Tyquan, aka Africa, greets me with a cheerful salutation every morning. In a place where fools rule and apathy is the norm, Tyquan has an uncanny zeal for learning and is academically bright—I adore this kid. He seeped further into my heart the day he shared his childhood wound during a class presentation, triggering my propensity to nurture, amplifying my desire to see him soar beyond his circumstances and win. But Tyquan is needy. He craves attention from me and, like a parent who spoils their wayward child, I give it to him because it keeps him motivated and on task. He’s the teacher’s pet who vehemently guards his self-appointed role, competing with anyone who grabs my attention for too long. When Tyquan’s not in a good mood, he’ll tell me, “Ms. P, I need to sit in the back and get my mind right, lay my head down for a minute, aight? It was mad drama in the house last night. I ain’t get no sleep.” I always oblige him.
Some mornings I’ll put brainteasers on the board, and every time I do Tyquan excitedly jumps at the 7:55 a.m. challenge, quickly figuring out the most obscure and difficult mind benders, loudly exclaiming, “Ms. P, come on, I told you I’m smart. I read all that Grimm fairy-tale shit back in kindergarten, son!” Once he got so wound up, I witnessed him slip into a psychotic zone, which I believe explains his special ed classification. It was a bizarre emotional outburst that might have otherwise scared me if I didn’t know him. In that moment it became crystal clear: Tyquan is disturbed, a little throwed-off and crazy as cat shit, but still my favorite baby rug rat, nonetheless. I am convinced that when painful childhood experiences and multiple complex traumas are not acknowledged, interrupted development will occur and the child will have great difficulty self-regulating their emotions, which manifest as behavioral problems—specifically, emotional outbursts. A lot of kids don’t need meds; they need the elephant in the room, their trauma and source of pain, to be unearthed and properly addressed. Inner-city schools are already overcrowded, understaffed, and without the resources to handle a child who needs extra attention, so the “difficult” kid gets placed in a smaller classroom setting labeled Special Education/Special Needs.
All the kids in my class eat raw, powdered Kool-Aid straight from the small paper packet like it’s candy, turning their tongues into bright cherry and grape Popsicles from the synthetic food coloring. This powdered crack gives them the shakes and has them transforming into ADD gremlins at warp speed. I forbid the guys to eat it in my class, but they still sneak it in, frantically licking their hands for one last granule, just like crackheads. Their red- and purple-stained palms, lips, and tongues incriminate them every time. For Tyquan, this shit is kryptonite, launching his already hyper ass into the stratosphere of red alert. Ring the alarm and get the straitjacket on deck cause he’s about to turn up.
Tyquan popped a pack before he came to class this morning and walks in high, already beaming up, up, and away into a galaxy of madness. He is having a sure-enough crack attack. I think it must have been a bad batch or he overdosed because suddenly his eyes begin to jump around like my cat when I give him too much catnip.
Already excited about figuring out all the answers to the brainteasers, he proceeds to go into a manic victory rant, turning to the class, not speaking to anyone in particular, and blurts out, “What, nigga? What? You can’t touch me! Ain’t nobody on my level, Ms. P! I’m not even human. I’m from Prince tha Don World!”
“Tyquan sit down, please,” I calmly ask like a nurse dealing with a beloved patient.
“Naw, Ms. P, fuck that. I don’t feel like doing no work today.”
Tyquan turns to his buddy Fred and demands, “Yo, nigga, gimme some of that honey bun I see you got in your pocket!”
Like an ethical bartender who refuses to serve the drunk at the bar any more liquor, Fred calmly refuses to give Tyquan more sugar-crack. “Naw, you buggin’, son. Yo, why you coming at me like that, son? Relax.”
Tyquan gets more agitated and belligerent. “What, nigga? Yo, son, you know I will make it hot. I don’t give a fuck. I will turn it up! It’s about to be a problem, my nigga! Gimme that fucking honey bun, son!”
“Tyquan!” I yell.
