All Day

by Liza Jessie Peterson

  The constant flow of new kids in this setting is par for the course, but knowing it doesn’t make it any easier, especially since I had developed a relationship and rhythm with the rug rat Bosses. We were a team. The frequent turnover of students greatly changes the dynamics in the class, especially if the core group of original kids significantly dwindles. It feels like starting from scratch to rebuild a rapport and reestablish rules. I know it’s jail and they’re inmates; and according to this criminal injustice system, technically they’re criminals, all guilty until proven innocent. I’m not supposed to get attached or overidentify with my students, but I did. I cared. They seeped into my skin and became my lil’ roughneck brothers, my badass cousins, my hardheaded nephews, and my beautiful wayward sons.

  Luckily, I still have enough students who were with me from day one to help maintain the standards and rules of my class and can let the new jacks know “Ms. P is a little throwed off and will make it hot.” I can count on the veteran rug rats to school the newbies about thug mama and the legend of Poof. I pull out the CD player and plop it on my desk.

  Marquis yells out, “Word, Ms. P, you letting us rock the radio today? You must be in a good mood.”

  “Word,” Raheim says, “’cause Ms. P be stingy with the radio. Them other teachers let they class listen to it all the time for incentive, but not Ms. P.” Raheim emphasizes the word incentive, then sucks his teeth, trynna signify. I just roll my eyes at him.

  “Marquis, I am in a good mood, so don’t ruin it. I wanna play something for y’all.” The entire class groans in unison with the collective assumption that I am surely gonna play some old-school tunes, something they don’t wanna hear.

  “Come on, Ms. P, don’t do that to us. I thought you was in a good mood,” Shahteik pleads.

  “I am in a good mood,” I reply just as bubbly as a kid at Chuck E. Cheese. I fish through my CD mini-collection and pull out Isaac Hayes.

  “Then don’t you want us to be in a good mood too? Why you just thinking about yourself? I know you gonna play some shit don’t nobody in here wanna hear. You be liking corny, played-out, whack music, Ms. P. No disrespect, but you being selfish, yo,” Shahteik whines with the rest of the class. They can be such babies over the littlest things. I promise to play just one of my songs, then I’ll play Ghostface, Jay-Z, and Nas, but no Lil Wayne ’cause I don’t want to hear no damn Weezy today. I’m feeling encouraged and Ghost, Jay-Z, and Nas get me pumped. I really want to play some Mos Def and Dead Prez, but most of the guys don’t like either one too much because their senses are so dull and dumbed down, they’re ill-equipped to appreciate intellectual revolutionary lyricists. I don’t want to struggle, so Ghostface, Jay, and Nas it will be. But first, some Isaac Hayes.

  “I want y’all to hear what I think is one of the baddest intros to a song of all times. It’s only sixty seconds, literally.” I challenge them. “The song I am about to play was used in a famous gangster movie and whoever can name the movie it’s from gets to request one, and I mean one, Weezy song.” Everything is always about making a deal with these brats.

  “All right, play the song, Ms. P, ’cause I know my old-school shit and movie trivia is my forte,” quips Raheim, with emphasis on forte to impress me.

  “Nice word, Raheim.”

  “Yo, Harlem, if you get it right I wanna hear that Weezy joint”—Shahteik snaps his fingers several times, trying to remember the name of the Lil Wayne song he wants to hear—“‘Hustler Musik.’ That shit is fiyah!”

  “Ms. P! Play ‘Fireman’!” demands Rashid.

  “Nigga, they play that shit all day on the radio. Why you wanna hear some shit we can hear anytime? That don’t make no fucking sense, Harlem…” Shahteik says before turning his attention back to Raheim, who has the ball in his court. “You already know that ‘Hustler Musik’ is what it is.”

  The pressure is on Raheim, who is now in a quandary. “Yeah, but I like that slow joint, number fifteen. I can’t remember the name of it but it’s that love song.”

  Shahteik flags him in disgust. “Harlem, you a soft-ass nigga!”

