All Day

by Liza Jessie Peterson

  I planted strong seeds of consciousness today. I pray they take root. And though I may not ever witness the sprouting, I’m pretty confident I touched at least one student.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rug Rat Roll Call

  Thought for the Day: Believe while others doubt. Plan while others play. Study while others sleep. Begin while others procrastinate. Save while others waste. Listen while others talk. Prepare while others daydream. Persist while others quit.

  —AUTHOR UNKNOWN

  They’ve grown on me, these dusty boys. They work my nerves and make me laugh in spite of myself all in a day. They test my patience every moment they get, and sometimes I slip and get weak, letting them get me flustered. Today is one of those days. It starts out like any other, with mumbles and grumbles early in the morning that quickly turn into the foulmouthed barbershop/pool hall, with Shahteik leading the charge, making me nuts.

  “Shahteik, will you please sit down and stop all that talking and do some work? Will you? Just for a change, why don’t you try something different, like doing some work for the sake of switching up your routine, you know, doing something different, for a change, why don’t ya, huh?” I’m being sarcastic and he knows it. Some of the Bosses laugh at my snarky attitude, prompting Shahteik to ignore me and continue talking to his buddies. Plucking my nerves at 8:30 a.m., I yell, “Shahteik!”

  He snaps, “Ms. P! Yo, relax! The hell is wrong with you, damn!”

  In a split second, quickly reading my oh-no-you-didn’t look on my face, accompanied by the universal Black mama neck swivel and head lean, he shifts gears and follows up with a playful tone: “Ms. P, you know you love me. You like saying my name, don’t you? Matter fact, you prob’ly tell your husband, ‘Baby, I’m so tired of dealing with them kids all day, especially that boy Shahteik.’ I bet you talk about me so much that your husband prob’ly say, ‘If I hear that Shahteik Jackson’s name one more time, I’m leaving you.’ That’s prob’ly what he be saying while he’s rubbing your feet, right, Ms. P?”

  He has the class’s attention, making them laugh as they look at me for the comeback. I’m in his crosshairs; it’s showtime. But it’s too damn early for a fight and all I can come up with is, “You know what? Don’t play with me today. Y’all are getting on my nerves already, acting like a bunch of…” I pause, quickly searching my mind for the perfect noun. They pause laughing and momentarily stare, wondering what insult I am about to hurl. Their faces ask, “Will it be fun or a fight?” Then I blurt out, “… a bunch of rug rats!”

  They fall out in hysterics, exploding with laughter, whooping and hollering, pounding desks, keeling over, caught off guard at the absurdity of my Nickelodeon reference, part tickled at the term of endearment, part relieved I didn’t hurl insulting fighting words like they’re used to receiving.

  “Yo, Ms. P, you crazy!” Tyquan says, wiping the tears from his eyes, nudging Mekhai. “Yo, son, she straight called us rug rats!”

  Tyrone leans back in his seat and cocks his head to the side, slowly rubbing his chin and grinning, flashing his perfect pearly whites. “But I’m your favorite rug rat, right, Ms. P?” I know this boy isn’t trynna mack?

  I suck my teeth and roll my eyes, making him laugh loud. “Yeah, see that, son, I’m her favorite rug rat; she just can’t admit it in front of y’all fools.”

  “Nigga shut up, you muthafucking Stewey-looking-ass nigga,” Shahteik quips. The class is officially comedy central and in a good mood. I let it rock for a little bit, since they could use some laughter therapy. Hell, so could I.

  “Watch that word,” I say with my back turned as I’m writing on the board.

  “Aight, I got you, Ms. P, my bad,” Shahteik agrees, to my surprise. My term of endearment must have definitely won him over for the moment. I’ll take it, moment to moment.

  My rug rat roll call reads like a ghetto farce and a cruel joke on me. I have three “Day-shawns,” each one spelled differently—Deshawn, Dayshawn, Daeshaun. Also a Dayquan, a Jaquan, a Naquan, a Sean, and an Antoine. One student, Joey, I nicknamed Peanut. He’s a short, skinny kid, the runt of the crew, with a Mr. Peanut–shaped head and beady eyes that are too small for his face. He’s constantly bouncing around superhyper and never sits still, always dancing, always moving, like a jumping bean. The boy reminds me of that Duracell toy monkey with the cymbals that plays frantically, nonstop. Joey needs recess to run around and wear himself out.