“Yo, Ms. P, you might as well get that mutherfucking orange slip out now because I’m ’bout to catch a fucking infraction this morning, I don’t give a fuck! I got bodies,* ya heard, fuck I care about an orange slip! I shoot niggas! I make ’em leak and meet their maker!”
Thank God Fred didn’t fall into his trap but instead took the high road, just shaking his head in disgust, ignoring Tyquan’s exaggerated empty threats. Whew. A young Jedi move; Fred is a quiet storm who walks with strength in his aura.
During one of my lessons on the Black Panthers, Fred took copious notes, paying attention more than I’ve ever seen from him. I praised his focus and he shared his personal connection to the history. Fred’s grandmother’s brother is the late Geronimo Pratt, the well-known Black Panther and political prisoner. I told him he carries a mighty legacy. He told me he wants to live up to it. I did a little praise dance in the aisle, making him open a smile and share a giggle.
My spidey-senses detect it’s more than the Kool-Aid spiking Tyquan. It’s not so much how he’s acting, but what he’s saying. He is talking so erratically, looking wild in the eyes, and becoming so unhinged he’s diving off an emotional cliff and it scares me. I’m not scared for my personal safety but scared for him; he’s unraveling into a pain I can’t yet identify. My mind races trying to assess what is going on. A few weeks ago, I remember he told me that he was getting closer to his date to be transferred up top* to serve his sentence in an adult prison. He is noticeably terrified and perhaps this is his way of pumping himself up, convincing himself how gangster he is, inflating his courage and pounding his scrawny chest, practicing a roar that he can believe.
Tyquan is fighting. He’s swinging at a haunting only he can see, the ghost of what could be, nightmares of unsolicited sodomy. It’s a coping mechanism to help him walk toward the unknown, horrifying fire he’s imagined. He continues ranting, confirming my theory. “When I go up top, I’m going straight to the bing,† ya heard? Ain’t no nigga gonna take my peanut butter.‡ I’mma wild out, knock niggas out—bam ! And go straight to the box, nigga what! Ain’t no nigga touching me!”
Tyquan is consumed with fear and shaken to the core. I understand where it’s coming from, but for now Tyquan has to go.
I shout, “Tyquan!” But he doesn’t hear me. I have to climb two octaves higher to reach him at the ledge of the beanstalk to pierce through his frenzy. “Tyquan! Go take a walk, right now! You crossed the line, go take a walk.”
Tyquan isn’t budging. I need help. He won’t sit down, he won’t leave, and he won’t calm down. I poke my head out the class and call my buddy, Officer King.
King comes to my rescue and asks with concern, “What you need, sis? What’s the problem?”
“Tyquan won’t calm down and he’s totally out of character, being extremely disruptive and disrespectful. Please take him out of my class; he needs a lil’ time-out behind the gate to calm down. I’m not putting up with his behavior this morning. It’s causing chaos and we’re about to have a guest speaker next period and I’m not having it.” I turn to address Tyquan. “Tyquan, you know I give credit where credit’s due—you’re one of my best students—but today, I don’t know what’s going on with you… Actually, I have a feeling what it is, but I won’t go into that right now and don’t have time to address it this morning.”
Officer King barks at Tyquan, calling him by his last name like they do in the military. “Jefferson, let’s go!”
Tyquan leaves without a struggle and surprisingly no back lip. He wanted to be rescued, shaken out of his self-induced hell-trance. He had to walk it out.
The gate is an open cage—a visible mini holding pen on the school floor that is situated at the end of the hallway. The gate looks out onto the school floor, and on the other side of the gate is an ironclad door that leads back to the main jail area. In between the bars leading to the school and the iron door leading back to their cells are two rickety benches for the daily incorrigibles to sit on. The gate is for kids who “cut up” enough to be put out of class but not enough to be taken off the school floor for the day; it’s the time-out pen.
When the kids come up from their housing areas in the morning, escorted by COs, they all pass through the gate and walk through the metal detector where an officer’s desk is stationed. My classroom is four rooms down from the gate.
