All Day

by Liza Jessie Peterson

  My headache starts to get bigger. I think the drained look on my face must have prompted Ms. G to add some reassurance. “Girl, most of this shit is just common sense. You ain’t from Kansas. Just be smart. You know they’re slick, so establish boundaries and be firm. No one sits at your desk, and no one is allowed to walk behind your desk. Don’t let up on that rule unless you want them rummaging through your drawers like some dingbat teachers, who I won’t name.”

  “You mean some teachers actually let them go through their desk?” I gasp in shock.

  Ms. G gives me the universal sista-gurl look with curled lips and tilted head. “Girl, please. Some teachers let the kids sit at their desk, have their feet up on the desk, and basically run the class. You’ll see who’s who. Just watch.”

  “Oh no, no, no,” I respond self-righteously. “I might be new, but I don’t play that, sitting at my desk… and feet up? Oh no, no.” I start wagging my finger at this point.

  “I know you don’t play, girl. You held it down this summer, so you’re gonna be fine. Set a standard of respect and they’ll respond. You’re always gonna have one or two knuckleheads who will try you, so make an example of them and write them up ASAP. And trust me, they hate that, ’cause they lose privileges.”

  “Yeah, the orange slip is great leverage, huh?” It feels good to show Ms. G that I had learned a little bit of the classroom ropes from my summer run.

  “Works like a charm in most cases,” Ms. G says, “and when that don’t work, call the CO. They’ll pull them out of your class with the quickness. And as much as the boys grumble about being in school, they’d rather be in class than sitting in their cell all day.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to do that,” I say proudly.

  “Oh, you will. I promise you, you will.” She’s shut down my little burst of three-week pride. What could I say? She’s a vet.

  Talking to Ms. G helps lift the boulder from my chest. I take a deep breath and inhale a little bit of my confidence. Slowly, I push my rickety cart piled high with books and supplies down the hall and around the corner to my newly assigned classroom.

  It’s so dusty, I sneeze. It looks horrendous, full of old paper and trash, a whirlwind of garbage everywhere. A damn junkyard. The teacher whose class this was may have been a formidable educator but they were also a disorganized hot-ass mess… a trifling slob. Just nasty. I can’t work in these conditions, so I set out to make my classroom a clean sanctuary. Order will help me think clearly. I will definitely need some semblance of peace of mind in this place, so I’m going to create a feng shui vibe of virtue and order. The visual aesthetic and frequency in the class is important so I’m going to clean this shit up and elevate the energy. I roll up my sleeves and go in deep with rubber-glove action, scrubbing, bleaching, sweeping, and disinfecting the desks and shelves. The industrial-size garbage bag I’m using is full. I am not playing. I don’t do mess. The energy is already changing.

  Next, I put up brightly colored wall decorations and arrange the desks in straight, neat rows. I place cutout posters of all the planets in the solar system up high, close to the ceiling, all around the circumference of the room, giving it a cosmic vibe. I create a designated poetry wall, of course, but my personal favorites are the ancestor walls. There are several standard Board of Education Black history posters of inspirational figures that I put on display: Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, and Jackie Robinson. But the most powerful and stunning images come from my personal collection that I copied and laminated from my library of classic coffee-table books. I have pictures of African kings and queens from the Old Kingdom, New Kingdom, and pre-dynastic eras in Egypt, the Great Temple of Ramses, the Great Pyramids, and beautiful, rare images from One More River to Cross. I also hang rare pictures—Marcus Garvey; a smiling Malcolm X; Martin Luther King Jr. (hugging Coretta); Malcolm and Martin shaking hands; Black men in uniform from the Civil War; Black men donning top hats and tuxedos, from Reconstruction; Frederick Douglass with a young protégé; Harriet Tubman; finely dressed Black women from the 1920s; wrinkled, stoic elders over one hundred years old; the Black Panthers; and Native American warrior chiefs. My ancestor wall rocks.

  I prominently mount the images on both sides of the blackboard so that the boys will constantly be seeing their ancestors of antiquity and, hopefully, draw some inspiration from them through osmosis. The only thing missing is incense. I’m going in, tapping into my esoteric holistic healer. It soothes me.

  Just at that moment, Mr. Young, the art teacher, who is pushing a squeaky cart full of art supplies piled in a colorful mound, pops his head into my room.

