Lynard (16 years old)
Barack Obama, how are you doing sir? I read your letter in the VIBE magazine November 2008 issue and I’m 100% all the way with you. This is the most important election in the history of the United States. I do believe that you can turn this country around. I am only seventeen, a young Black male growing up in Harlem, New York, and even though I’m not registered to vote until next year, my father, great-grandmother and family are by your side. I can’t believe that I’m here at this point in time where I see history being made. When I look back at this, ten to fifteen years from now, I can tell my kids I was there to see you become president. It’s not even that you’re going to be the first Black president, but you want change and that’s what we’ve been waiting for. I am hoping you can change the economic, jail, educational and health systems. Also, I am hoping you can put an end to the war in Iraq. Right now Mr. Obama I am incarcerated on Rikers Island in New York City. I am not a bad kid at all and I am about to go home. I will be home to see the elections on television. I have been jailed for something I didn’t do but I’ve only been here for two weeks and I learned a deep lesson to stay out of trouble. I have always been interested in politics but your way of it has had me focused deeper on it. Even though I messed up by hanging with the wrong crowds, I have learned from my mistakes. So November 4th we need everybody to come together so we can bring change. By the way, my name is Darnel and I pray to God you win Tuesday night November 4th.
Darnel (17 years old)
This presidential campaign really caught my attention because if Obama was to win, this would make history. I made my housing area in C-74 Rikers Island watch the debate because I feel that people should know about what’s happening in the world. Listening to the debate I feel like McCain is addressing personal issues instead of addressing issues about America. I feel that McCain will do or say anything to win the election but Obama is more consistent because he says the same thing in every debate. This election is going to make those who never believe, believe that they can succeed and be anything they want to be, mostly we young African Americans. It makes me feel good to see another brother make it because it doesn’t happen too often.
William (18 years old)
A Dream We Always Wanted
In my opinion this whole election is strange and makes sense. The strange part of it is I’m about to witness history; a Black American in office fighting for us. The debate I saw today with John McCain and Barack Obama was like a fight but with words. Obama is focusing on giving. John is focusing on taking away. Their facial expressions, especially on John McCains face was more like hate. Obamas face was more like “I’m making sense.” Obama just sat back and laughed at this guy who wants to take away from us. This election is so important to me because I’m witnessing history. I hear people talking about “I don’t care what happens with the president” but they should, especially African Americans because of the things we’ve been through; we had to fight for our rights. Now we have a chance for a Black man to make history and become the president of the United States of America. We need change!
Jason (18 years old)
CHAPTER EIGHT
King Down
Thought for the Day: African people introduced civilization to the planet. We were scientists, astronomers, philosophers, master masons, kings and queens, a mighty people long before we became slaves in America. Know thyself. If we did it once, we can do it again. Remember the ancestors.
—MS. P
My desk sits facing the class on the far right side of the room, in front of the Harlemites’ declared territory of seats. In order to create distance between my desk and the filthy pigeon-shit-splattered windows, I placed two tall, metal file cabinets side by side in a line directly next to the nasty view, and have them strategically flanked tightly next to my desk. Zero room to squeeze through. The formation of the cabinets lined up between my desk and the window creates a small man-made rectangle-shaped alcove behind my desk, about three feet wide. For extra precaution, I keep a combination padlock on the cabinet that holds my coat, plastic see-through tote bag, CDs, DVDs, Febreze, frankincense, snacks for the boys, and other personal belongings. The doors to the file cabinets are only accessible by coming behind my desk and walking into the tight alcove I created. I remembered Ms. G’s advice to not let any students sit at my desk. To my surprise, this rule isn’t difficult to enforce. I’ve only had to say it once at the beginning of the semester and just a few times after that to new students who weren’t given the heads-up by the veteran rug rats.
“Ah, ah, ah… get from behind my desk, please. No one but me sits at my desk. I don’t play that. And I definitely don’t want you in the area behind my desk. There is nothing there for you. If anything turns up missing from the file cabinets or my desk, you don’t want me pointing the finger at you, since you were the only one in my lil’ alleyway. This rule is to protect you, my brother. Protects you from being tempted to rummage through grown folks’ business and it protects you from being wrongly accused, should anything disappear.”
