All Day

by Liza Jessie Peterson

  They paused to ponder that idea, but only for a brief moment.

  “Miss, we gave that word a different meaning, so like we took lemons and made lemonade.”

  Dammit, he’s right. They are beginning to frustrate me. I remember how Ms. Barron used to go ape-shit on the kids who used that word and even had it on her list of violations of classroom rules. Offenses in her class were categorized as either misdemeanors or felonies, and using the word nigger in her class was considered a felony. She grew up in the segregated South, and her family was chased out of town by the Klan. That word was salt in a wound for her. Not so much for me, but I still don’t want the kids to say it.

  I attempt to give a brief history lesson about the word. “That word has a violent history, and—”

  Maxwell cuts me off. “I know the history. It was used to violate us and be like a putdown, but we changed all that.”

  I have to figure out a stronger argument. I thought about what my good friend, mentor, and homie-for-life Abiodun Oyewole (aka Dune) said to me about the word nigga. A poet, philosopher, cultural icon, Harlem shaman, and founding member of the legendary Last Poets, Dune has always been a staple in my toolbox for teaching. His love, passion, and understanding of Black people is an ancient cosmic root that reaches beyond galaxies. His tongue is a sacred blade, and his words are medicine. His poems inspire and heal, and his stories are hilarious. His life is revolutionary. I’m always sitting by his knee, a young Jedi soaking in the bounty of wisdom from this uptown national gem. Yoda told me you can’t get rid of the word nigga because there will always be niggas. Nigga is a character that exists in all Black people, and it has provided a shield against white supremacy. The nigga in us protects us and helps us back a motherfucker up off us; it’s good for our break-glass-in-case-of-emergency moments. Dune also said that “instead of telling people to stop using that word, or having silly funerals for the word, be proactive. Start using the term brother, or create another word to use instead of nigger, because you can’t take something away without replacing it with something else.”

  I try some of Dune’s psychology on the boys.

  “I’m not saying don’t ever use that word. I’m not scared of that word, brotha. I’m just saying try to incorporate other words into your vocabulary to refer to each other so you don’t sound ignorant all the time. Try using the term brotha, or ‘my dude,’ ‘my man,’ or ‘my ninja.’ Come on now—stretch your vocabulary, that’s all I’m saying. Be aware of what’s coming out of your mouth, because right now you’re saying it without realizing you’re even saying it and you never want to be in a position where you slip up and say it in the wrong environment and embarrass yourself by looking ignorant when you’re not.”

  “I hear you, miss. Like if I’m at a job interview or something.”

  “Exactly! Or talking to an elder who would be offended.”

  Even though I cracked his argument, he tries desperately to cling to his position like a baby clutching an empty bottle. “But I can control it. I know when to say it and not to say it.”

  “No you don’t. You’re not conscious of what comes out your mouth, so I’mma be the reminder and help you be more conscious. I wouldn’t be a righteous Black woman if I sat here and allowed you to talk reckless all day in front of me.” I think I have momentarily stunned him with my passionate declaration, until the class clown trumps me.

  “Power to the people, sister! Help these brothers not be ignorant niggas!” Xavier says, jumping out of his seat pumping his Black fist in the air for dramatic emphasis.

  “All right, Xavier, take a seat please, thank you.” I say “thank you” before he complies.

  I think of how Abiodun would handle this situation. He told me once, “Baby, nigga is a Black family word. It’s like pajamas; you wear your pajamas around people you’re comfortable with. You don’t wear your pajamas outside the comfort of your home. Nigga is like that. It has a time and a place.” I carried Abiodun’s philosophies and teaching with me like a talisman.

  I sense this is going to be an ongoing debate. I’ll need to create a thorough history lesson to tackle this subject. Nas’s newly released album, aptly titled Nigger, immediately comes to mind. There are several songs that talk about the word nigger, with Abiodun appearing on two tracks. Plus, the album cover has a picture of Nas’s scarred back, reminiscent of the iconic and historical photo of a slave’s whipped and keloid back dated from the 1800s. Juxtaposing both images would be a great starting point, but I’ll have to table this discussion for another day because right now, in this moment, I need to switch gears and come up with something for them to do, quickly.

