Dream Like Martin

Mondays suck.  This rainy, gray, not enough hours of sunlight Monday in late February started with an extended conversation about farting.
"Y'all, it's nasty!"  the kindergarten class was informed.
"Go to the bathroom 'cuz I DO NOT WANT TO SMELL THAT."
The convo lasted a long time.  It seemed appropriate for a shitty Monday.

February is Black History month.  In the bougie schools I worked in, Black History month had been sort of pushed aside, because the idea was to have a diverse curriculum that was inclusive all twelve months of the year.  I've always agreed with that and for that reason, thought "history" months were cheesy, no matter if it was Hispanic, Woman or otherwise.  Though I work in a Black school now, I've noticed a resurgence in Black History month celebrations even in bougie areas or basically, my former employment district, which I still frequent three times a week to work at the Housing Authority.  It's funny, Black History month doesn't seem like simple recognition or education of Black achievement because it is ordinarily not included in curriculums or life like I thought it was, but more a celebration of the culture of the varied and un-monolithic contributions of Black people.  The Housing Authority opened my eyes to it and my school really celebrates it as well.  It feels like Christmas week, with theme days and encouragement to dress as different things or wear certain colors, each different, every day of the week.

Black History month school celebrations also provide ripe opportunities for white teachers to Rachel Dolezal it up, and I certainly am not going to end up like that. Most of the dress up days could be addressed tastefully, but it is easy to overlook things.  I just try to imagine myself pumping gas somewhere and what a random onlooker might think of what I'm wearing, obviously outside of the school context of the celebration, and usually decide to not engage in the dress ups.

"We going to have to get you a little dashiki..."  Ms. Snyder said coyly, while she waited for her students to use the bathroom.
"Wash your hands!"  she called, as one of the kindergartners exited.
Her dashiki was quite festive.
"No way."  I responded.
"I am not going to end up on the news as the crazy white teacher, culturally appropriating everything." I responded, laughing.
"What do you mean," she responded slyly, literally looking at me from the side of her eyes with a little smile.
"I wear myself a little 'ol Rolling Stones t-shirt, what's the difference?"
"It's different."  I responded.
She nodded affirmatively and continued her bathroom routine, and I felt like I might have passed a test.

"She was the first African American southeastern Congresswoman."
"Barbara Jordan."  Aazim answered.
"He founded Jet and Ebony magazines."
"John H. Johnson."  he continued.

I've quizzed him so many times for the Black History bowl the Housing Authority conducts that I know the answers myself.  Shit I never knew before.  I can recite them in my sleep.

Maybe I should have been able to a long time ago.

Lift

Alejandro was shaking and crying uncontrollably.  He had just finished his graded rendition of Lift Every Voice and Sing.
"Alejandro, oh my god, Alejandro, I'm sorry....I'm so sorry, I didn't realize you were upset....I was laughing and joking around with them and I swear I didn't know...."  I explained, grabbing his shoulder while he shielded his face from the rest of the students at the table.
"It's just a stupid song, stupid crap."  I whispered furiously into his ear, shocking myself by referring to Lift Every Voice and Sing as stupid crap.
"It's not your fault," he typed into the browser window of his Chromebook, without clicking enter.
"Sometimes when I see people laughing I just freak out and cry."
"It's weird, I don't know why."

"I took my first Spanish class!"  Prem announced, his eyes dancing with excitement.
"What does puto mean?"
My mouth fell open.  So did Veronica's.
"Did you learn that in class today?"  I asked.
"NO!" he screamed, then ran off toward the trailer.

"You know what!"  the second meanest teacher in the school yelled at the class.
"This isn't just going to count for one grade, it's going to count for four!  One of them will be a quiz grade!"
Adriana shifted uncomfortably in her seat, still waiting her turn to sing Lift Every Voice and Sing in the hallway to her teacher, for four grades.

I sat with Prem and Veronica in their Reading class, trying to help them while keeping track of Faba and Juan who were seated in separate groups.  The teacher passed out a blurry, small print worksheet of "The Cat that Walked by Himself".
I felt my eyes glaze over.
"I'm not reading all that." Prem said dismissively, when I tried to get him to put his eyes on it.
The teacher started getting kids to read out loud, while a second Special Ed teacher alternated between berating their performance and asking comprehension questions.
"Where'd the baby come from?!"  she yell-asked.
I knew what she meant but tensed up for a minute because it could easily bring a host of nuanced responses.
"From the woods?" one kid ventured.
"The dog had it?"  another tried.
"From the butt." Prem whispered to me definitively, shoving his worksheet in the cubby-thing under someone else's desk.

I stood with the walkers, ready to go go go.  Adriana walked up, her report card in an envelope.
"Let's see it!"  I said, while she carefully opened the envelope.
"Oh god," she gasped.
I looked down the report.  All Fs.  Every single grade, except for a B in ESOL.  My grade.
"She been doing a lot of that crap lately, given out them Fs for no reason...."  a girl that we normally don't like muttered sympathetically. 
We smiled weakly and started the hike out of the school and through the neighborhood, twenty-odd kids behind us.

Salvation Show

I sat at my morning duty post, watching one of the more troubled members of our student population enter the Media Center.  He walked stiffly, with his eyes darting from side to side to see if anyone was looking at him.
He was carrying two trays of Valentine's cupcakes and wearing a sports coat.
"Hey, Jeremy, let me put your cupcakes on the table so they don't get crushed...."  I said, trying to make him more comfortable.  He handed me the cupcakes and walked over to a friend, while fumbling with the buttons on his sports coat.
"Help me get this shit off....." he mumbled, while his friend struggled with the buttons.

I drove to the Housing Authority, already feeling a little relief that I had finished conducting three weeks of testing and the last day of school before a four day break.  I only had two hours of preparation and then two hours of the Black History performance to go before the break began.

"Hallelujah!" the radio screamed.
"And when your heart is troubled...."  Neil Diamond continued, when I suddenly had a weird vision of my principal singing the song on the stage of the school.
"You gotta reach out your other hand...." she belted into the microphone.
"Hallelujah!"  the teachers of the school sang, all while lined up behind our singing principal.  The meanest teacher in the school stood in the middle of the line, singing loudly.
"Reach it out to the man up there!"  my principal continued.
"Hallelujah!"  the teachers sang, now kicking their legs up like Rockettes as they sang back up.
"'Cause that's what he's there for!'' she sang, eyes closed and arm in the air.
"Take my hand in yours..." our assistant principal sang earnestly, after grabbing the mic.  Her big eyes stared straight ahead in a reassuring manner.
"Walk with me this day..."
"In my heart I know..."
"I will never stray..."
"Halle, halle, halle, halle, halle, halle, halle, halle!!!" the back up singing teachers screamed, legs kicking high in the air with each word.

I glanced at Steve, riding shotgun on a branch in her new, ten gallon terrarium and continued driving toward the apartments. 


*Lyrics, Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show, Neil Diamond