“Oh, aight, miss, my bad. Damn,” scoffs Rashid. Revealing his frustration as he hisses like a snake, sounding like air slowly seeping out of a punctured tire. He’s new and hasn’t developed a rapport with me yet. He feels embarrassed over being called out in front of his peers. He’s a runt like Peanut and has a lot of attitude, this kid.
“No problem. That’s how you learn and now you know. Welcome to my class, brother…” I quickly scan the roster to find the name of this pipsqueak. “… brother Rashid,” I say cheerfully in an attempt to soften his awkward moment.
“You can call me Leaky, miss.”
“Leaky?” I’m perplexed and not amused. I scrunch my face.
“Yeah, Leaky, ’cause I leave niggas leaking,” he says, laughing, giving Tyquan a pound.
“Watch that word; no niggas in this class, Rashid. You’re a Nubian king.” I tried to pull a smile from him and did.
“Damn, she go hard body, son,” he says to Tyquan.
“Yo, scrap, Ms. P cool, but she don’t play. She be on that Poof shit, my man,” Tyquan warns the new rug rat, who is unaware of my classroom rules. “And she like her row of desks neat too, my nigga…”
“Watch that word,” I quip without looking up.
“See what I mean,” Tyquan exclaims.
“Give me my rows. I want my rows neat, just how you found them, my Black Nubian brothas… or else Poof, Poof, Poof!” Malik yells from the back of the class, imitating my voice.
“That’s right. You better know it too!” I declare. “Hmph, I take time every morning before y’all come in here lining my desks up neat, and that’s how I want to see them when I leave. Y’all see some of those other classrooms, looking a hot mess. Not in here, no siree. I like a neat classroom. Helps you think better. Feng shui, my brothas.” I laugh, enjoying that joke by myself, knowing they have no idea what I am talking about. Mekhai rolls his eyes at me, like a grumpy old man.
“Yo, scrap, I got some shit I gotta tell you,” Tyquan says, motioning Rashid to sit in the empty desk next to him.
“Malik, put that Pop-Tart away!” I yell as I catch Malik breaking off pieces to the Bosses seated in front of him. “And Shahteik, take your seat… Lord Jesus, please let this be a good day.”
“Who you?” Malik tries to sneak and say, sounding like he just inhaled helium. I’ve become quite good at locating the ventriloquist. “Who you” is a high-pitched, owl-like hoot the kids can say without moving their lips, making it impossible for a scolding teacher or a yelling CO to figure out who’s saying it. When COs come into the housing area, barking at the kids for this and that, it’s usually followed by several smart alecks hooting “who you, who you,” which always ticks the COs off, and the kids know it. Oftentimes the officer will punish the entire housing area since it’s impossible to locate the “who you” culprit. The kids play this hooting-owl game even though it gets them in trouble. They derive great satisfaction from ruf
fling the feathers of anyone in authority. It’s a cheap score and the payoff is worth it in their lil’ rascal, hooligan brains.
“You already know who I am, so don’t play, Malik!” I snap.
Malik tries to play innocent mixed with righteous indignation. “Ms. P, that wasn’t even me! How you gonna blame me for something I ain’t even do. That’s not fair, Ms. P!”
Shahteik tries to bait me as he turns to Malik and says slightly under his breath but loud enough for me to hear, “Man, don’t pay that woman no mind. She yell ’cause she probly ain’t got nobody at home to love her—she ain’t getting no love at home, so she come in here getting on our nerves, like we need that.”
“Word,” chimes Mekhai the Muppet, as he snickers and gives Shahteik a soul-pound.
Ouch. That shit pierced me like a dart but I refuse to acknowledge he pricked me and pretend I don’t hear him. I will sidestep Shahteik’s trap today. He’s just too damn exhausting, so I choose an easier battle.
“Don’t let me see that Pop-Tart again, Malik. And where’s my poem you said you were working on?” I ask, quickly diverting attention from the sugary snack.
