Miseducated

by Brandon P. Fleming

  I walked around the gallery, eavesdropping on conversations, studying their soft skills, analyzing their body language. I was just another greeter, for all they knew. I was clearly the youngest adult in the room, and probably the least likely to be suspected as the director. None of them had even heard my name. All they knew was that there was a new program in Atlanta that could send Black students to Harvard.

  An hour passed and the group was herded for entry into a large assembly room with rows of theater-style seating where their families had been waiting.

  “What happens from here?” one parent asked another. They knew nothing; they sat in their seats exchanging speculations, and the decibel level rose to commotion. Everyone stopped talking when the doors opened and the candidates filed into the room. One by one, the students filled the empty chairs arranged in a crescent at the foot of the stage. Watching from the rows behind, parents stretched their necks to search their children’s faces for signs of hope. They silently implored, “Please, dear God, let my child get in,” the parents would tell me later.

  The suspense was electric. My friends who had volunteered to staff the event took seats after directing the students to theirs. And although they knew what was to come, the volunteers could also feel the tension and balanced on the edge of their seats. But students and parents were still looking around for the unidentified program director.

  From the back-door window, I could see when everyone was seated. I entered and every head turned as I marched down the aisle in a black suit and red bow tie, toting my leather briefcase. “Is that him?” I heard a parent whisper as I passed through the rows. I later learned that I was not what the parents expected. “He’s awfully young,” some said. Harvard’s assistant debate coach is Black? others thought. Some were even startled as they noticed my millennial-looking Mohawk fade. Instead of mounting the stage, I grabbed the microphone and jumped on one of the audience chairs.

  “My name is Mr. Fleming,” I said. “If you are accepted into this program, I will be your teacher.” I paused for a moment and, my face impassive, surveyed the room. And then I dropped the bomb: “You might not have realized it, but you have just completed the first part of your interview.”

  I could have collected their jaws with a dustpan. It seemed to dawn on them that this was not a traditional selection process. Those who had hung back during the meet-and-greet in the gallery, unaware that their ability to work a room was being evaluated, were now filled with remorse. Their faces fell. Then the situation got worse.

  “The second part of your interview,” I said, “begins now.” I hopped down and took a seat. A slide appeared on the large screen at the front of the room, explaining that they had fifteen minutes to openly discuss and resolve an ethical dilemma. A prompt followed, a timer appeared on the screen, and the clock started running. Some students instantly jumped to their feet to begin conferring with their peers. Some students talked. Some students listened. Some students sat there paralyzed by fear.

  After fifteen minutes, an alarm signaled that time was up. I remained motionless. The students averted their eyes and I stared at them as if I had just witnessed the world’s greatest failure of human intelligence. After a few moments of silence, I stood and paced in front of them while staring deep into their eyes.

  “What the hell was that?” I said. I maintained eye contact with each of them, one by one, even when they were afraid to look back. No one answered my question.

  “I’m sorry,” I scoffed. “Perhaps that sounded rhetorical.”

  After a few moments of silence and an intense stare-down between me and the candidates, a boy named Jordan stood to break the silence, stumbling over his words.

  “Well, we tried to—”

  “Take a seat,” I interrupted. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to those who had the unmitigated nerve to apply to a Harvard debate program but you’re too scared to open up your mouth at an interview.”

  I raised my eyes to check on the parents. Some faces were contorted with panic, wishing they could throw their child a lifeline or snatch them out of the fire. Some looked shocked, even angry, to hear a teacher talk to their children this way.

  “Okay,” I said. “I see no one wants to answer. I tell you what, I’m going to give you one last chance. You have one final exercise to prove that you’re not wasting my time, because I have another group of willing applicants coming in right after you.”

  One student had already shed a nervous tear. She discreetly dabbed her eyes, then squared her shoulders and listened for all she was worth.

  “Pay very close attention to my instructions,” I said. “There are bags underneath your chairs containing two items for the final challenge. When I say ‘Go,’ you will reach under your chair and pull the items out of the bag. There are different colored sweaters and a folder with instructions. You have ten seconds to throw on the sweater, race to the middle, find your group with the same color, and open the folder to begin the exercise.”

  “Are you ready?” I said. Everyone nodded.

  “Three…

  “Two…

  “One…

  “Go!” I yelled. They snatched the bags from under the seats, fumbling in haste. They tussled their arms through the sleeves, tugged the sweaters over their heads, and wrestled them into place. By the time their faces popped up, they were all on their feet and crowded in the middle of the floor. Their eyes whipped back and forth, looking desperately for others in their group. Then they froze in disbelief. The sweaters were all the same color.

  All the students now wore crimson pullovers with large white letters across the chest that spelled HARVARD. Parents leaped to their feet, gasps bursting from open mouths, falling on one another for support and obviously thinking, This can’t be so! The students were startled. Then they remembered that they had one more thing to do, so they reached for the folders, which all said HARVARD on the front.

  “Wait, what?” they exclaimed, looking at their peers for a reality check. Then they all focused on me, seeking confirmation that their wildest dreams were coming true. Shrieks filled the room and hands reached high in the air as confetti suddenly rained from above like the tears flowing down their beautiful brown faces. And I yelled, “Congratulations! You’re all going to Harvard!”

