Lesson Number One:

To start out our studies of world history my brother-in-law, Jon, does a little geography unit so that the kids are better able to read maps and diagrams, and so they can understand where these historical events are taking place. As I’m sitting in the back of the class, Jon hands out the packets full of maps and diagrams and begins to ask the kids questions about general geography. The kids, some of whom were barely younger than I was, were having trouble reading the simple maps. Jon draws a compass rose on the chalk board and explains to them how to remember North, East, South, and West. When I was growing up we used acronyms like ‘Never Eat Sour Watermelon’ to remember the cardinal directions. Jon nonchalantly says to the students, “You guys can use different acronyms to remember the order of the directions like for instance: ‘Never Ever Smack Women’ or ‘Never Ever Smoke Weed’” The students nod as they begin to understand, and I sit wide-eyed in the back astounded at what has just taken place. Jon’s acronym choices show that those ideas of drugs and abuse are things they are all familiar with, so while I found it funny at first that a teacher said ‘weed’ in class (at the small school I went to that would have been a big deal) I found myself once again faced with the fact that these kids were not really kids, and certainly nothing like me. They have grown up in neighborhoods filled with gang and domestic violence as well as copious amounts of drugs. The world they know and understand has made them tough and distrusting towards anyone and everyone. Not only is it disturbing to know that these hard issues are a part of their daily lives, but these kids, who were pretty much all seniors in high school, have been so obviously failed by the school system they grew up in. How a kid can be leaving high school and just learning basic geography is completely ludicrous. It is heart breaking to know that they have been dealt a hand in life that is not only not working in their favor, but also working completely against them. Their environment has failed them, but more importantly so has their school. 

My First Day.

I wanted to start my blog out with a little background information about my first day at Ballou Senior High School. I feel that it is important for you to understand where I am coming from and why this topic has grown so important to me before I take you through all the nitty gritty numbers and facts about the children receiving an education at Ballou.  I also want you to know that the problems I am talking about I have encountered first hand.

I remember my first day at Ballou Senior High School in Washington DC. I remember taking the train and watching the demographic slowly change as we got closer to Anacostia. I remember people staring at my brother-in-law and I because we were the only two white people around. I remember believing that I was going to go into school and was going to make a difference in some kid’s life.  I remember walking to school from the train and seeing people stare at us because of the color of my skin, and for the first time in my life I was the minority. I remember being reminded of all that I had heard about southeast DC as I walked through the neighborhood towards school: highest poverty rate, highest unemployment rate, highest teen pregnancy rate, and highest drop out rate. I remember walking into the first staff meeting with my brother, and a black man standing at 6’5’’ and about 250 pounds saying how he was nervous for summer school this year, since we would be joining two schools which sat in two different gangs zones. I remember thinking, ‘Holy shit, if this man is scared I should be in fear for me life.’ I remember walking to the office that held the Xerox machine to make copies from the only book we were given for an entire class, and all the security guards staring at me and asking me if I was lost. I remember my normal, confident disposition slipping into a wide-eyed shy young white girl walking down what seemed an endless blue-tiled hallway. I remember the principal coming into our classroom, which had only two green chalkboards and a few desks that looked like they were from the 80’s, and telling us, ‘Don’t be surprised if no one shows up.’ I remember slowly feeling that spirit of ‘I am going to make a difference. I am going to seize this opportunity and change someone’s life.’ slipping into anxiety and acknowledgement that I am just one person, a small young girl from the south suburbs of Chicago who went to a private school her whole life in a place where she was always comfortable and moderately sheltered, and the likelihood that I will be able to understand anything these kids are going through will be slim to none. I remember feeling completely overwhelmed by everything that was going on as we were waiting to see if any students would show. I remember walking down the hall towards the bathroom and seeing students towering over me and staring at me. I remember sitting in the stall wanting to just hide until the day was over, when I could go back to a place where I wasn’t totally out of place and totally helpless. I remember thinking to myself, how the hell am I supposed to stand in front of a bunch of kids who are going through more shit in the one day then I probably have in my entire life and trying to convince them that what I had to say was important? I remember telling my brother-in-law that I wanted to just watch class today because I didn’t feel up to any teaching yet. I remember feeling terrified. Not terrified because I was in neighborhood where gangs and violence are prevalent, no I knew I would be in areas like that. I was terrified that I knew nothing and that I meant nothing.