“I got you, Ms. P, I’mma finish it now. I gotta get some inspiration from my son, though.” Malik reaches for the humongous-sized complete works of Langston Hughes. Malik sits behind the Bosses in the last seat in the corner next to the short bookshelf. He immediately took a liking to Langston’s work since the first day of class. Abiodun from the Last Poets is his other favorite. This fills my spirit like nobody’s business. The kid loves classic revolutionary poetry, earning him a permanent soft spot with me. When Malik is in a defiant nonworking mood, I can always negotiate with him by using a poetry assignment that involves Langston Hughes or the Last Poets as bargaining chips. If the class is doing science or math and he’s being disruptive, because, like me, he hates both of those subjects, I can always get Malik to read and write some poetry. How can I refuse that? Poetry is my weakness, and he knows it. I have to get stronger, start putting my foot down with him and push him past his comfort zone.
Most days I walk up and down my rows to keep students on task and break up barbershop/pool hall gossip huddles. These boys run their mouths all day like radio hosts, reporting on drama from their hood and housing area, reenacting fights, instigating shit-talking, debating athletes, and critiquing rappers. Constantly walking my rows enables me to justify demanding that my aisles stay straight so I can easily pass through while simultaneously intercepting the chatty cyphers.
I keep a chair next to my desk for one-on-one conferences with my students. Initially when I would call a student up to my desk and ask them to sit down in the seat next to me, they immediately assumed they had done something wrong. Sometimes that was the case, making it the “oooh-you-in-trouble” hot seat, but most times I used it to talk to the boys privately about their progress, or lack thereof. I highlighted their improvements and challenged them to push through the areas of weakness and to focus more. One-on-one time helps with building relationships. Now the boys look forward to getting called up to my desk to get a dose of real talk, one-on-one, special attention with Ms. P. This is also a great tool in classroom management. Instead of yelling, I just wait for the right moment and call the disruptive rug rat up to my desk to address their transgression in private and get them to give me their word to improve their behavior. I get more compliance by not embarrassing them publicly. Their skin might be full of tattoos and battle scars, but their egos are fragile and raw.
Tyquan scoots into my private conference seat even though I haven’t called for him.
“Yes, Tyquan?”
“What’s good, Ms. P?”
I clasp my hands and look at him with annoyance. He is interrupting me grading a vocabulary test. And he’s such an attention seeker. Boy, go somewhere.
“Ms. P, I got two bodies on me. Word up, I got two bodies,” he confesses and blurts this disturbing information from out of nowhere. I don’t want to deal with this. He’s giving me that “aww, come, on, really?” moment like when a bird poops on you, fucking up your vibe for a good minute. Regardless of what you were doing, you gotta pause to clean the shit.
“You killed two people, is that what you’re telling me?” I ask with grave concern. He has my full attention now.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say it so blunt, but let’s just say two people ain’t breathing no more,” he boasts.
He could very well be telling the truth, but somehow I get the sense Tyquan is still trying to psyche himself up to believe he is a killer, trying his myth out on me. He’s trying to elicit a shocked reaction, but I refuse to give him that satisfaction and instead I go reverse psychology on his needy ass. I’mma spank his spirit.
“That’s nothing to brag about, actually, and it’s definitely nothing to be proud of. And for you to come up here and tell me something like that as if it’s an accomplishment means you still have a lot of inner spiritual work and cleansing to do. God made you… you, Tyquan—God made you unique, special and rare, one of a kind. And nobody has a right to take you off this planet and end your life. End what God made? Nobody but God has that right to take you away from your mother, your son, and your brother.” I serve spank number one.
Tyquan relaxes his shoulders. He looks deflated. He wanna come up to my desk talking crazy, talking about murder? Well, he’s gonna get the sho’ nuff Pentecostal-priestess whooping from me. I continue, “And you don’t have that right, no right at all, to take anybody off this planet, unless you are defending your life. That right is reserved for God, not you. Killing someone doesn’t make you special or tough, it makes you pathetic and cowardly and you will pay a spiritual price for that. So, if what you are telling me is true, my brotha, you have to begin the very long process of praying and asking God for forgiveness and you’re gonna have to do a lot of spiritual soul-searching to come up out of that very heavy burden hanging over your head. Your spirit is sick and needs healing if what you’re bragging about is true. Your soul is out of alignment, Tyquan, and it will only bring you a lifetime of chaos and confusion in every area of your life.” Serving spank number two.