  The following Saturday was their first Harvard debate class. Almost six months had passed since Harvard approved the program, and I had not raised a single cent. One week earlier, I had promised twenty-five students that they were going to Harvard. The dramatic surprise acceptance event was being broadcast on the news and shared across social media.

  Meanwhile, a mentor I deeply admired knew the truth. When he saw the headlines, I thought he would be happy for me. But he did not hold back his criticism. He called me insane, a liar, and a fool. I would have been less pained if he had plunged a dagger into my gut and twisted it. “You promised those kids that they were going to Harvard but you have no money,” he said. “How will you feel when those poor kids’ hearts are broken for being lied to?” he asked. And I had no answer.

  “What makes you believe that you can raise hundreds of thousands of dollars in six months?” he asked. Still I had no answer. My head hung low as I thought, What in the world have I just done?

  I believe in loving first and teaching second. So when the students arrived to class on Saturday, we began with them, not with lessons about logic or politics. I wrapped my arms around each scholar as soon as they walked through the doorway. Mahlon’s curious eyes were partly obscured by dreadlocks and his bow tie was sloppily unfastened. He stretched out his arm to shake my hand, but I cuffed it aside and wrapped my arms around him. “Oh,” he grunted as I gave him a good squeeze.

  Each time we met, I hugged all of my scholars, especially the young men. I told them that they were valued, that they were missed during the week, that they were loved. This was particularly awkward for Mahlon and others who had never been embraced by a male mentor in this way. Mahlon attended one of the
worst-ranked high schools in the state, a forlorn place in a forgotten neighborhood on Atlanta’s west side. He had mastered the same real nigga look that once armored me: the inflated chest, the furrowed brow, the I don’t give a fuck demeanor. I was aware that Mahlon was the oldest of three, there was no man of the house, and he had been working multiple jobs to help keep the family afloat. When he’d first heard about the new pipeline-to-Harvard program, he was reluctant to apply because he’d need to cut back on working hours and his family needed the money. “Go ahead, baby,” his mother had said. “We’ll figure it out.” Because she knew that this opportunity could help unlock the door for him to finally escape the hood.

  On that first Saturday, when the students entered the classroom, they were surprised to see that orderly rows of tables had been replaced by chairs in an open arrangement. “This is what we will call circle time,” I said, beckoning them to sit down. “Before we begin learning as scholars, this is our opportunity to connect as brothers and sisters.”

  Over the months, magic happened in that circle. It’s where we danced, where we laughed, where we sometimes cried as we opened up our hearts. It’s where the kids learned to trust each other. It’s where they learned to trust me. And trust was an essential foundation for the tumultuous and unconventional process they would soon undergo. The Harvard summer debate residency would begin in just six months, and I was going to have to bend them so far that their parents sometimes feared they would break, I’d later learn.

  “What is the fundamental question of politics?” I asked while writing the question on the board during our first session. Hands shot up at the desks where the students were now seated.

  “We don’t raise hands here,” I said. “If you have something to say, stand up and say it with a sense of urgency.”

  Payton was the first to jump up and speak. “I think politics is—”

  “Take a seat,” I abruptly interjected. “I do not care what you think. We win debates by what we know.”

  Payton was fearless. She wore her hair slicked back in a ponytail like she was ready for a fight. Now I had punctured her brazen confidence like a balloon. She was used to being the smartest in the room, even smarter than many of her teachers. She was candid about the fact that no one had ever said words to her like “Think bigger,” “You can do better,” or “I expect more from you.” She was used to being patted on the head by teachers who praised her for being the articulate Black girl. She was used to being celebrated in a system that calls Black kids “gifted and talented” if they happen to stretch their hands higher than the disrespectfully low bar set for them. Falling short was a new and necessary experience for Payton. Understanding the pressures and struggles and challenges waiting to meet them in a pitiless world, I needed all of my scholars to run faster, reach higher, and learn how to fail forward. Her face froze in disbelief as she slowly sunk back into her seat.

  The rest of the class was suddenly afraid to speak, terrified of suffering the same fate. Finally, Osazi stood up and took a stab at it. He began, “I feel like the fundamental—”

  “Take a seat,” I snapped. “Next!”

  I scanned a roomful of worried faces, and when no one rose to the challenge, I turned back to Osazi and asked, “Did you not hear what I just said to Payton?” He looked up at me with watery eyes. “I don’t care about how you feel right now. We already talked about your feelings in circle time. I want you to make an argument.”

  I explained argumentation in academic terms. I looked back at Osazi and saw that his chin had sunk to his chest. I advanced toward his desk.

  “Look at me,” I said. His eyes met mine. “Don’t ever let your opponent see that you’re under pressure. Why didn’t you get back up?”

  He hesitated and then said, “Because you told me to sit down, sir.”

  “But did I tell you to stay down?” I retorted. He dropped his eyes again.