  The classroom is hotter than asphalt baking in the August sun or a crowded subway car with broken air-conditioning. Stifling and funky. And it’s the last three weeks of school, so the kids think they don’t have to do a lick of work. Even though I’m just a substitute covering the class, I can’t have them talking and doing nothing all day. (I probably could, and I’m sure no one would judge me, but my personal code of ethics won’t let me. I’m a teacher and that’s what I came here to do, teach.) I need to figure out a way to keep them engaged and comply with actually doing some work. The chips are stacked against me, and the kids are getting antsy. I pull out my HBO Def Poetry performance card and hit them with a couple of my standard razzle-dazzle poems, which gets some applause, but more important, I have their attention and interest. It’s a cheap trick, but it’s working. Hey, I have to use what I have to get what I need: keeping them busy with a semblance of order.

  “Miss, you was on TV?”

  “You met Russell Simmons?”

  “Did they pay you a lot?”

  “So if you’re famous, then why you here?”

  “Yo, she was on TV, son. That’s wavy.”*

  “I wanna hear another one of your poems.”

  “I don’t write poetry but I can rhyme…”

  Great. I have them engaged. This is the cool new teacher honeymoon, but I have a feeling this won’t sustain itself for three weeks, and the challenge is bound to come. It’s the nature of children, particularly adolescents and especially the ones who have already bucked the law, challenging authority.

  In order to get them to do some work and write, I am constantly making deals, like promising a movie for tomorrow if they do work today, or promising to play some music if they work while listening. I brought in Nas, Ghostface, Jay-Z, Mos Def, Dead Prez, and Tupac, but it’s Lil Wayne who is the primo bargaining chip that can get them to do work, because they all fiend to listen to Weezy. The kids are actually writing, and I’m surprised how well they’re complying with the assignment. Because I’m not their regular teacher and it’s the last three weeks of school, I don’t have the burden of having to teach the full pre-GED curriculum. I can freestyle what I want as long as they’re engaged and learning. So, for the short time that I’m here, I’m leaning heavily on my strength—poetry and creative writing. Other teachers walking by are amazed to see the infamous class of goons behaving relatively orderly and writing.

  I have the mojo. I can do this. I’m effective. I’m connecting. And, as long as I keep the classroom standard high and make unwavering demands of them, as long as I push them and encourage them, I’m seeing them rise. Even if just a little bit, they are actually rising.

  Like a strategically planned prank laying in the cut for the right moment, the inevitable challenge I had anticipated, but forgot about, comes a few days before the last day of school. By now they are used to seeing me, and we have a good rapport. The day starts like all the others with my run-on mantra:

  “Good morning… Good morning… Have a seat… Pull up your pants… Excuse me, I’m talking… Sit down, sir… Get your feet off the desk… Get out my chair, boy! Go sit down… Watch that word! No, he’s not a nigger… Relax! Watch your mouth… Are you doing what I asked you to do? Put something on the paper, boy. What is wrong with you?… Pick up that piece of paper you just threw… Don’t throw that penc
il… Go get it… Thank you… Pull up your pants… Get your hands out of your pants… Don’t spit in my class… Come get this tissue, please… Go to your class, sir. No, this is not your class… It’s too much conversation… Fellas, this is not the barbershop… Watch your mouth… Don’t be disrespectful… Don’t make me have to make it hot* and call a CO… You’re cruising for a bruising… Come here and let me see what you wrote… Very good. Now give me a couple more lines… See? I knew you could write. So stop fronting on me and do the work… You’re doing great… Watch that word… Keep your voices down, fellas…” And on and on like that, all day, nonstop.

  There are the consummate chatterboxes who sit in the back of class: Naquan, Maxwell, Blake, and Kev. I hear someone about to hog spit, and I immediately look up in the direction of the gross sound of mucus gathering in the throat. I see the culprit is Blake. He cuts his almond-shaped eyes at me, shooting me a quick glance before he continues talking to his friend. This is a dare. I wait a few seconds as I scroll down the class roster to remind myself of his name.