  “Looking good, sis. Very artistic. Great composition.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Young. I appreciate that coming from you.”

  “Even if I didn’t already know you were an artist, I would have guessed it just by the way you decorated your room. It feels good in here. Visually engaging; good vibes and very feng shui.”

  “That’s exactly what I was trying to accomplish. You know about feng shui?” I ask excitedly.

  “Oh yeah. Besides being a visual artist, I study martial arts. It’s all connected. I’m into energy, the esoteric and the eclectic, and I could be wrong, but I get the sense that you are too.”

  My eyes light up. Another artist! “You know I am. Energy, the cosmos, the ancestors, all that’s important for our youth… I love that you get it. And you can see I was up in here doing my feng shui like a motherfucker.” We both laugh as I continue. “We in jail, so I gotta have my force field turned up high, you feel me? I want the energy in the room to make them feel good on a subconscious level. Only thing missing is my incense for the aromatherapy, which I know I can’t burn in here.”

  “Sis, there’s a simple solution for that. What I do is get essential oils like frankincense.”

  “I keeps me some frankincense in stock, always. I got some in my purse right now, son!”

  Mr. Young laughs. “Cool. So what you do is take your oil and pour a little bit on a piece of tissue, and in the morning, before the guys get here, rub a little bit on each of the desks.”

  “Brilliant!”

  “It’s great, because you’re spiritually anointing your room and each desk. And let’s be real,” Mr. Young adds, “the guys smell a little musty, so it keeps the room funk-free, and it really does chill them out. I notice a difference every time I do it.”

  We both laugh at the reality of how bad this place smells at times with rooms full of bad breath, farts, and guys who can’t afford deodorant. “Mr. Young, you just made my day! Thank you for that!”

  “Please, just call me Young. Mr.’s too formal. Or you can call me Killa. That’s what the kids call me.”

  I laugh. “Killa? How’d you get a name like Killa? You don’t look like no killer.”

  “The kids gave me that name when I first started working here around 1992, damn near twenty years ago, and sis, this place was really bad. There were stabbings and slashings on a regular, and stepping over pools of blood was the norm. It was crazy—”

  “Damn. That’s wild.”

  “You have no idea just how wild it really was. I was new to the joint and was trying to get used to this negative environment. I’m generally a happy person, sis, so coming in here was truly a spiritual battle. I was going through the fire.”

  I like how he put that. I immediately feel a kindred spirit in Mr. Young. Maybe I too am going through the fire, and this teaching assignment is a spiritual test. He tells me the story of gaining his jailhouse moniker.

  “So, there was this guy named Spanky B… I’ll never forget that guy’s name. I knew he was an adult playing like he was an adolescent, because it was something about his energy and the way he carried himself. I could tell he was older and I think he knew that I knew. Sometimes when guys come in from bookings, they’ll give a phony age and name. And back then, until their fingerprints came back from being run through the system, DOC had to put them
with the adolescents—especially if they looked young, they could get away with it more easily.

  “So Spanky B,” he continued, “was extorting the kids. I didn’t like the guy, and for some reason, he decided that he didn’t like me. Our energies didn’t mix, and we both knew it. One day we got into a minor verbal exchange, nothing serious, but a tit-for-tat kinda thing, and suddenly I became the butt of Spanky’s jokes. The guys are laughing and getting him hyped, but what he didn’t know was that I was a better comedian than he was. So I went in on him and started getting louder laughter from the class, which pissed Spanky B off.

  “Well, he gets all embarrassed, and his only comeback was to try and intimidate me, so he says ‘I should rob you’ and proceeds to touch my pants pocket. I knew this was a challenge. So I told the dude, ‘Don’t touch my pockets,’ and he ignored me. He put his hands in my pocket, and in a reflex reaction to block his hand I moved so quickly that I slapped him by mistake.”