  “Watch that word.”

  I am not prepared for the intensity that choosing one Weezy song ignites. I have to remind them, “You know what? I won’t play diddly-piddly if you all don’t relax. It’s just a song, the CD isn’t going anywhere, and Raheim might not even get the answer right.”

  “Ms. P, you straight-type weird. Diddly-piddly? Really? Who talks like that, son?” Shahteik says, giving me the screw face.

  Rashid jumps in. “Word, Ms. P, you throwed off.”

  I put the Isaac Hayes CD in and cue “Walk on By,” and then ask, “You ready, Raheim? Tell me either the artist or the movie it’s from.”

  I absolutely love this song. I remember listening to this over and over again in my headphones for inspiration on my way to an audition a few years back. The film was American Gangster, starring Denzel Washington. It was a seventies period piece and my character was a gangster chick who ran the drug spot for Frank Lucas, the notorious kingpin. I got a callback for the role but didn’t book the job. It was close, but not a score. Every time I listen to this song, I feel like a G. The intro is so dramatic, with an incredible string section that builds up to a massive crescendo before the beat drops. I wave my hand like a conductor in an orchestra and when the bass finally plummets and says “hello,” I let out a “Whoo! What y’all know about that! Now that’s music!”

  I hit rewind and replay the intro. “I gotta hear that one more time—just the intro, not the whole song, before y’all start crying.”

  Peanut closes his eyes and starts swaying to the music. “That is kinda funky, Ms. P.”

  Raheim is nodding his head while shaking his finger, trying to remember the movie. “Wait, wait, umm, shit… Dead Presidents! Right, Ms. P?”

  I give Raheim a thumbs-up and a big smile. “Yup, now who is the artist?”

  “Yo, Ms. P? You said I could name the artist or the movie, not both. That’s messed up. You straight pulling a swindle,” Raheim cries.

  “Word! That’s not what you said, Ms. P! You playing games! I knew you couldn’t be trusted!” Shahteik shouts. He really wants to hear his Weezy.

  “Boy, will you relax. I’mma play your Lil’ Weezy peezy,” I snap back at Shahteik, and then turn to Raheim. “I just figured you might also know the artist since you obviously have a good ear for music. Just take a guess; I’mma play your one Weezy song either way.”

  “Umm, Al Green?” Raheim replies, shrugging his shoulders. He knows he’s wrong.

  I suck my teeth, which prompts him to try again. “No wait, Teddy Pendergrass?”

  I grab my heart in dismay and look up toward the sky. “Lord, please, please, I can’t.”

  Peanut blurts out, “The O’Jays!”

  “Just stop! Y’all are hurting my Soul Train feelings! I see I’mma have to do a whole lesson on old-school soul music because this is a tragedy. Y’all don’t know Isaac Hayes? The great Isaac Hayes! Lord Jesus, help these babies and grant me grace!”

  My response tickles Marquis. “Ms. P, you crazy. You sound like an old church lady.”

  It’s important my boys hear the old-school great legends of soul and connect the dots with rap music. We have an extraordinary, rich legacy of music and they need to be aware of the evolution of Black rhythms and the artists who have shaped our iconic, soulful sound, generation after generation. The boys need constant cultural enrichment and I try my damn best to make sure they get it. Not all lessons require a formal lesson plan. Or a stupid-ass rubric.

  I play two Lil Wayne tracks for the crybaby rug rats, then satiate myself with Ghostface’s Fishscale, Nas’s Illmatic, and Jay-Z’s The Black Album, which they don’t mind one bit. Ghost, Nas, and Hova have us all head nodding. It’s a win-win.

