Endings

I remember watching Dangerous Minds and Freedom Writers, believing that my teaching experience would somehow mirror those of Michelle Pfeiffer and Hilary Swank. The only difference was that I was not a white teacher going into the ghetto to save and enlighten high-risk children through the lyrics of TuPac; I was a black teacher going into the ghetto to save and enlighten high-risk children with the Oxford English Dictionary, DuBois and Malcolm X.

To this day, I don't know from where my naive, quixotic aspirations came. This is not to say that here, at the end of my second year of teaching, I have settled on pessimistic resignation. Rather, I have been forced to accept the slow, untidy, and unpredictable nature of progress, as well as the statistically high probability of losing more than I win.

Friday was one of the worst days I have yet experienced as a teacher. Besides the brief "lock down" of the school because someone at the liquor store 100 yards away was seen carrying a handgun, the decline of the day centered on a series of episodes with C.D., one of my favorite students.

C.D., is a tall, caramel-complexioned, amusingly clever and sharp-witted twelve-year old who confidently came out as a lesbian in the sixth grade. Because of the power of her charm, charisma and likability, the other children at school readily accepted her sexual orientation, a declaration that would have incited merciless ridicule and ostracism had it been made by any other child.

C.D. spent all of last year playfully letting me know that she thought I talked weird, mismatched when I dressed, and, with reading, writing, and yoga as my passions, possessed absolutely no life. She also let me know that she hated English, and therefore would not prioritize my class.

Nevertheless, I found that she spent all of her free time at nutrition and lunch (and after school when she could manage) lingering in my classroom, reiterating these points. After a while, she replaced her criticisms with details about her own life, her interests, and her opinions about random things, from the nutritional value of Doritos vs. Hot Cheetos, to a critical connection she made from a real life incident to a piece of literature we were reading. Being one of the most astute students I teach, I took every opportunity to provoke her thinking and challenge her to expect more of and for herself. My class being challenging, however, and knowing that an "A" was very difficult to attain, she lazily accepted a "C-" from me for the first trimester of her sixth grade year, informing me that it was her best.

As time passed, however, she slowly began to raise her grade. It moved up to a "B" by the end of the second trimester, and a "B+" by the end of the year. She continued to tell me all the while that she really didn't care, she just wanted the new sidekick her mother promised to buy her if she got at least a B in my class.

But English, by then, had moved up from the bottom of her class list to her second favorite, behind Math which came easily to her. "I don't really like your class though," she said to me with a smirk, "I just think you a-ight."

This year, I have her again for 7th grade English, and she received and "A" on her first two report cards, her work now setting the example of quality for the rest of the students I teach. When I lesson plan, I have to plan rigorously enough to challenge her. Over the past several months she has taken an eager interest in my family, especially after having met my 19-year old sister, Amanda, who volunteered at my school for a month on two separate occasions. She began a correspondence with Amanda, confiding in her as a mentor and seeking her for advice. Through that connection, I noticed her becoming more of a positive leader, and developing stronger virtues and convictions.

Wanting to see what it was like living in a big family after growing up as an only child, she even went so far as to draw up a travel plan to give to her parents, vowing to come visit Chicago for for a week over Christmas Break and become a true member of the "Bass Family." She continued to talk to Amanda on weekends and to me more than ever in school. I continued to invest as much as I could in her, giving her certain responsibilities that indicated my degree of trust and belief in her. She became the reason why I "Teach For (African) America," and I believed that she was a child I could truly reach.

A few weeks ago, however, I began to notice slight changes in her. She became cockier among her peers, circulating rumors about the number of girls (and boys) she was getting with. She also began to test boundaries with me, particularly in the tone of voice she used and the sorts of things she would ask me, which included what men I was seeing, my phone number, my AIM, and my age. She gradually became saucier in her address, attempting to play it off, however, as harmless "clowning." And, when I would issue a directive to her, she would do her best to ignore my instructions as long as possible or attempt to banter with me verbally, as though I was playing with her. On several different occasions I had serious talks with her about lines, and she would always seem to listen for a while before reverting back to what was becoming unacceptable behavior.

These incidents (which would come and go much to my increasing aggravation), came to a head on Friday. C.D. started off the morning trying to avoid coming to class by ducking into another teacher's classroom. When she finally shuffled her way down to my room, she bumped into the wall and exclaimed, "SHIT!" Realizing that I had heard her, she caught herself and mumbled with a grin, "I mean, BULLspit."

I shook my head. "I don't want you using any words bearing even the slightest phonetic resemblance to expletives," I ordered. "Watch your mouth."

She brushed it off. Not long afterwards, during work time, I told my class that they were free to either read or work on their Malcolm X essays. "One thing I do not want," I declared, "Is ANYONE trying on the clothing or shoes of other students." Free-dress Fridays were always challenging for a uniform school. Because kids became so conscious of what they were wearing, school was the last thing they were thinking about. It was not uncommon to see kids wearing one shoe owned by one friend and one shoe owned by another, as kids occupied themselves with their peers' "gear."

Five minutes later, I see C.D. trying on the huge white and gold gladiator chucks of another student. I confiscated the shoes and threw them behind my desk. M.A., The owner of the shoes, gasped at my action and began to throw an emotion fit in the middle of the classroom. "Oh uh-uh," I said, "This is seventh grade, not pre-K. Get out of my room." As M.A. walked out with the Dean, C.D. began to issue a series of sighs, "wows" and "oh my gods" from the corner of the room for the whole class to hear. I turned to her when M.A. left, at which point she exclaimed that she had been had the shoes on already before I made the announcement to the class. "That's retarded," she said, rolling her eyes.