Today we have a guest coming to present a life skills workshop and I really wanted Tyquan to be present for it, especially now. Mr. Kenny is my boy and former coworker from Friends of Island Academy. Now he works for Corrections in the social services department. We’re both up in the belly of the beast on a daily.
The day we first ran into each other in the hallway, speed-walking to our respective chambers within the dungeons at Rikers, we jumped for joy. We’re comrades, light workers in a dark house. Kenny is a man who, during his adolescence, served time at Rikers and eventually wound up going upstate. After his bid up top, he got involved with Friends of Island Academy and became a youth leader in the program, dedicating his time and energy to helping other young adults in the program stay “Alive and Free” and out of the grips of incarceration. He is a dynamic and powerful speaker with a gripping story that contrasts with his well-manicured, preppy appearance and command of the King’s English.
Kenny is the bomb. He’s a great group facilitator and leader. When I told him I was teaching full-time on the school floor, he immediately asked if he could run a pilot project with my class and conduct an eight-week life skills workshop. “Damn skippy, you can,” I said. It wasn’t even a second thought. I’ve seen him in action, running groups and working with wayward warriors. He knows how to reach, teach, drop jewels, and get the young’uns to think critically. He was once just like them—an incarcerated adolescent sitting in Rikers Island with gangster dreams and tales of life-threatening escapades in the street. He speaks their language. I am so psyched to have a comrade on the Rock whose heart, like mine, is aligned with helping our children to consider options beyond street culture. Me and Kenny are on the same team. Team Wake-the-Sleeping-Giants. Team Alive and Free. Team Teach the Babies. “Hell yeah, Kenny, let’s get it popping. You’ve got an open-door policy in my class. They need to hear what you’ve got to give them. Shit, can you start today?” I wasn’t joking.
Kenny looks like a hood-nerd. He strolls into my class donning an argyle sweater over a crisp, button-down periwinkle-colored shirt, soft leather loafers with a classy buckle on the side, fresh Caesar haircut, and gold wire-framed glasses on his flawless, mocha-brown face. Kenny walks in holding a Dunkin’ Donuts extra-large coffee cup and the guys immediately start sizing him up. His style throws them off; they think he’s a square or an herb with nothing to possibly tell them that they’d be the least bit interested in. Even his tone is calm, smooth, and measured. The kids are yawning in his face. Then he drops his story at the precise moment they’ve decided he’s a chump and he sucker-punches them. “When I did my first jux before I got knocked, I was straight ’bout the business of multiplication. Multiplying my weight, my money, my power, and putting fear in your heart. My motto was ‘fuck it,’ everybody got a date with death so might as well do me to the fullest. Consequences, fuck it. Jail, fuck it. Death, fuck it. My crew was always scheming.”
His hands move like a boxer as he spits the scenario. The hood creeps out, transforming his Clark Kent façade into K Boogz from around the way. He starts speaking another language: their language. The class sits up, side conversations cease, and the murmurs begin. “Oh shit, son is wilding, he talking that real shit, son…” “Word, that’s how it be.” “Yo, where you be at?”
He rocks them every time. I love watching Kenny get at ’em and kick the funky bo-bo, ninja-style. The guys look forward to him coming, except for Shahteik, who walks out each time he comes. After Kenny shut him down like a closed window at the post office—no clown stamps here, son—Shahteik decided it was wiser to leave rather than attempt to disrupt the workshop and get embarrassed by Mr. Kenny, again.
“Hey, Ms. P!” Kenny greets me cheerfully, then says under his breath, “Prince tha Don, you know, Tyquan, was calling me from behind the gate when he saw me walking down the hallway towards your class. He begged me to let him back in class and I told him I’d come ask you.”
“Well, Mr. Prince tha Don was cutting up this morning, I mean cutting the monkey-ass fool. What he ask you?” I have my hands on my hips, lips curled.
“He was like, ‘Mister, ask Ms. P to let me take your class, please just ask her.’ He was straight begging, reaching through the bars. I’m not trynna interfere and you know I have no problem going back out there and telling him he’s deaded today. You know how we rock, Sista Liza, that’s not a problem. Just give me the word.”