  Killa stands to demonstrate what happened next. “There was like a three-second delay, because I was shocked. Spanky B was stunned and the class got silent. Then the entire class said ‘ooooh,’ and Spanky’s nose flared like a bull and he charged at me. But I used his body weight against him and spun around like this and he hit the floor. I could hear the CO running to the class, and when he came in, he sees Spanky B lying on the floor and asked what happened. I said just as calmly, ‘He fell.’ The CO knew I was probably lying, but what could he say? He had to take my version of the story. So now at this point I’ve gained the respect of the class, because I didn’t snitch. Spanky B got up and sat in the front row. I tried to continue with the lesson and turned my back to write on the board, but my hands and legs were shaking to the point where I couldn’t even write. And I could hear Spanky fuming. He was breathing so heavy that I could hear his breath. Sis, I was scared. So I turned around and I said to him ‘Look, I’m scared, and I don’t like feeling like this, so if we gotta do this again, we might as well get it in right now…’ And the class went dead silent.”

  “Oh my God, what the hell did Spanky B do?” I ask. My heart’s racing as he tells the story. “Spanky B said ‘Fuck this class!’ and walked out, and the whole class went crazy saying stuff like ‘Yo, this teacher is a Killa.’ And from that point on the kids kept calling me that. The vice principal eventually asked me why the kids kept calling me Killa, and I told her it was an acronym for ‘knowledge in living life adventurously.’”

  I’m cracking up. Killa is a great storyteller. He’s lanky, six foot four, with waist-length dreadlocks heavily streaked with silver strands of wisdom neatly pulled back in a rubber band. Mr. Young smiles a lot and has a youthful, bubbly demeanor. A jokester with a great sense of humor, Young’s inner child is fully evident in his bouncy, childlike gait, walking on the balls of his feet.

  “Well, sis, I’m not gonna talk your ear off, but I gotta share something with you before I get out of here.”

  “Killa, you’re not talking my ear off at all. What you gotta tell me?”

  “Well, it’s kinda sad.”

  “Oh no, what happened?”

  “Last night the police found a six-year-old boy wandering the streets and offered to take him home. The boy said, ‘No, I don’t want to go home, because my mom beats me.’”

  I gasp and clutch my heart, bracing myself for the worst.

  “The police asked, ‘Well, what about your dad?’ And the boy said, ‘He beats me too.’ So the police asked the boy, ‘Where do you want to live?’ and the boy replied, ‘With the Dallas Cowboys. Because they never beat anybody.’”

  Killa smirks. “I forgot to tell you I’m a comedian too.”

  “Ooh, I needed that laugh. I was feeling so overwhelmed, you have no idea how much I needed that.”

  “Sis, like I said earlier, working in this place really is a spiritual battle, and we artists have more difficulty adjusting to the energy here. But believe it or not, you’re exactly what these guys need. No doubt about it. Just your strong presence alone is good for them. You’re gonna be just fine. But remember, you’re an artist. Don’t let this place take that from you. Incorporate what you do best with the guys. Use your art. I remember you from when Ms. Barron brought you in to do your poetry workshop with the guys and then you came back another time to perform your one-woman show. That shit was dope. The guys were totally into it. You held their attention the entire time, and that ain’t easy in an auditorium of a hundred and fifty adolescents, especially in this place. Your art is powerful, sis. And you got a big heart. That’s who you are. Don’t get trapped here.”

  Okay, now he is speaking to my soul. The tears are beginning to well up in my eyes, so I take a deep breath to avoid crying and opening the floodgates that his truth has tapped into. I am terrified that teaching in this full-time capacity could doom my dream of being an artist. Killa’s simple warning—“don’t get trapped”—reminds me to keep this teaching assignment in perspective, that it’s just a temporary season in my life. This doesn’t have to be the endgame because I am an artist. Don’t get trapped here.

  God, I needed that affirmation. I clasp my hands and bow. “Thank you, Killa.”

  “Anytime, sis. I’ll be checking in on you. Plus I think I have your guys for art, fourth period.”

  I scramble to find my class schedule. “Whoo! Yup, I have you fourth period! It’s so on.”

  Yes, the angels are conspiring to help me.

  My room is on point and ready to go, but my confidence is still a bipolar swing from I’m good to I’m in over my head. I am emotionally exhausted. Mr. Davis, Ms. G, and Mr. Young were major guardrails who unwittingly held me up today. This ain’t an easy-breezy poetry workshop, and this ain’t end-of-the-year summer babysitting fluff. Naw naw naw, this is my class all day, all year. This is measured outcomes, daily lesson plans, frequent testing, daily grading, differentiated learning, teacher evaluations, and mastering multiple subjects. I didn’t go to school for this shit. I am walking into uncharted territory. There’s no way I can do this.