  “Mr. Blake, can you come here for a minute?” I ask in a calm, nonconfrontational sweet tone laced with honey. When he reaches my desk, I hand him some tissue. “Would you please wipe up your spit, and next time would you be so kind as to get some tissue to spit in? I know it’s jail, but let’s keep our room sanitary.” I call him by his last name to distinguish him from another student who has the same first name. It is the only way I can avoid confusion with the other Naquan, the class clown.

  Blake’s physical frame is sculpted for the gods. Standing at six feet one, all lean muscle mass, he could probably be an athlete if he didn’t choose the streets. His cheekbones are so high his eyes practically sit on them. He stares at me momentarily before he says nothing. His wheels are turning, and he finally decides to just give me a chin-up, I’m-so-cool nod of agreement. He wants to resist but for some reason chooses not to. Whew. Perhaps he appreciates that I didn’t put him on blast in front of the class. I’m learning it’s all in the approach, and it’s a delicate split-second judgment call, situation by situation. This is a small victory, but Mr. Blake has more in store for me.

  Later, Blake throws a balled-up piece of paper across the room at Reginald, a quiet kid with Magic Marker–looking tattoos on his neck and hand. (Why that boy did that to himself only God knows.) His skin is so dark that the tattoo is indistinguishable and looks smudged. Reginald ducks and laughs, then retaliates, hurling another balled-up piece of paper. I have to nip this paper-ball fight in the bud before it escalates into a full throttle free-for-all and something less “fun” gets thrown.

  “Y’all cut that out right now and come get the piece of paper, Blake. You too, Reginald. Pick up that paper, please.”

  Blake ignores me and resumes talking to his buddies, the fly boys in the back row, while Reginald picks up the piece of paper that he threw. “Thank you, Reggie. I appreciate that. Mr. Blake, will you please pick up that piece of paper you just threw and throw it in the trash?”

  Blake continues to ignore me. Thug mama is stirring in me; she is being summoned but not yet released from the lamp. My tone gets strong and confrontational. It’s hot and my tolerance for foolish defiance is short today.

  “Mr. Blake, I am talking to you. Pick up the piece of paper you just threw!”

  “I ain’t throw that paper! That’s not my paper, miss!”

  And, here we go… the power struggle.

  “You know, that’s something an immature boy would say.” My octave is commanding the attention of the entire class now. The show has begun, and all eyes are on Mr. Blake and Ms. P. Whether consciously or not, he successfully pushed my buttons. And, like a genie in the lamp, he conjured my inner thug mama to whirl out as I belt, “A man acknowledges his mistakes. A man acknowledges when he’s wrong. And when a woman politely asks a man to please pick up a piece of paper, a man picks it up! But a boy whines ‘it’s not my paper,’ ‘I didn’t put it there.’ A boy will find every excuse not to do something and blames everybody else for his wrongdoing, But a man takes responsibility for his actions!”

  Blake is now standing up out of his seat and yells while beating his chest with one fist like King Kong, “I’m a man! I did a man’s crime!”

  “You did a man’s crime with a child’s mind!” I shoot back.

  He looks shocked. Bull’s-eye! I stung him. He doesn’t have a comeback. There is a brief pause, and I seize it before he does. Thug mama puts on her velvet glove to deliver the rest of the bitter medicine a little more gently.

  I soften my tone just a bit. “Learning how to become a man is not easy, and while you are not a full man, you are on your way to becoming one, and it ain’t an easy thing. It can be very frustrating when you’re trying to figure it out on your own. And I know this is an uncomfortable moment right now, but it’s all for the good if you learn and grow from it. ’Cause that’s what it’s about. Learning from your mistakes and growing into a man. They call them growing pains for a reason. It’s painful sometimes. It’s embarrassing sometimes, like right in this moment. But it’s all for your good. It’s part of the process to your manhood, brotha.”

  Xavier is out of his seat, jerking his body in fake convulsions, pretending to catch the Holy Ghost as if he’s in a Pentecostal church service. He starts running back and forth from one side of the room to the other, shouting with his hands in the air, “Ooooh, preach! Hallelujah, sista, praise the Lord! Ooooh, praise God! Can I get an amen, brothas?” The entire class, including me and Blake, start laughing hysterically. In a masterful instant, Xavier lightens the mood with brilliant comic relief. Genius timing. He is a true drama king who knows how to hold court, a true actor-comedian in need of a stage and audience.