  “Look at me,” I repeated. “I don’t care who or what knocks you down. You get back up and try again. You understand me?” He said, “Yes, sir” as he lifted his head with a new sense of resolve.

  “And you,” I said, making my way to Maya sitting next to him. “You haven’t said a word all day. Why?”

  Maya glared back at me as if to say, Look, sir, I ain’t the one. Maya could turn on a dime from soft and pleasant to feisty and defensive, I’d find out. She was quick to clap back when she was attacked. And she was quick to defend others. That was why she’d given me a mean side-eye when I challenged Osazi. I saw her as a leader in the making. It would take a little work to get her to see the same.

  “I was just listening,” she said, her posture upright.

  “And can you win a debate by just listening?” I asked.

  “It’s part of it,” she responded.

  “Clever,” I said and chuckled. “But notice that I modified ‘listening’ with the word ‘just.’ So answer my question: Can you win a debate by just listening?”

  “No, sir,” she conceded.

  “Correct,” I said. “So don’t ever let another class go by without standing up to speak.”

  I returned to the front to address the entire class. “In this society, there are existing systems of injustice whose survival relies on your silence. So hear me clearly: silence is not an option here.” I reminded them that our task was much bigger than debate. They were preparing to go out into the world and step into spaces where they are not only seen, but they are heard. This was bigger than us. This was bigger than Harvard. This was about teaching them how to use their voices to start movements and disrupt systems and shift the balance of power.

  “Training for debate is like preparing for warfare,” I continued. “Your mind is your shield. Your words are your weapons.” I walked slowly down the middle aisle as their eyes followed me raptly.

  “But here,” I continued, clenching my hand into a fist, “we do not outfight. We outwit.”

  Before dismissing class for the day, I gave the scholars one more opportunity. “Would anyone else like to take a stab at the fundamental question of politics?” Jordan unfolded himself from the desk and straightened to his full six-foot height. He was a burly guy, a budding star at lacrosse until he was sidelined by injuries and surgeries. Just as I had done years earlier, he pivoted from athletics toward debate. He almost didn’t make the cut. Our program was limited to twenty-five participants. Of all applicants, he ranked twenty-sixth and was wait-listed. Just a few days before the dramatic acceptance ceremony, another student dropped out and Jordan got a last-minute invitation. And here he was, taking on the challenge when no one else would.

  “Well,” he said. “Before determining the fundamental question of politics, I think—excuse me—I know that we should first define politics conceptually.” He paused for a moment, awaiting my response. The tension was high as his peers waited for whatever I would fire back at him. But he was correct.

  “Yes, Jordan!” I said. “We must always define before we conclude.”

  Shocked by my affirmation, the entire class erupted in applause as he slapped hands with the boys beside him. With a smile on my face, I turned toward the whiteboard and wrote a formula:

  In what ways? > What is?

  “Listen to me closely,” I said as the commotion settled. “When we define words, we don’t ask, ‘What does x mean?’ We ask, ‘In what ways can x be defined?’ Somebody tell me the difference.”

  Everyone’s energy had suddenly shifted, like Jordan’s small victory had sparked a fire in the room. Bodies were popping up everywhere.

  “By asking, ‘What does x mean?’ you are thinking one-dimensionally,” Maya said, “because you’re only looking for one answer.”

  “Yes, Maya!” I shouted and threw my hands up. She broke into a full-faced smile as the energy in the room continued to rise.

  Then Osazi jumped up. “Whereas asking, ‘In what ways?’ leads you to multiple answers and diverse perspectives.”

  “Yes, Osazi!” I cheered. “A
nd why is that important?”

  Mahlon rose to his feet. “Because when it comes to argumentation,” he said, with all eyes fixed on him, “debate is all about weighing definitions and impact.”

  “Yes, Mahlon!” I chanted.

  I abandoned the whiteboard and stepped closer to the scholars with my hands outstretched. I dramatically lowered my voice to crystallize the lesson. “Here’s what I need you to understand,” I said as the scholars quieted and everyone leaned in. “Debate is all about two people approaching the same idea. But who can think the deepest? That is the one who wins.” I could not hold back my smile as I saw the childlike wonder glistening in their eyes.

  “This,” I said, “is how you will become champions this summer.”

  The countdown was real: I had exactly six months to transform a group of inexperienced teens into superior debaters. And I had six months to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars. Starting in the early morning, I worked full-time as a teacher at the Ron Clark Academy. Beginning in the afternoon and lasting into the night, I worked full-time as an executive director, writing grant proposals and begging banks and corporations and foundations to invest in our cause. Many never replied. The few who did respond said, I’m sorry, but we are not looking to fund a new venture without a track record of success.

  For months, I hid my travails from my Harvard boss because I didn’t want him to worry. But I reached a point of desperation. Eventually, I requested a meeting and asked if the college could cover my salary, enabling me to leave my teaching job at RCA and invest all my energy in the capital campaign for the Diversity Project. To my surprise, he agreed to take the risk. But like our last deal, this one came with conditions. Harvard would pay my salary for three months, then reassess the circumstances in May. If I was at least halfway to my fundraising goal for the fiscal year, they would keep me on the payroll.