  Once again, I’m beating myself into a tizzy.

  Public school teachers are extraordinary. They’re godlike. And it’s been said they work harder than you do no matter what you do.

  I believe that to be an indisputable truth. They’re superheroes. But me? I’m just a poet, a playwright, an actress—who creates art. I’m a nonconformist, truth-telling feather-ruffler who isn’t scared to say what I think but has the gift to say it poetically. My art has been referred to as “honey on the blade.” Honest, passionate, and biting. My intention is always to uplift, enlighten, and inspire, whether onstage, on the page, or in a poetry class. And here I am at Rikers Island teaching, all day. I signed up for this, and I don’t know how long I’ll last, what impact I’ll have, or what my purpose is for being here, so I just pray for clarity. Everything happens for a reason. I’m strong and resilient like my ancestors. I pride myself on being an artist with the soul of a nightingale and the skin of a rhinoceros, but today, by the time I clock out at 2:35 p.m. on the dismal school floor at Rikers Island, I am nothing but a raw jellyfish.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Danny Gunz

  Thought for the Day: To have once been a criminal is no disgrace. To remain a criminal is the disgrace.

  —MALCOLM X

  Every morning I write a Thought for the Day on the corner of the board. I ask the students to give their thoughts on the daily inspirational quotes. Some mornings, it surprisingly elicits a hearty discussion; most mornings, they grumble, grunt, or ignore me. Too damn early for critical thinking—I get it. Until this morning, I wasn’t sure if the seeds of consciousness I was attempting to plant were even registering. I forgot to put the Thought for the Day up on the board, which Gerald, a quiet student who is easily overlooked, quickly brings to my attention. “Ms. P, what’s good? You forgot the Thought for the Day,” he gently says.

  I smile as his request affirms that they are in fact watching, they are taking it in,
and I just might be reaching them after all. “You are so right, Gerald… I got you,” I pleasantly reply, and I write a new Thought for the Day in the corner of the board as he diligently copies it into his notebook and grins.

  Look at what you’ve been through and what you’ve survived. You are a walking, talking miracle. You are so much more than you’ve been told.—Ms. P

  The first week is totally about getting to know the dramatic range of characters who I am working with all day, every day, all year. For some odd reason, the alpha males have decided to sit in the front row, right up in my face. The back row is normally where the cool kids sit, reserved for shit-talking and social-lounge parleying. Like the kitchen, it’s the space most comfortable, in the cut where real conversation and saloon talk takes place. Later I would figure out that the leader of this alpha male crew has a crush on me; hence the front row spotlight positioning. They call themselves the Bosses. I call them the Bosses of stink, not because they smell, but because they have stank attitudes, always getting on my nerves. They’re fly boys, as fly as one can be in jail, rocking fresh haircuts and spanking new sneakers as they damn sure wouldn’t be caught dead in pumpkin seeds. They think those jailhouse bobos are for herbs.* The Bosses get barbershop time on a regular basis and clearly have rank and power back in their housing area. They walk like kings with an air of confidence and subtle intimidation, getting a constant flow of salutation fist bumps and handshakes from guys passing by the class, like lil’ hoodlum dons. Me and my Gucci girl crew back in high school thought we were the shit too. Knowing the pecking order in this place is important. Who’s the OG,† and who’s in his crew. Who’s the doja?‡ Who’s the pop-off dummy?* Knowing who’s Blood, who’s Crip, and who’s food† is critical information to stay a step ahead of potential tensions and explosions that might arise. But most important is having peripheral vision, which is essential for classroom management. The Bosses sit in the same seats every day, immediately declaring their territory. They claimed the front row seats on the left-hand side, next to the door and the window that looks out onto the hallway. Guys who are on their team,‡ which includes their pop-off dummies, sit close behind them. The neutrals are guys who stay to themselves, don’t claim a gang or team, and sit in the far back row center of the room. Those desks are generally up for grabs, since no one has a stronghold on that section. The Harlem crew has claimed four back-row seats to the far right, next to the filthy windows that face another of the jail’s brick walls. Nothing to see except hardened pigeon shit, feathers, and dirt splattered on the window slats.