Tyquan squirms in his seat. “You know, I want to be a motivational speaker, Ms. P. You think I could do that?”
I lay down my belt and put on the velvet glove. “Baby, it’s never too late to become who you dream of becoming,” I say, quoting a Thought for the Day. “I truly believe if you commit to doing inner work on yourself, to grow and heal and take responsibility for your actions, I most certainly believe you have what it takes to be a powerful motivational speaker and to help younger kids not go down the path that landed you here.”
Before I can shoo Tyquan out of my special conference seat so I can finish grading, Officer King pops his head in. “Bathroom!” In ten seconds my room empties out nearly as fast as a shoot-out at a block party.
Officer King is my buddy, always checking in on me throughout the day during his shift, offering me a pleasant salutation: “Good morning, sis. You good? They behaving okay?”
“So far, so good. They’re doing great work, actually. We just had a vocabulary quiz and most of them did well. I’m impressed. We’re off to a good start.”
“That’s good, that’s good. See, you guys have a good teacher who cares,” he says, addressing the class.
“You let me know if any of these guys give you a problem!” he barks as he surveys the room with a menacing look. A couple of the Bosses elbow each other and snicker, picking up on King’s not-so-inconspicuous flirtation with me.
“Yo, King, I see you, son… you funny,” Malik says, trynna blow King up on the low.
“What, what you see, huh? A righteous Black man checking in on a righteous sister. What’s so funny about that? Watch and learn something, my brother.” King cracks a smile, making the Bosses chuckle and shake their heads.
“Lemme find out you a G and be macking on the town,” says Tyrone with a sly smile.
“I think my age an
d experience qualifies me as an OG, son,” King shoots back, making the class fall back in unison and holla like he just landed a three-pointer, all net.
“Oh snap, yo, son is funny. He wilding, son. King you got it… you got it.”
King laughs. “Have a good day, gentlemen. Keep up the good work and don’t let Ms. Peterson have to come and get me. Ms. Peterson…” King gives me a gentleman’s nod and heads out the doorway.
“Thank you, King. I appreciate that,” I reply, flashing a coy smile, treating him to a little coquettishness. One of the rug rats tries to mimic my lady voice: “Thank you, King, I appreciate that,” but winds up sounding like squeaky Minnie Mouse. Damn rascals, get on my nerves.
King is tough but reasonable. He’s the alpha male who walks the hallways with dominion, keeping order simply by his presence, providing a sense of security and calm whenever he’s on duty. He cuts the air with a slow, authoritative stride like a heavyweight champ who knows his skin is really covering iron. Puppies yelp, dogs bark, but King roars with a tenor that commands attention. He can restore order in my class by simply poking his head in without saying a word. He’s papa bear for sure and the guys yield to his power and respect his position in the animal kingdom hierarchy, rarely, if ever, testing him. When a kid is cutting the fool acting up, I’ve seen King reason with him and maybe deny him a privilege (like gym time, commissary, or the barbershop). He might even opt to rough ’em up a bit, slap ’em upside the head and dole out a mild spanking instead of giving the kid an infraction, which could lead to the lil’ bandit losing good days,* prolonging their stay at Rikers. Adolescent boys, especially these boys, many of whom have never had a father figure or positive male role model in their life, need discipline and clear boundaries that have consequences if crossed. Their reckless behavior is a cry for attention but is also an indication that their foundation is weak and basic principles of respect are missing. Though they resist it and challenge it, there is a subconscious need to hear the bark (and sometimes feel the bite) of an alpha male lest they get a false sense of impulsively doing and saying what the hell they want in a world poised to crush their Black bodies. Navigating between the iron fist and the velvet glove with these wayward warriors is a tricky balancing act but I suspect King has finessed it. I’ve never actually seen King rough a kid up, but based on their contrite behavior when they returned to the school floor after having a “little talk” with him, I got the sense that either his iron fist or the threat of his wrath combined with his king-of-the-jungle tongue-lashing roar may have played a role.
All Day Page 13