She makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my spidey-senses tingle; my intuition says she’s a dangerous and treacherous woman. I don’t know why and I have no rational explanation for it. The woman has triggered some genetic memory in me. I once got a vision of her that dropped into my spirit. I saw a lady of gallantry, a white heifer in the post-Reconstruction South who lusted after Black men and would cry rape if they rejected her advances or if she got caught with her bustle up. Then she’d fan herself while sipping a mint julep as her Black buck was being lynched in front of a bloodthirsty cheering mob of savages for sport.
I snap myself out of the vision. This is crazy, nutty, and totally irrational. I know I’m bugging, but I can’t shake the visceral sense that my rug rats (and all of them on the school floor) aren’t safe around her. My protective spirit for the boys is on high alert and my aversion toward her is so palpable that every time I see her I get a momentous urge to slap her fucking face. This definitely has to be some past-life shit for real, because on face value it makes absolutely no sense why I despise this woman, who has done nothing to me. And it’s not because she’s white. There are several other white teachers on the school floor who hold it down in their classrooms and are good educators. Hell, they have more rank than me and I’ve sought advice from them on more than one occasion; they’re cool people. But this Little Miss Muffet trollop—I’m having none of her. I know this allergy and absurd abhorrence I have toward her, based on absolutely nothing she’s said or done, is unhealthy. Killa is the only one I feel comfortable enough to divulge my unfounded, secret hatred of this woman to. Maybe he can shed some light on her since he teaches art in her third-period class. Maybe she’s really nice and just supershy because she’s new and happens to be just a little scared. I mean, it is jail. Bring it down a notch, Liza. But naw, fuck that, you coming up in Rikers to teach, you better have some swag somewhere in your spirit.
I confess to Killa during lunch. “Killa, I don’t know why I don’t like that new teacher, Little Miss fucking Muffet, down the hall. She hasn’t done anything to me, but I get a bad vibe from her and I can’t stand her and I don’t know why. She doesn’t speak, she be wearing high-heeled gold disco pumps and leopard blouses and shit. What she trynna do, turn the boys on purposefully? Killa, I don’t know why I don’t like this little strumpet… please tell me, is it me, am I buggin’?”
Killa takes a deep breath. “Sis, you know I like everybody. I’m that one dude that will give an asshole the benefit of the doubt even if everybody else hates him. But, sis, I don’t like that bitch either, and you know I don’t even use the B-word to refer to women, so that should tell you something. She’s stuck-up and thinks she’s better than everybody. Won’t speak, won’t even look at me. She wears these weird little outfits. Too seductive, if you ask me. I don’t know, for the life of me, why they hired her.”
I feel affirmed. “I am so glad you said that because I was thinking I was tripping. I had to do a self-inventory to check my own shit.” I share my past-life theory with Killa, ’cause if anybody would get it, he would. “Yo, Killa, sometimes I get the vibe that she was one of them cracka bitches back in Reconstruction and the Jim Crow era who lusted after Black men but would be quick to cry rape and have no qualms seeing them lynched.”
“Sis, you’re picking up a strong energy from her. Maybe y’all had beef in a past life and you remember some foul shit she did. Genetic memory is real, and the soul’s energy never dies; it recycles into a different clay suit in a different time and space.”
Killa is my boy! He speaks my language. He gets my crazy. Real recognize real.
I keep a small stash of CDs in my locker to play music for the guys. Nas, Mos Def, James Brown, Dead Prez, Al Green, Aretha Franklin, Jay-Z, Ray Charles, and Ghostface Killah. I even relented and copped two Lil Wayne CDs specifically for my lil’ rascal rug rats since Weezy is the best leverage for getting the gremlins to work. Sometimes I play music during the last period of the day when the guys have worked hard. I let them have open game time and play cards or various board games like checkers, chess, dominoes, or Connect 4. And sometimes I rock music as a method to squeeze more work out of them by using it as my quid pro quo strategy: You do my work and I’ll let the radio rock, but as soon as the work stops, the CD player goes off. That always makes ’em mad, but keeps ’em quiet and working because they love listening to music. Music for them is the sound of home, the sound of being back on the town, the sound of when they were emancipated, the sound of being teleported back to memories before jail. Some housing areas don’t have a radio, some do. Some COs play music, some don’t. So music is a high commodity.