  One morning, frustrated at his dancing antics in the middle of a lesson, I blurted out, “Peanut!” yelling at him to sit down. The name just jumped in my head and out of my mouth right at that moment, and it stuck. Even the other kids call him that now. Despite the fact that Peanut does absolutely no work at all, I like the kid—there’s something endearing about his hyper little ass. Maybe it’s because when I yell at him to do work, he smiles at me sheepishly and responds with, “Yes, my Black queen sister… I’mma do my work, my Nubian queen,” forcing a smile from me. He’s such a swindler and I fall for it every time. Today he walks into class with two white plastic forks from lunch sticking out of his short, cropped afro. He takes one fork and begins picking his hair. “See what jail do to you, Ms. P? I gotta use a fork to comb my hair. Ain’t that a damn shame?”

  “What’s a damn shame is you flicking your nappy little peas all on my floor. Sit down, Peanut,” I say jokingly.

  “Aww, Ms. P, wait till I go to the barbershop. You gonna see my waves then, I’mma be spinning,* watch.” And he does the Harlem shake, a popular dance that resembles syncopated stylized rhythmic convulsions, before he sits in his seat to do no work.

  “Boy, sit down!” I say through a smile, shaking my head. Peanut tickles me and knows how to melt my icy front.

  Then there’s Antoine. This lil’ sucka is a bona fide comedian with an old soul. Reminds me of Huggy Bear from Starsky & Hutch, the way he walks and talks like a corny 1970s dusty pimp. He’s got a high-pitched nasal voice and does this exaggerated, slow-motion, slide-dip walk. One arm strokes the wind like a boat paddle to the rhythm of his strut, helping him glide. He’s a clown, putting on a show without even opening his mouth. But when he does, everything is fo’sheezy this, fo’sheezy that. Walking into class making an entrance with his Funkadelic cat-daddy playa stroll, Antoine declares in his Alvin and the Chipmunks/Michael Jackson voice, “Fo’sheezy, Ms. P, check this out. When I get back on the town, I wanna take my girl to restaurants where you have to dress up, where you have to wear tuxedoes and the tablecloths be pressed linen, ya heard? I’mma expose her to a high quality of life ’cause I’mma different kinda nigga, Ms. P… fo’sheezy!”

  “Watch that word, Antoine.”

  “Fo’sheezy!”

  Walking the rows, passing out work, I ear-hustle Shahteik whispering to Mekhai, “Yo, Khai, don’t she look a lil’ thicker today? You can see her shape more… she look more thicker.”

  Then Shahteik proceeds to ask me, “Ms. P, you ever heard of a restaurant called Junior’s in Brooklyn?”

  “Yes, Shahteik,” I respond with a tone of annoyance because he always gets on my nerves, even when he’s just breathing.

  He continues. “You ever eat there?”

  “No, I don’t eat there, Shahteik. Their food is too greasy. What’s with the twenty questions about Junior’s?”

  “Naw, it just look like you went to Junior’s over the weekend and had some of that cheesecake.”

  I totally didn’t see that one coming. Nice setup. One for him. His annoying comment draws a bunch of snickering from Mekhai and a couple other rug rats in earshot. I really can’t stand Shahteik, aka Lil’ Rumbles (his jailhouse name). He irks me and is hell-bent on fucking with me every damn day he sees me. It’s sport to him. The observant, big-mouthed, dusty rascal rug rat supreme was right. He noticed that my jeans were in fact just a tad bit more snug than normal because I did laundry last night, making my otherwise loose-fitting jeans hug me a little tighter. Moments later, I catch him staring at me with a glazed look in hi
s eye. I shudder to think what he was envisioning. My nemesis is crushing, which can only make matters worse. Lord, why me?

  Mekhai wants to keep the drama going and has the nerve to try to break on me for wearing the same jeans every day.

  “Ms. P, you wear the same jeans every day. You don’t have no other jeans—what’s up with that? They not paying you?”

  “Mekhai, unlike some of you who feel the need to floss and wear fresh gear in jail, impressing who… I have no idea. I, on the other hand, have no desire whatsoever to impress anybody in j-a-i-l. Why? Because it’s j-a-i-l; not an office, not a club, but what? J-a-i-l, jail!”