I suck my teeth. “Only ’cause it’s you, Kenny, and he needs to get all he can right now. His act-out this morning was just him crying out for help. He’s about to go up top and he’s scared shitless, covering it with fake gangsta.” I sigh in defeat and continue, “I know… I’m soft, right?”
“Naw, sis, you far from soft, you just care.”
I roll my eyes at Kenny, knowing I wasn’t going to deny food for his consciousness to a hungry student, and Kenny knows it too. We both laugh at my pretend attitude. I head toward the gate at the end of the hallway and see Tyquan hanging on the bars: “Ms. P, Ms. P! Mr. Kenny’s here—I wanna take his class, I like what he be saying. Can I come to the class, Ms. P? I promise I’mma be good, I just needed a little time-out. Please don’t let him start the talk without me. I probably need to hear what he’s gonna say. I’mma be good, Ms. P. I promise.”
Tyquan knows exactly how to wear me down and wiggle back into my good graces.
I squint my eyes and speak through clenched teeth. “Tyquan, if I have to talk to you one time, you hear me, one time, it’s a wrap,” I growl. I ask the officer if he can let Tyquan back in my class since we have a guest speaker that he needs to hear. The disengaged officer barely looks up and unlocks the gate, letting Prince tha Don out the cage and back into my care, but not without shooting Tyquan a mean ice-grill.
Midway through the workshop, Kenny calls Tyquan up to the front of the class for a role-play demonstration. Tyquan’s personal truth begins to seep out during the role-play to reveal his wounded soul, right in front of the class. He begins talking in a stream of consciousness with no inhibition or filter. The class is transfixed on Tyquan as he draws us into his painful reality, speaking passionately with fire shooting from between his teeth.
“Can’t nobody tell me nothing! I do me! My biological mother put me in the tub to give me and my brother a bath when I was six months old and turned the water on and it began to get hot. She runs to answer the phone and forgets about me and my brother in the tub while she’s running her fucking, excuse me, running her mouth on the phone. She’s having a conversation, never came back to check on us and we burning in the tub; I got second- and third-degree burns all over. My foster mother told us what happened years later when I asked why my foster brother has a different last name than me. That’s when she sat me and my biological brother down and told us.”
Tyquan has command of the floor and no one interrupts.
“So, if my own mother who gave birth to me left me in the tub, then… okay, I can see you go answer the phone, but you come right back. You don’t just leave me. I’m your son! I’m a baby! So that tells me that her conversation was more important than her baby; I’m her son.” He repeats I’m her son over and over like a sacred mantra, a prayer he needs God and his mother to hear to make her repent.
“Now if she can do me like that, and that’s my mother and I’m her son! How I think you gonna do me? And I don’t know you, you not even family. I don’t trust nobody! Okay, we might be friends and you might be my dude, or like my brother, we might be like family and all, but if your own mother…”
Tyquan drifts back to the memory of his mother, uncorking a pain that has been tearing through his soul, and he bears it to us, offering up a bruised peach.
“If it wasn’t for my foster mother… she’s seventy-two years old, she took me and my brother since we was babies. I love that woman. If something was to happen to her, God forbid, ’cause she’s old, so you never know. And I’m going upstate for two and a half to three years…”
He stops at the thought of his aging foster mother dying while he’s incarcerated. It brings the river to his eyes, but the river never flows; he wouldn’t dare allow a tear to drop. His eyes glisten like beautiful brown crystal marbles.
“Word to everything I love, if something happens to her while I’m up top, I ain’t gonna make it… I ain’t gonna make it, son.”
Tyquan, aka Africa, aka Prince tha Don, is standing vulnerable, spirit prostrate, at the altar of God in front of his peers in hell. He’s peeling his scabs, tearing his skin, blood and pus oozing from his heart. It is painful and necessary. He is brave. He is Black, beautiful, and courageous. He is exposed and raw. He is in Rikers, naked in front of the class, many of whom prey on the weak.