My two absolute rules with the boom box are:
1. Don’t touch the radio, because I’m the DJ.
2. Absolutely no radio station music because I don’t want to hear the mediocre garbage that’s played on constant rotation. (Plus, the radio station reception in the classroom is so bad that the kids don’t want to hear it either.)
Still, it’s a constant fight when it comes to the boom box, especially with Rashid. The CD player is my magic box. Some mornings, after anointing the desks with frankincense oil, I put on James Brown as they’re walking into class. This morning I’m snapping my fingers, doing a little two-step soul-bop as I write the morning assignment on the board, rocking Al Green. “Good morning,” I cheerfully chirp to the students entering class. Instead of being greeted by grumbles and grunts, I get a barrage of:
“Aww, come on with that music, Ms. P, really?”
“Damn, you killing me with that early this morning.”
“That’s the kind of music my grandmother be playing.”
“Yo, Ms. P, put Lil Wayne on!”
“Naw, I’m tired of hearing Weezy, son. I wanna hear that new Hova; play that, Ms. P!”
One kid notices the aroma-scented therapy that I’ve anointed the class with.
“Mmmm, it smells like Habibi’s incense shop, Ms. P.”
This prompts another rug rat to belt out, “Allahu Akbar, niggaaaah, what?”
“It do smell good though.”
“You gonna play Lil Wayne, Ms. P?”
One passerby stops in his tracks. “Yo, that lady’s room sound like my aunt’s house. She be listening to that old-school soul. I wish that was my class, son, word.” The escorting CO pushes him along to his appropriate class down the hall.
Unbeknownst to me, Rashid, quick as a roach, has made his way over to my desk and pushes stop on the boom box, making me snap, “Boy, I know you done lost your mind… don’t touch my radio!” The nerve of this rascal. “You know I don’t play that. I’m the DJ. And I was just about to put some Lil Wayne on, but now you done messed up.” This elicits a cacophony of whining from the entire class.
“Yo, my nigga, get away from the radio, please. You making it hot!” yells Tyquan.
“Aw, come on, Ms. P, don’t punish all of us because of that nigga,” cries Malik.
“Watch that word,” I quip.
Malik adjusts. “My bad, but for real, Ms. P, don’t make us suffer ’cause of him.”
The class is whipping him. Rashid holds his hands up in surrender. “My bad, Ms. P. I shouldn’t have touched your radio, it’s just that music was killing me.”
I’m more incensed that the knuckleheads couldn’t appreciate Al Green than I am at Rashid touching my radio. “Y’all need to hear good music in your ears from time to time, be reminded of your soul music roots.”
“Damn, you sound like my grandmoms, Ms. P, real talk,” Marquis says with a cool Harlem drawl.
Raheim agrees. “Word, son. I ain’t gonna front, tho—I do like some of that shit. But can we be reminded another day, Ms. P? I’m just saying, some Weezy would chill us out and I know you’d like that.”
I know Raheim is working me, but hearing him say he likes old-school soul music warms my heart. I throw him a sunny smile and approving nod.
Peanut is out of his seat, dancing and singing some made
-up a cappella lyrics, snapping his fingers to music that’s in his head. “Let’s, let’s stay together. Ooooh, baby, Ms. P, please play that Weezy, ’cause I’m still in love with you, oooh oooh.”
The class cracks up and Peanut’s original number wins me over. I fake-roll my eyes, pull out Jay-Z and Lil Wayne, and take requests, writing the songs down, creating a mini-playlist. I begin with two albums I want to hear first. Ghostface Killah’s Fishscale then Jay-Z’s The Blueprint2. Why? ’Cause I’m the DJ and get served first. The kids get a kick out of seeing me shoulder-shake and head-nod to Jay-Z.
“Ms. P, you crazy!”