  I shut him down and he still tries to cut me and defend his position.

  “I’m just saying, Ms. P, you can wear another pair of jeans. You been wearing the same jeans since I been here. I’m not calling you a bum, but that’s kinda bumlike. No disrespect, I’m just saying,” he says, snickering along with Shahteik, who revels in any joke or dis at my expense.

  Tyrone, who prides himself on being my self-appointed favorite rug rat, comes to my defense. “Yo, son, she wearing them G-Star Raw jeans. They mad expensive, son. They got a boutique in SoHo, nigga. You can’t get them in no department store. Right, Ms. P? You got them jeans in SoHo, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Tyrone, but it doesn’t matter what kind of jeans I wear or how much they cost, or what I wear, because I am here to teach. I’m not here for a fashion show.”

  “I know you be wavy on the town, Ms. P. I saw you rocking your Gucci ballerina slippers in here the other day, and your Italian leather boots, rocking your Polo rugbies every other day, you feel me? I know you got the wave. You don’t have to dress up every day, but just one day? Just to show these fools, for me, Ms. P? Get flossy just one day, Ms. P.” Tyrone is pleading for me to turn it up with my outfits so he doesn’t have to defend my fashion honor. He has been clocking my attire the entire time, and had clearly ventured out beyond his Brooklyn comfort zone to shop in SoHo.

  Then there’s Miguel, a quiet Mexican kid with porcupine black hair—the Bosses call him Mexico. He sits in the back row on the same side as the Bosses. Always pleasant and polite, Miguel struggles with English and does work only when I push him, and still winds up giving me minimum effort. He’s low literacy, just skating by, and was most likely a product of social promotion, in some overcrowded urban school, even though he wasn’t ready to move to the next grade level… I know for a fact he could benefit from ESL (English as a second language) classes, which may be the barrier to his learning. Miguel isn’t the least bit disruptive and is actually quite pleasant, but he’s easily influenced by the Bosses, who love putting a battery in his back, encouraging Mexico to say slick shit to me in his thick Spanish accent. Nothing he says is actually funny but his heavy drawl, which sounds like a stereotypical Hollywood Mexican gangster, makes any hood slang they have him say sound absurd. They think it’s the funniest thing. He’s their entertainment… at my expense.

  “Esophagus,” pronounced “’sophagus,” is jailhouse terminology for “shut up or swallow it.” It takes me a minute to figure out what it means and when I ask the Bosses, they refuse to tell me, getting a kick out of having a secret over me and talking in code, like boys in a stinky clubhouse with no girls allowed. They get him to say, “Ms. P, ’sophagus,” in his thick Spanish drawl. Even though I haven’t quite figured it out, I know it’s a dis and they’re making me the brunt of an inside joke, using Miguel.

  I cut my eye at Miguel. “Don’t let them put a battery in your back, Miguel. Don’t go there with me, I don’t play that.” Mexico clasps his hands as if in prayer and slightly bows his head, shrugging his shoulders with a coy grin on his face. “I’m sorry, Ms. P.” His schoolboy smile, accompanied by him shrinking into his seat, always earns him a pass from me. I yell at the Bosses instead. “Y’all stop throwing batteries in Miguel’s back because you’re going to get him in trouble.” Then I turn to Mexico. “You heard, Miguel?”

  “Yes, Ms. P, I’m sorry,” he whispers in his thick accent. “It won’t happen again.”

  The Bosses are rolling in laughter.

  Most of the kids don’t claim any particular religion and if they do it’s usually indicated on their ID. Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, and Other are the categories to choose from. Aside from the occasional plastic rosary beads some of the Christian kids get from Catholic services, religious affiliation is not that big a deal, except for Samuel, who comes to class carrying a large Koran under his arm and donning a white crocheted kufi on his head. The Muslims have a strong alliance in jail and are untouchable for reasons unbeknownst to me. Once you convert to Islam in Rikers you become part of a very strong group that protects its members. Though they’re not a gang by any stretch of the imagination, they wield ganglike power, offering protection, influence, and a sense of family. Their reputation supersedes Rikers as they have an almost impenetrable force field that is recognized in prisons upstate and even across the country.

