class and announced that she wanted to show something she had discovered in the street near her house. I immediately tensed up, knowing that hers is not the nicest neighborhood in the city. Could it be a crack pipe? A hypodermic needle? A condom? It turned out to be even worse. She opened the box to reveal a dead bird, and accidentally dropped it on the floor when I told her to get it out of my sight immediately. I'm not going to waste words trying to describe the students' reaction; just imagine the sounds they would make if I brought in their favorite rapper, Soulja Boy, and proceeded to set fire to him. 

Given that Dead Bird Removal wasn't one of my Ed School classes, I didn't really know what to do with the decaying pile of disease on the floor. I grabbed a couple paper towels, picked the thing up, and dropped the tiny carcass out of an open window, where it fell two stories and landed fairly close to a parent who was walking into the school, who gave me a look of shock and horror before presumably heading straight to the office to tell the principal about my teaching methods. In all honesty, tossing a dead animal out of a window wasn't even my most serious transgression against my professionalism committed that week, as I'd earlier praised Denisha's whiteboard demonstration of how to reduce a fraction by assessing that she "treated that problem the way Chris Brown treated Rihanna."

*Prior to Friday, my Holy Shit These Kids Are Insane moment happened last spring, when a student's wig managed to detach itself from her scalp and fall harmlessly to the floor. I should note that the wig was worn purely for cosmetic purposes; most of my girl students make weekly trips to beauty parlors with their mothers, and new hairstyles and fingernails are always a hot topic of discussion on Mondays. Approximately half of the girls at my school wear some form of artificial hair, and it's not unusual to see the occasional braided extension on the floor, looking sort of like a dirty shoelace. In any event, the screaming and running incited by the Wig Incident could be heard throughout the building, and also continues to haunt my dreams.

A Lively Discussion

You've probably heard it hundreds of times in your life, usually from teachers: "There's no such thing as a stupid question." I take pride in having never said that to my class, because there are only so many things I'm willing to lie to students about.* I hear questions every day that are not only mind-numbingly stupid, but often ignorant, insensitive, and disrespectful. Sort of like what happened this morning.

Given that I was in a good mood because it was a sunny Friday morning and the class was surprisingly amiable, quiet, and diligent in completing a math exercise, I brought up the fact that I'd signed up for a 10k race in late March, and expressed hope that some of them could turn out to watch the race and support their teacher. Not a great idea. The orderly classroom immediately devolved into some sort of mob scene, as nearly every student had a question or opinion about my performance in the race.** Here are some actual questions and statements I managed to pick out from the cacophony...I actually had to ask them to repeat some of these so that I could write them down for the purposes of this blog.

-"What if you die?"

-"What if other white and black mans beat you?"

-"Is your family gonna be there? Is they white too?"

-"Hell no I ain't watchin that!"

-"What if a Mexican beats you?"

-"You gonna die, Mr. Martin!"***

*Seriously, why would I tell my kids my actual age when they ask? I always reply that I'm 58, and they accept it as my real age without question at this point. Why 58? I guess it just sounds sort of authoritative. 

**As much shit as I caught in college for maybe being a little too competitive - typically at drinking games - I can honestly report that I've got nothing on my kids in this department, and I think this is why they cared so much about the race. They love competition to the point that the most pointless and undesirable chore can be turned into a fun game as long as there is a winner or loser. If I say something like "Robneka just picked up seven pieces of trash in a minute. Who here thinks they can do better?", every single student will immediately start crawling around on the floor to grab bits of trash. I've even seen N'Dea**** - my most shy and mild-mannered student - elbow other kids in the face for the chance to pick up a lollipop wrapper.

***Possibly unrelated to the race, in retrospect.

****Like the subcontinent.

An Unexpected Letter

Tye'Naisha is a problematic student. When her previous teachers saw her name on my class roster back in August, they each gave pause before describing her, searching for an appropriate expression of sympathy and concern, as if preparing to diagnose me with a terminal illness. In the months since, I have alternately described her to colleagues as "sweet," "misunderstood," and "pure evil." Although something of a behavioral liability in the cafeteria, in the hallways, and more spectacularly so on field trips, Tye'Naisha is an undeniably gifted writer, and frequently showcases this ability on writing assignments in her above-grade level Language Arts group. She recently wrote the following letter, when asked to write a "thank you" note to anyone in her life:

Dear Mr. Martin,

I would like to thank you for helping me with every thing and chosing me for Student Of The Week. I really want to thank you for being the great teacher that you are, and i no that one day you will find love.

Tye'Naisha

Touching, right? And maybe a little concerning? Someone remind me to keep a copy of this letter by my bed so I can read it as consolation before passing out in an empty bed after a fruitless night at the bars.

An Explanation

When I asked my Language Arts class to compose a paragraph in which they defended their stance on the hypothetical implementation of a mandatory school uniform, I was fairly sure how each student would respond. I knew that Khalick would write one sentence in which he would probably use homophobic language to describe my idea of a school uniform before quitting. I was pretty sure that Joe would break the pencil I had given him before complaining that he could not complete the assignment because he had nothing to write with. Jamesha's immediate response of balling up her paper and throwing it at Drayon was similarly predictable. 

What I did not foresee, however, was Jessica hunched over her paper in deep concentration, writing three paragraphs advocating the incorporation of uniforms, on the grounds that it would be conducive to a more structured learning environment.* She even used the back of the page to draw her detailed and curiously formal interpretation of boys' and girls' uniforms.** What struck me most, however, was her conviction that, one day per week, students should have the right to express themselves by dressing in whatever manner they wished. This would be called "Cagawall Fridays."***

What follows are one teacher's occasional reflections on heartwarming and serendipitous moments like the one just described, when the figurative clouds part and I am ever so briefly reminded of just how fun it can be to work with children. As a fourth-grade teacher at an inner-city school, I find these moments as deeply gratifying as they are elusive. My job is tremendously exasperating and challenging, but it is never boring. The point of this blog is not to vent personal frustrations or glorify the teaching profession, but instead to simply share funny and maybe even enlightening and inspiring anecdotes from my classroom. As always, let me know if I ever sound like a douchebag.

* My words, not hers.

**I'm not going to show you a photo of her drawing, but it involved bow ties for the boys and gloves for the girls.

***An earnest stab at "casual"****

****Footnote usage lifted directly from the works of David Foster Wallace and Taylor's blog.