But Tyquan is not weak. He is extraordinary. His testimony has silenced the room, revealing the truth of his humanity, laying down a shield he’s carried for seventeen years, too heavy to hold any longer. His wounds and fears resonate with the entire class, all of whom I am sure have childhood traumas of their own buried deep in their hearts, hiding beneath gangster tattoos. I’m proud of Tyquan for being a lionhearted warrior. I’m proud of the class for being compassionate soldiers who didn’t strike but held him up with affirming nods. He took a valiant step toward his healing and I pray it continues. Silently I lift Tyquan in prayer. May his growth blossom daily. May he forgive his mother and learn to love himself fiercely. May God and the archangels of Light protect him and cover him during his journey in prison. May he discover comfort and joy. May his divine purpose be revealed unto him. May the ancestors guide him. I pray he wins. I pray he soars. Mother Father God, hear my prayer.
When hearing stories like Tyquan’s, and some that are worse, the challenge is to not get caught up and stuck in their woundology. I had to learn how to acknowledge the pain without coddling it. I had to learn to let the wound breathe by discussing it, but not giving it absolute power by lounging in the trauma. I won’t allow their wound to become their identity. I look for their strengths, I recognize their gifts, I remind them of their resilience, and I find the good and praise it. It’s a balance indeed.
Kenny gets it and goes straight to Tyquan’s strength. “You’re stronger than you think, my man; you’re still here, still standing strong, my dude. You got contributions to make. And besides, you can’t make it in the hood and be from where you’re from and not be strong—you got a leader personality. You’re what they call an ‘alpha male.’ Whatever you put your mind to, both good and bad, you make it happen. Your will is strong.”
Nodding his head in agreement, Tyquan revels in the compliment. “Word… word.”
Like a commercial interrupting a powerful scene in a made-for-TV after-school special, the CO barks, “Walking out!” signaling the guys to line up in the hallway for lunch.
It’s a presidential election year, and quite a historic one, with the first African-American citizen nominated to be the Democratic candidate. The country is less than a month away from possibly moving the first Black family into the White House. Electing a Black president? A Black commander in chief? It’s trippy. The energy is unprecedented. America is on the brink of experiencing a national miracle, a colossal shift, a psychological breakdown and breakthrough. It’s a new perspective and brand-new fucking day. The adrenaline is loaded. Barack Obama is the man and almost every Black person’s main man. Black folks on buses and in barbershops, on street corners and in beauty salons, by the water cooler and in saloons, in checkout lines and the food stamp office, at the bank and the chicken spot, at church and coffee shops, everybody, everywhere is pouring the tea, philosophizing, psychoanalyzing, and prophesying about the meaning of it all. What if he actually wins? Will America really let that happen? Will they assassinate him if he gets too close to winning? Is he a puppet? Is he a Tom? Is he a brotha or a fraud? And we all have something to say about his wife, Michelle, whose presence and essence speaks volumes. Hands down by unanimous decision, he is with a Black queen, a sistah from the South Side of Chicago, a statuesque, dark brown mocha-skinned ’round-the-way sistah girl with a phat booty… and she’s brilliant. Word on the street, on the underground low, is she validated his Blackness and authenticated his brotha status by helping him pass the Black-enough-for-Black-folks litmus test.
Some of us are still not sure how he’ll lean, having a white momma and all. It could go either way. He could do a Clarence Thomas and flip the script and go Whiteyville on us. He could be one of the “I’m not one of them” self-loathing sucka types who try to prove they’re whiter than white folks to be accepted and appear safe enough for white folks to like. My daddy calls them Oreos, Black on the outside but white on the inside of their heart, mind, and spirit. The hood is buzzing with theories. And if having a very Black, indisputably superbad sista for his wife wasn’t enough to clutch the pearls, he also has two beautiful Black baby girls twirling gorgeous natural hair with cornrows, twists, and afro puffs, looking like my cousins and me. It is just so much to take in, the enormity of it all. I’m convinced it’s visual kryptonite for racist white folks, triggering a self-imploding, terrifying shock to their psyche. But for the vast majority of the ’groid crunktastic brothas and sistas, it’s a refreshing reminder of Black superpotential. It’s a phenomenon so stunning on multiple levels that I can actually see Black folks walking a little taller this season. I do believe the sleeping giants are stirring.