  I work in C-74, the building where most of the kids are still going back and forth to court and haven’t been sentenced, which makes them a particularly transient group. Some boys stay f
or a long time, languishing in Rikers because they’re waiting to go to trial, which can take months, even years. A lot of kids don’t have money for bail and keep going back and forth to court, getting their court dates adjourned for months with their fate in limbo, just waiting to receive an actual sentence. And some are just waiting for their court-appointed attorney to work out a deal with the DA, like getting time served, or probation, or an alternative-to-incarceration program, or some combination of the three. Some kids age out at nineteen and get transferred to the greens. Some eventually go home, and some go upstate to prison. I was fortunate to have a pretty consistent core group of students for as long as I did.

  Charles, one of my quiet, studious rug rats, has been with me since the beginning. He knows he’s headed upstate and has been sitting in Rikers in my class for months waiting to be sentenced. When you are poor and have a court-appointed attorney, nothing is speedy. If you can’t post bail, you sit in jail and wait for a date on the calendar for your case to be called and then you pray your attorney shows up and pray he or she is prepared and pray some more that it doesn’t get adjourned for another month… or two

  Charles is poor and waiting. His attorney sucks and his case has been getting adjourned for months on end. He finally gets sentenced and could pack up any day now. He took the plea and is looking at a minimum of five years in an adult prison. Yet, in spite of his fate, he manages to stay focused and academically productive. He hasn’t given up on himself or his future. I enjoy having him in my class. When all the other Barnum and Bailey circus clowns are cutting up, Charles gives me his undivided attention and does my work. So when he asks me if he can take a GED workbook back to his housing area to work independently at night and on the weekends, I don’t hesitate to break the rule and loan out the book. Usually I don’t let books out of my classroom; we’re not supposed to, especially instructional workbooks, because we only get a limited number and supplies are already scarce. But this kid is hungry, always working, always asking questions, is eager to learn, and is a sponge for Black history. I make it a point to feed him extra work and push him because I see something special. I see a yearning.

  There is a bright light of potential in him. So, yeah, I give him the workbook, trusting that he will bring it back, and if he doesn’t, I know he’s going to put it to good use. This kid is determined to educate himself out of poverty and I want to help. He deserves a chance. He needs a break. I give Charles three essay prompts and tell him to choose one to practice writing a five-paragraph essay, which is one of the requirements for the GED.

  “I got you, Ms. P, thanks. I’mma work on it tonight and bring it in tomorrow for you to correct,” Charles says, with a half-sad, half-smiling face. Charles always looks sad. He used to be gang-affiliated, homeless and sleeping on trains and in parks. His mother lives in a shelter and he felt safer out on the streets than in the seedy temporary housing. Heartbroken and disappointed in his choice to run the streets with gangs, his mother tried in vain to hold him close, knowing that her love wasn’t enough. He needed what she couldn’t offer—safety, manhood, and money. Charles, like many fatherless boys, searched for his manhood on street corners and in alleyways. The gang provided a stream of income and an identity, a family, a sense of belonging and masculinity, albeit unsafe, warped, and false. And although he loves his mother, she couldn’t guide him through his rite of passage to manhood, so the streets filled the paternal gap.

  Charles’s teenage sweetheart became a lifesaving distraction from the gang. He fell in love and became so disenchanted by his gang affiliation that he dropped his flag* and told me he was prepared to suffer whatever consequences may come from leaving the gang. He didn’t care about the repercussions because he was tired of being, as he put it, “deaf, dumb, and blind, following the ways of the devil.” He shared a lot with me. “God sent me to jail to save my life, Ms. P, but I couldn’t see it at the time. When I first came to Rikers, I was ready to hang it up and give up on life. Then something told me to go to school and I was assigned your class. Soon as I saw all the pictures on the wall and you was teaching us about who we are as a people, I knew you was like an angel. God keeps saving me.”

  I am rooting for this kid big-time. Several days have gone by and I haven’t seen Charles in class, which in this setting isn’t abnormal, but I’m still disappointed. There’s nothing like teaching a kid who wants to learn and is hungry for information.

  A rotund, baby-faced boy walks in, bounces over to my desk, and chirps, “You Ms. P?”

  “Yes, how can I help you?” I reply, bracing myself for a scam.