  “Boy, sit down with your crazy self,” I say through my laughter.

  And just like that, in a mystical snap, the mood shifts. Blake is chopping it up and laughing with his friends in the back row while listening to Xavier’s church stories and urban lies. And my thug mama is back in the lamp.

  It turns out to be a good day, and I feel like I earned a break. I damn sure need a rest after all of that, so I let them rock the radio and play board games for the last two periods. I’m exhausted. I don’t want to battle them to get them to do more work. Shit, it’s Friday, and school is finished next week. I made my point. I’m respected. I survived the goons. I’m feeling confident and proved to myself that I can do this. Word spread with staff and students that “Ms. P don’t play. She handles her business and she’ll turn it up.”* In just three short weeks, I earned a reputation of respect.

  As I make my way to the main office to clock out for the day, I run into Phil, the principal. Phil and I go way back to the days when he was the vice principal and I was teaching poetry workshops back in 1998 in the Six building (C-76). I like Phil. He’s always been an advocate for arts and literacy, and he loves my poetry workshops; he even came out to see several of my poetry performances and my one-woman show in the city. His short, scruffy beard along with the tiny diamond-stud earring in his ear gives him a hint of a hippie past. Phil is a cool white dude.

  “Liza! Well, you made it through. I knew you would. You always had a way with this population.” He seems pleased. “There might be a teaching position we need covered for the new semester in September. Sort of like a permanent substitute where you’ll have your own class. You’re a good fit and would bring a lot to the guys. Will you be around? And would you be interested?”

  “Of course, Phil, I’d love to.”

  I’m feeling confident and successful after surviving the three weeks thrown into the fire, and Phil’s job offer validates my victory. I accept without hesitation. I damn sure need the steady reliable income. I can do this. And I’m learning how to flow, getting my full-time teacher’s swag. It’s on.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I Got This, Not

  Summer break is over. The elaborate, colorful, and very loud West Indian Day Parade on Labor Day in Brooklyn
marks the end of my summer freedom. The boombastic calypso rhythms along with the massive steel pan bands collectively ring the “party over, y’all, back to work” alarm. No more spontaneous beach bumming on a weekday afternoon, writing till 3 a.m., or late-night saloon hangs at my favorite watering hole with my girls. It’s officially time to set my alarm clock for 4:30 a.m. and go back to work at Rikers in the wee hours of the morning. The fun flew by in a flash. Dread is starting to creep up on me as the evening sun begins to set. Damn.

  “No money, no man, I don’t have any shows lined up for the fall, this rent is kicking my ass and I have to teach full-time at seven thirty a.m. every fucking day just to eke by and barely pay bills. What the hell is going on with my life? Something’s gotta give, girl. I deserve a breakthrough, dammit. This country doesn’t respect or support artists, only celebrities. And just because you’re a celebrity doesn’t mean you’re an artist anyway. It’s all bullshit.”

  My friend Sun quietly listens while we sit on my balcony as I ramble and rant about my life. She occasionally offers me a compassionate, “Mmhmm, I hear you, girl.” She gets me. She’s an artist, too—a singer and songwriter—who does freelance writing for online publications and copyediting. Her passion is music, but it doesn’t pay the rent. She understands the hustle and grind of being an artist living in New York City, where juggling the passion of your art and paying bills usually means taking jobs that you don’t really want to do.

  All it takes is the right opportunity, the right person, to see or hear your work and for the right combination of events to happen, and the doors to the dream of just being an artist will swing open and, like magic, your art will pay the rent. All artists pray for that Lotto moment, but in the meantime, we bust our asses working various jobs, squeezing in time to create. Sometimes it feels like I’m chasing a unicorn. Yet the passion outweighs the frustration. I love acting, I love performing, and I love writing. My art keeps me breathing. I can’t imagine living life without having the freedom to create and express myself artistically. It’s the language I speak. It’s how I make sense of the world. It’s what I was put here to do. It’s my first love.