I bring into class the red, white, and blue November issue of VIBE magazine with Obama on the cover. In a strategic effort to reach out to young, urban Black voters, Barack has written an open letter to the magazine’s readers. He goes hip-hop. It’s a brilliant strategy. Inside the issue, there are ninety-nine different celebrity-artists commenting about Barack Obama and what his nomination and potential election means to them. It’s a genius endorsement campaign from hip-hop luminaries like Jay-Z, Nas, Ludacris, Young Jeezy, Q-Tip, CeeLo, Plies, Common, Lil Boosie, Russell Simmons, Bun B, Fat Joe, Scarface, Dead Prez, and more. It is an amazing, powerful chess move on Obama’s part and, damn, it’s sure delicious to watch him eat up the crusty old white pieces for lunch by gaining youth power, getting up-and-coming generations galvanized, and changing the game. Barack is like turbo Pac-Man. I bring my enthusiasm to the class and develop several lesson plans using Obama for the social studies curriculum. For starters, I read Obama’s open letter to generate a dialogue about this historic candidacy and I work in some vocabulary words from the article. Some of my students listen intently, some talk, and some are falling asleep. Shahteik just stares at me, not listening a lick. He’s daydreaming. I can tell by the glazed look. Lord, please don’t let it be about me. My feminine wiles and spidey-senses tell me this dusty rug rat is fantasizing. It’s making me uncomfortable. I clap my hands two times to snap him out of it. “Shahteik, pay attention!”
I instruct the guys to copy the vocabulary words from the board and write a sentence for each word. Tyquan finishes first and barrels up to my desk.
“What’s up, scrap!” he says to me.
Sarcastically, I look behind me, then to the right and left of me, looking for the person he could be talking to. I try to ignore him but he persists: “Scrap, what’s up, you ignoring me?”
“Tyquan, I am not a scrap of anything, so please don’t refer to me as that.”
“Aww, Ms. P, scrap is good. That means you like one of the homies, you down. Scrap ain’t for everybody, but you my peoples, so, you scrap,” he says, turning to his buddy Fred. “Yo, scrap, tell Ms. P scrap is a compliment. She think I’m swindling.”
Raheim chimes in, “Scrap mean you cool, Ms. P. It’s hood talk.”
Fred adds, “That means you good, Ms. P, you scrap… you good.”
“I appreciate the compliment, but I’d rather not be called scrap; Ms. P is just fine.”
Tyquan is slightly disappointed. “Aww, scrap, I mean Ms. P… I got you, I got you. But Ms. P, can I read that VIBE magazine? I finished my vocabulary. You know me. I do my work and finish first all the time, Ms. P, you know that.”
Tyquan is right. But I know good and damn well that if I give him the magazine, the Bosses will confiscate it from Tyquan before he can even sit down, guaranteeing they won’t even attempt to do work. I have a quid pro quo policy in my class. If they want something from me, they have to give something to me in return. It’s my own way of negotiating extra classwork out of them.
“Tyquan, you know how it goes, quid pro quo. I’ll let you read the magazine on two conditions.”
“Anything, Ms. P, you know I got you. I do my work anyway, so it ain’t nothing. What’s the deal?”
“First, you are not to let anyone else read it because I know the other guys are going to be all over you once I give you the magazine.”
“Ms. P, I’mma move my seat. I’m not even going to sit near them. I got you. I’mma sit in the back all by myself.”
Magazines are a commodity in jail. They’re a cheap thrill, full of pictures, especially VIBE, with the big-booty vixens and sexy advertisements in the back. And it’s like CNN for the hood, with all the latest hip-hop celebrity news, including breakups, hookups, and beefs. It’s the closest thing they have to cable and it plugs them back into the world they’ve been disconnected from since their arrest.