  “My boy Charles told me to give you this. He got transferred to the adults this morning. He’s nineteen now.”

  Charles told me that he might be going to the greens, but he said it probably wouldn’t be for another week or two. I didn’t expect it to be so abrupt, which is silly of me because everything in this place is tenuous, sudden, and unpredictable.

  I unfold the loose-leaf paper. The child has done his homework. Charles selected one of the three essay prompts and wrote an essay like he promised. My heart swells. I beam at his friend. “Your boy Charles is gonna make it,” I say. “He’s very focused and smart. They say birds of a feather flock together. Are you getting your GED, brother?”

  The rotund baby-faced kid stands up taller. “I’m in the GED class now. I passed the predictor and I can take the test next time they give it, in like a month.”

  “Excellent, brother, excellent! I love hearing that. Stay focused. Your education is your ticket up and out.” I tell baby-face to come by before the end of the day and pick up the corrected essay to mail it to Charles in the adult building. Though I can barely get a minute to myself and am swamped with grading work, I will make time to give Charles’s essay priority today. Briefly I glance at the essay to see what topic he chose.

  Question: Schools miseducate Black and Latino youth. Do you agree or disagree? Explain.

  In the government school system there’s a format that is set to educate youth. In the essay before you I will give my opinion with reasons why I feel that schools mis-educate Black and Latino youth.

  In the school system there are formats for the teachers to teach. All students have to take tests, such as the regents, in order to make it to the next grade. To finish school you have to pass all of the regents. There are classes that are for students with behavior problems or have low academic skills. This is called special education, which the majority are Blacks and Latinos.

  The school system is set up to teach youth European History, which means to me, His-story in Europe. Why do we have to take tests that make us think that people like George Washington and Christopher Columbus are important men and men of honor? We study these men by the facts that the government show, but there are two sides to every story and we never get the other side.

  The Blacks and Latino’s history is only a small part of the test and are taught in short lessons in class by some teachers. There are more things that Blacks and Latinos should know about when it comes to our struggle. Our ancestors paved the way for us to have freedom today. This battle has been going on for centuries. We must learn, study and not forget our history. It builds our self-confidence, self-discipline and allows our self-esteem to grow, feeling better about ourselves and our culture.

  This current education system really mis-educates us. Once we are open with a better and clear vision, we can take back the empire that’s truly ours.

  This isn’t quite a standard five-paragraph essay required for the GED test (which I duly noted and explained at length to him), and he clearly needs to work on sentence structure and fleshing out his argument more coherently. However, I find his critical thinking and revolutionary spirit to be promising. I saddled him with a page of notes and a thick Black history packet of handouts for him to read and work on independently, including a Ms. P–recommended book list.

  The beauty of adolescents is that, in spite of their annoying narcissism and reckless de
cision making, they are still growing and maturing. The prefrontal cortex in their brain is still developing and is a work in progress. There’s hope. Normal teenage years are about testing the boundaries of authority and doing dumb shit. Many of these kids are brilliant dummies; smart, gifted kids who did something really dumb. But once on the Rock, many of them finally see their experience of being incarcerated as a wake-up call, a moment to slow down, pump their brakes, reflect on their decisions, and reevaluate their choices and so-called friends. Great awakenings happen in the quiet of the night in their cells. It gets real.

  But not all of them get it. There are those who are so entrenched in a cycle of abuse, who know nothing but a negative self-image, who have been abandoned, in and out of foster care, whose spirits are so broken that being institutionalized is an accepted, normal existence. I pray for them all because I know anything can happen at any moment of their development. The lightbulb can finally go on for the ones you least expect it to.

  I believe that most of the kids won’t come back. While they are with me, I try to plant seeds of hope, encouragement, and knowledge of self into their fertile minds. I’m an optimist, a dreamer. I’m able to see more for them than they see for themselves. I remind them of their potential and keep the standard high. I keep it real and I get results. I get them and eventually they get me. They see I genuinely care. Like the kids say, “Real recognize real.”