“Yeah, she prob’ly be in the club getting light.* Lemme find out Ms. P get light,” Peanut says, prompting him to do the Harlem shake and get light. The kids know Peanut can dance his ass off and urge him to get light. As soon as they start doing the universal get-light handclap (one-two/one-two-three, one-two/one-two-three), Peanut is off and shaking. The class chants, “Yo, yo, go Peanut, go Peanut!” The audience is just as important as the dancer. It’s a rhythmic handclap call-and-dance response. A hood ritual. An ancient conversation. Stolen people’s history lost but not all forgotten. Cellular memory.
It’s getting loud, so I end the hip-hop praise-dance ceremony. “All right, all right, Peanut, sit your butt down. It’s getting too loud and y’all making it hot. I don’t want no COs coming in here ’cause then I’mma have to dead the radio altogether.”
“Word, we don’t want that, so chill. Chill, Peanut,” Mekhai says as he shushes the class.
I turn the volume down just a tad and start writing categories on the board.
“Word, we playing Jeopardy, Ms. P?” Malik asks. He loves playing Jeopardy. Vocabulary and Black history subjects are his favorite.
“Yup, so get your folders out and start reviewing your worksheets.” I write: Vocabulary, Black History, Social Studies, Grammar, and Science. I draw columns with ten questions per category. The guys have as much excitement with Jeopardy as I do. And it’s a fun way to review material. They get so competitive, huddling and whispering among themselves before declaring their team’s final answer. And the exhilaration when one team is able to make a steal by answering correctly what the other team got wrong is priceless.
We’re midway through the game and suddenly I hear loud cheering from another classroom down the hall. There’s a lot of thumping, desks scraping across the floor, commotion, and a “whoah!” Then, like a sudden flash of lightning that dances with thunder, the town crier sprints down the hallway yelling, “Niggas is turning it up, son! Niggaz is fighting a CO!”
My entire class jumps out of their seats and runs to the door, spilling out into the hall, only to be greeted by Officer Collins, who barks in a tone I’ve never heard her use before.
She’s in the bowels of her belly with a ferocious mama bear growl, yelling, “Get in the room now!” as she runs down the hall toward the pandemonium. The kids scoot back in my classroom momentarily and, as soon as Officer Collins is out of range, they try to run back out into the hall, but I’m faster. I quickly close the door and stand in front of it.
It was pure reflex. My heart is a drum, pounding furiously with anxiety and adrenaline.
The fight has spilled out into the hallway and makes its way directly in front of my door. Thank God the door is closed and thank God I’m standing in front of it. As I peer out of the door’s small seven-by-seven-square-inch window, I see Officer King being jumped by two kids! Oh my God! They’re hurting my friend! My heart leaps in my throat and snatches my breath. The drum pounds louder, shaking my rib cage. I tremble.
Shahteik runs toward me and I am face-to-face with a testosterone-pumped adolescent ready to move me out of the way with brute force. His eyes glow like the mouth of a volcano ready to erupt and his nostrils expand, transforming him into an angry bull. He’s ready to attack. As he charges toward me, Mekhai the Muppet grabs Shahteik’s arm with warp speed and says, “Yo, son, don’t touch the teacher… don’t put your hands on her, man. Don’t push her.”
Shahteik pauses briefly, glaring at me with hot steam coming out of every orifice on his face, fuming like the old children’s Claymation character Heat Miser. He gives it a split-second thought before running over to the bigger window that peers out into the hallway. He aggressively pushes the dojas, PODs, and other underlings out of his way to secure a front-row spot. My students are all piled on top of each other in a huge football-tackle mound of bodies, their sweaty faces mushed against the window, watching the gladiator brawl take place directly in front of us. Lord, let the glass hold up.
I peek through the much smaller square window in the door. Officer King is swinging wildly with atomic force. The two kids are power windmills punching with unhinged rage. All of a sudden, King loses his footing and slips, landing on his back! His assailants swoop down on him. The two younger lions go in for the death bite. It’s vicious, violent, and painful to see, but I watch. I am transfixed with shock, horror, and fear. My kids are spectators in a coliseum, screaming and cheering in a wild frenzy. I can smell their adrenaline. It’s metallic. One Simba has flipped on top of King and is pummeling my friend with iron paws. My breathing is staccato. I’m unconsciously holding my breath until my lungs are forced to gasp for air. I cover my mouth to muffle a shriek—it’s a kid I recognize and know.