If it had been any other student, I would have instantly (and angrily) silenced him or her, informing the child that my action was up for neither debate nor discussion. Because it was C.D., however, I took the time to explain the reason behind my action to her, firmly informing her that she knew better and that her actions were immature and completely disrespectful to the expectations of my classroom. And she was fully aware of this.

C.D., shrugged it off. However miffed I was at her attitude, I ignored it and chose to let it go.

Things seemed fine from that point on; C.D. worked productively and soon assumed her jovial "hey Miss Bass, Miss Bass," disposition for the remainder of class.

It wasn't until the end of the day, however, that she took a flaming torch and recklessly burned the bridges between her and me.

She asked me at the beginning of the "Study Hall for Students Who Forget Their P.E. Uniforms" if she could be excused to borrow a history book from my class. I allowed her to go, as she was always a student I never had to worry about getting into mischief. She would always get what she needed and come back, so I gave her the freedom to take care of her business.

Twenty minutes later, however, she has not returned. When I ask another teacher about her, she appears from around the corner, giggling, saying that she was downstairs because one of her friends had something to show her.

"You know what," I said evenly, "you're done. From now on, you are not leaving my class because the trust that I in you to be responsible has evaporated."

She sat down in a huff, muttering under her breath that the situation was retarded. A few moments later a loud, "SHIT!" came out of her mouth again, at which she began to laugh. "I mean...SPIT!"

I called her to my desk. "On Monday," I said, "You owe me twenty-five replacement words for the profane one you decided to use."

C.D. laughed. "That's retarded," she said obnoxiously. "There's nothing wrong with the word in my head. That's just messed up in your head. In everyone else's mind, it's fine. It's retarded, everyone knows it's retarded."

I felt the heat rise in my head, and I quickly slipped my hands under my thighs (as I was seated) fighting the natural reflex to leap up and back-slap the living daylights out of her for her impudence. I shortly told her her that it was due Monday, or her mother was getting involved.

"Pshhhhhh," She said, waving her hand casually in the air, "I ain't gonna do it because it ain't for a grade. So, don't bother askin' me Monday, cuz I ain't doing that retarded assignment."

"Oh, you will do it," I said steadily.

She laughed. "What are you gonna do? Make me?"

She walked back to her desk and began giggling in the corner with another student, the rest of the class absolutely quiet. I sat in my desk, contemplating how to appropriately handle the situation without laying a finger on her or saying something I would regret.

A few minutes passed, and then she raised her hand. "I need to go to the bathroom," she said.

"No," I said. "You have the tendency to wander."

Ten minutes later, she raised her hand again. "When is this class over? I need to go to the bathroom to wash my hands."

I ignored her statement. She kept her hand raised for the remainder of the class. At the end of the period, as I was about to dismiss my kids, she stood up and walked out, muttering, "I ain't waiting here."

I dismissed the whole class and then waited for her to come back for her backpack. I counted backward slowly from ten, absolutely livid but trying my best to avoid an emotional reaction.

She sauntered back into the classroom. I walked toward her and told her to sit down. "Oh my god," she said, rolling her eyes and sighing with a grin on her face.

I sat on a desk facing her. "Who in the hell do you think you are," I said tightly. "You have clearly lost your mind. I cannot even begin to articulate how pissed off I am, nor how disappointed I am in what this has become."

"Oh wow, you are 'pissed off'," she said, turning her body halfway away from me and making invisible quotation marks in the air to an invisible audience. "Whatever."

"From now on," I said, "I am your teacher and you are my student. Beyond that, there is nothing else. Do not come and talk to me, do not share your opinions with me, do not linger in my classroom during your free time. Unless you have questions regarding an assignment, I don't want to hear anything from you. I have come to realize that you are confused. You assume because you have sought to develop a relationship with me and because you talk to my sister that we are somehow 'kick it' buddies, and you can talk to me like I am a pre-adolescent. You have forgotten lines and boundaries, so I am going to remind you of what they are. As of right now, you and I - we are done. No more hanging out. Oh, and you will serve a detention next week for having the audacity to leave my room without permission-"

"I SAID I HAD TO GO TO THE BATHROOM, MAN-" she began angrily.

"AND I SAID NO!" I raised my voice sharply. "HOW DARE YOU DISREGARD MY INSTRUCTIONS!" I lowered my voice and inhaled. "Everyone has crap that they deal with in their lives," I said, "but you were straight up off your rocker today. You know better, especially with me. Especially with me. So, I am far from sympathetic." I shrugged. "My trust in you is gone."

"Fine. Whatever. Good," she said, storming out of the classroom. I left soon after, pretty shaken up.

* * *

Movies about teachers in the ghetto tend to have happy endings. The children are saved. They go to college. They become readers. They write books. They accept awards and say, "I would like to thank my teacher, Miss --- for changing my life." They become professional salsa dancers and win national spelling bees...

There are no movies about teachers who witness their own failure with their very eyes. Their students make steady headway, and then all of a sudden the trains stops chugging and begins to roll backward down the insurmountable mountain.

In the movies, there is a beginning, a middle and an end. In real life, most often you enter a child's life somewhere in the middle and leave their lives somewhere in the middle - or, they leave yours. You aren't sure of where the beginnings were for these kids, or whether they have even had one. You don't even know whether you have had a hand in helping them decide that this is a beginning after all, rather than the beginning of the end.

I don't yet know if I have helped C.D. more than I have hardened her. I don't know if I did the right thing or made a mess of things...

All I can do is wait and see.