“And the second stipulation is you have to read Barack Obama’s letter and write a short paragraph summarizing in your own words what you think Senator Obama is saying to voters.”
Tyquan chirps, “That’s all? Shoot, that ain’t nothing. I got you, scrap.”
Before I can open my mouth, Tyquan blurts out, “Psyche, psyche, Ms. P, my beautiful Black queen.”
I curl my lips. “I want my paragraph, Tyquan, don’t play. I know a swindle when I hear it.”
Tyquan struts to the back of the room like a kid who just won a prize at the Coney Island arcade. Chest poked out. The Bosses inquire why he moved his seat away from them and they motion for him to bring the magazine over to their station. I cut my eye at Tyquan and he replies diplomatically, “Naw, scrap, Ms. P got me doing an assignment. She got me over here writing; this ain’t leisure time, scrap, believe that.”
I expect to get a half-ass, get-this-lady-out-of-my-face rushed and raggedy paragraph from Tyquan. I figure he’ll write a simple line or two so he can hurry up and get to the pictures and read the tabloid junk. Fuck it, as long as he’s reading, occupied, and not acting up, then anything he writes will suffice for today. It’s a 180 from earlier, so this is also my subtle way of rewarding him for better behavior and giving him a treat to soothe his rough morning. A visual lollipop.
Tyquan hands in more than I expected. And this is why I spoil him. What he wrote is so heartfelt that I beam with pride and ask him to write a longer letter so I can send it to the editor, because it is that damn good. I give him a couple of notes, telling him to include more of his personal feelings about the potential of having the first Black president. I also tell him to reflect on what this presidency means to a kid from the inner city who’s currently in jail. Tyquan is filled with confidence and a sense of duty. He writes down my notes with a furrowed brow, salutes me like a general, and marches off on the mission to complete the assignment. I push and he climbs.
Darnel, a quiet new student who sits alone, asks if he can read the magazine after Tyquan finishes. I give him the same assignment and again, to my surprise, like Tyquan, Darnel far surpasses my expectation. I overestimated their apathy toward the significance of this election and, in turn, they humbled me. I stand corrected—the rascals do give a damn about Obama.
Darnel makes it a point to separate himself from the riffraff by telling me he’s from a stable two-parent middle-class household and has enough high school credits to graduate. “I already took my SATs for college, miss. I really want to go to Howard. I pray everything works out. My dad got me a paid lawyer. It’s in God’s hands, I guess.” Darnel’s been at Rikers for two weeks and is waiting to be bailed out any day now. But, for the time he’s with me, I have the kid writing every chance I get, holding him to a higher standard, because he can handle it… and he’ll definitely need it going into college.
My impromptu lesson has me feeling bubbly. I’m so excited about the success of the assignment, I want to skip through the halls and proclaim, “My boys give a damn about Obama! They like him, they like him!” I’m on a roll and get other students involved with the assignment. I tell the guys I can’t guarantee anything, but their voices are strong enough to warrant publishing, so, with their permission, I will submit their letters to the editor at VIBE magazine. I’mma roll the dice for my rug rats. Their voices matter.
Student Letters to Obama
From watching campaigns and reading newspapers and articles out of magazines, to my understanding the world is a disaster. The only way to make a difference in this world would be to vote for a president, a good president we can count on. This world needs a president who is going to change the way things run and make life better, not a president who’s going to make things worse. I think Obama should be elected as president because he’s a very intelligent man and he knows what’s best for our country. He seems like he cares and makes a lot of sense in what he says in his campaigns. It’s about time we see something different and live the life we’re supposed to live as human beings. As an adolescent being in and out of jail since 14, it makes me proud to see a Black man running for president. I think this is what African Americans were waiting for, over centuries, and our people deserve to get a chance to see how Obama will make the world better. Come November 4, when Obama gets elected, that’s when he’ll show the world a better way.