Simba #1 is Jason. He is towering at six foot four, long, muscular, and lanky; the kids call him Slim. He stopped by my class on several occasions to talk with Marquis and Raheim, who are his buddies from Harlem. Slim’s cool with the Bosses as well and, though he briefly politicks with them, it’s Raheim who he really comes to see. Slim has always been respectful to me. Once he asked if he could sit in my class and work because his class was too noisy and said it was an unproductive environment for him to concentrate. I gave him a one-time-only free-trial pass and the kid actually sat down and did some work.
By now, Ms. Collins and another female CO are screaming and pepper-spraying Slim and Simba #2. An army of turtles* has arrived, running into battle swinging batons and knocking anyone without a blue uniform down like bowling pins. The hallway is a sea of turtles, rug rats, and blood. It’s scary, it’s real, and it’s right outside my room. They rescue Officer King after what seemed like an eternity but lasted no more than five minutes. Both Simbas are in handcuffs being hauled off. The spectators who were stupid enough to run out into the hallway to watch the melee are now on their knees facing the gray brick wall with their hands clasped behind their heads.
I see Captain Blackwell and some other white-shirt officials with shiny gold badges and stars, probably the warden, in the hallway. This is a huge deal. The kids see them too and scramble back into their seats, clumsily bumping into each other like circus clowns. I begin passing out English workbooks.
“Ms. P, are you serious. I know you don’t expect us to do work?” Tyquan shoots me a perplexed look.
“No, but I want y’all looking busy.”
“Word, word, pass me a book, son!”
Just then, Captain Blackwell swings my door open with such force that it slams against the wall, causing the metal frame to ring. She is piping mad and on the warpath. “Ms. Peterson, which kids were out in the hallway?”
“None at all, Captain Blackwell,” I earnestly reply.
She looks me squarely in the eye, searching my face for any hint of a lie. “Are you sure?” she demands.
I am emphatic. “I closed the door and stood directly in front of it the entire time, Captain. I didn’t want them mixed up in it at all.” It’s the truth and I am able to say it with confidence and pride. My boys are clean.
Captain Blackwell glares at the class. “Thank you,” she says, sharp and curt, slamming the door behind her, making the window shake.
Mekhai looks up. “Good looking out, Ms. P. You had our back. I respects that.”
“Well, I told the truth.”
Shahteik nods his head in agreement, knowing I saved him from a legal bullet. The
kids are wired, frantically recounting the fight in a hushed volume among each other, speaking in rapid, colliding sentences. Tyrone quietly walks over to me and hands me his black military-style G-Shock watch. It’s fancy without being flashy. I’m sure he paid some coins for it. “Ms. P, can you hold my watch, keep it in your locker for me? I already know the COs are gonna turn it up later on tonight in the house. They gonna search all of us and it’s gonna be bad, I know it.”
I’m sure I could get into trouble for doing it, but I discreetly take his watch and put it in my locker. I look at him with fierce purpose and laser-beam intensity meant to pierce through any irrational thoughts he might have, and I speak to his higher self. “Ty, you have ten days left until you go home… ten! No matter what they say or what they do, keep your cool and keep the number, ten days, in the front of your mind, do you hear me?” I sound like a concerned mother warning her hardheaded son before he slips off into the night toward random danger that lingers in every hood on any corner under broken streetlights. All a mother can do is pray with anointed words to cover her sons with a sacred veil. “No matter how hot the COs make it, you fall back and go home when you’re supposed to, in ten days. Everybody already knows how you rock, so you have nothing to prove. Be strategic and wise. Swallow your ego. You’re too close to the finish line, Tyrone. Stay in the light, baby. God bless you.”
The pending wrath back in the housing areas tonight is imminent.
Tyrone nods his head affirmatively. “I will, Ms. P. I wanna get the fuck out of here. Ten days can’t come fast enough. That boy who jumped King only had three months left. Now he’s gonna prob’ly get an additional five years for assaulting an officer. Shit is fucking crazy.” Tyrone shakes his head in disbelief.
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