  Samuel recently converted to Islam while at Rikers, much to the chagrin of the Bosses, who hate this kid and were plotting on getting at him. But once he came to class donning his kufi and a Koran, he automatically had the protection of the Muslim jailhouse brotherhood and the most they could do was insult him and sell wolf tickets. “Nigga, you been a Muslim for two hours. Shut the fuck up! You know you became a Muslim ’cause you was about to get washed, nigga, and you know it too, you pork-eating doja!”

  Samuel rarely comes to class because he’s the object of continuous verbal assaults as soon as he steps in the room. There is clearly some serious housing-area drama or gang politics with this kid that I know nothing about, and it has the Bosses ready to pop off on him, but he’s saved by his kufi and Koran. Samuel loves vocabulary and, taking a cue from Malcom X, who learned every word in the dictionary while he was in prison, Samuel always carries a dictionary with him. When the class plays Jeopardy based on lessons they recently learned, Samuel stays with the vocabulary category, bringing a victory to his team every time. The few times Samuel has ventured to class, he has always been extremely respectful and once, out of the clear blue, said to me, “Ms. P, I appreciate your presence.”

  It was on a day I needed to hear it, a day I needed to be reminded, a day when I felt totally inadequate, doubting if I was making a difference, doubting that I was actually teaching the right things the right way. It was on a day I was feeling unnecessary and pointless. It’s funny how the children will randomly remind me of my significance, in divine time, as if the Creator is talking through them. It gives me just enough light to hold on to and continue on this bizarre journey in such a dark place. Like the time when Lawrence, whom the kids call Lips because he has a huge pair, looks up at me with beautiful, big saucer eyes as I’m standing over him to reexplain the lesson. As I patiently stood there making him read the question out loud to me, I helped him sound out the words he couldn’t pronounce. I took just a little extra time to help him find the answer to the question that was staring him right in the face.

  With a mix of frustration and compassion, I gently blurted out, “Lord have mercy, chile! The answer is right here in front of your face. Take your time and read the paragraph. The answer is right there, Lawrence. Find it. You know how to do this, just focus.”

  Looking up at me, he beamed and softly said, “Ms. P, you sound like a mother. You’re a good mother.”

  Moments like that make me feel needed and necessary and affirm my maternal resonance despite not having children of my own. “Thank you, baby. Now do the rest of the questions on your own and I’mma come back and check on you.” A little attention and compassion go a long way with a kid who’s been ignored throughout his years in school and probably even at home. All kids want to be seen, heard, and encouraged, even the most thuggish of thug.

  Raheim and Marquis are two Harlemites who sit in the back row near the pigeon-shit windows. They’re respectful rascals but hella chatty. They were buddies who lived in the same
hood before they got locked up, but now they’re in different housing areas in jail so the only time they get to see each other is when they come to class. Schoolwork be damned—it’s their time to catch up with each other, trade housing-area war stories, and fill each other in on the latest drama and neighborhood updates from phone calls and letters. It’s Harlem ghetto politicking nonstop with these two. Raheim is a very intelligent kid, above par in every academic subject. He should be in the GED class, not my pre-GED one.

  He got placed in my class probably because he was too tired when he took the orientation TABE (the test that evaluates your academic level and determines what class you’re in) and didn’t take the test seriously, placing him in a lower-functioning class. Now, his homie Marquis is, by contrast, dim-witted and lazy. He’s the total antithesis of Raheim and I often wondered why Raheim even entertains him; it’s such a mismatched odd-couple friendship I just don’t get. Maybe Marquis is funny and a good shit-talker. But to talk shit, you have to be witty and swift. Marquis is neither. By himself, Raheim is an absolute joy to have in my class. He finishes all of his assignments and goes beyond what I assign. The boy stays on task and is driven. But as soon as Marquis comes to class, Raheim is instantly distracted and gets tied up in the back-row Harlem pool hall or barbershop cypher. I call them Ernie and Bert: “All day it’s the same two, Ernie and Bert, running y’all mouth. Raheim, don’t let him pull your focus; come on now! You’re gonna make me split you two up, Ernie and Bert!”

  Marquis responds with a smooth, laid-back grown-man tone, “Naw, Ms. P, we more like Bonnie and Clyde.” He leans back in his chair like he just hit me with a dope comeback analogy.

  He thinks he’s saying something cool.

  “Oh really? So which one of y’all is Bonnie?”

  Pregnant pause from the Harlem pretty boy then. “I mean we more like Clyde and Clyde.”