I would like to thank Obama because he showed me that I can be anything I want to be no matter the circumstances. I always thought jail would set me back and there would never be another chance to get on track, but seeing Obama run for president makes me more proud and makes me more confident to come home and follow my goals.
Timothy (17 years old)
Hi my name is Tyquan from Brooklyn NY. I live in the projects in Crown Heights, but currently I’m on Rikers Island C-74 adolescent building. I read almost every VIBE magazine and I came across the VIBE magazine with Barack Obama on the cover and I was very inspired by his letter to the people in our nation and I feel that Blacks, whites and Hispanics should take interest in his letter. After I read the letter, I came to the conclusion that Barack Obama is trying to open Black, white and hispanic eyes so that they can see the bigger picture, which is our nation is at its worse and he’s trying to change things around for the better, for Black people’s communities and to help Black people live a better life than the one we live today. The main point that he’s trying to get across is before anything can be changed, we as people have to go out and vote and support and believe in a strong Black leader. Seeing Barack Obama about to be elected for president inspires me, an inmate at Rikers Island, to believe that I can achieve anything that I set my mind to because Obama set the way by showing a good example for Black Americans. As a child I believed that it wasn’t possible to have a Black President until Obama came on the scene and has a chance to make history, so I support him 100%. Obama changed my thoughts about Black people because all you see on the news is the negative images of Black people shooting, killing, and abusing other people, and people believe what the media tries to make us out to be, but Obama is encouraging Black people to believe that we can become someone in life.
P.S. I hope everybody that’s eligible to vote goes out November 4th, 2008 and votes, because I am. Tyquan 4 Obama.
I’ll holla.
Prince Tha Don, the wavy one
Tyquan (18 years old)
The Barack Obama letter is deep. Obama is right; he can’t change this crucial world alone. He needs our help, the people of America. Together we can make a change and let everything bad that happened in the past stay in the past. Obama will affect the world in a great way. He says he can’t do it alone, but together we can change the economy. The Obama letter leads me to believe that we can make the impossible, possible.
Lynard (16 years old)
Barack Obama, how are you doing sir? I read your letter in the VIBE magazine November 2008 issue and I’m 100% all the way with you. This is the most important election in the history of the United States. I do believe that you can turn this country around. I am only seventeen, a young Black male growing up in Harlem, New York, and even though I’m not registered to vote until next year, my father, great-grandmother and family are by your side. I can’t believe that I’m here at this point in time where I see history being made. When I look back at this, ten to fifteen years from now, I can tell my kids I was there to see you become president. It’s not even that you’re going to be the first Black president, but you want change and that’s what we’ve been waiting for. I am hoping you can change the economic, jail, educational and health systems. Also, I am hoping you can put an end to the war in Iraq. Right now Mr. Obama I am incarcerated on Rikers Island in New York City. I am not a bad kid at all and I am about to go home. I will be home to see the elections on television. I have been jailed for something I didn’t do but I’ve only been here for two weeks and I learned a deep lesson to stay out of trouble. I have always been interested in politics but your way of it has had me focused deeper on it. Even though I messed up by hanging with the wrong crowds, I have learned from my mistakes. So November 4th we need everybody to come together so we can bring change. By the way, my name is Darnel and I pray to God you win Tuesday night November 4th.
Darnel (17 years old)
This presidential campaign really caught my attention because if Obama was to win, this would make history. I made my housing area in C-74 Rikers Island watch the debate because I feel that people should know about what’s happening in the world. Listening to the debate I feel like McCain is addressing personal issues instead of addressing issues about America. I feel that McCain will do or say anything to win the election but Obama is more consistent because he says the same thing in every debate. This election is going to make those who never believe, believe that they can succeed and be anything they want to be, mostly we young African Americans. It makes me feel good to see another brother make it because it doesn’t happen too often.
William (18 years old)
A Dream We Always Wanted
In my opinion this whole election is strange and makes sense. The strange part of it is I’m about to witness history; a Black American in office fighting for us. The debate I saw today with John McCain and Barack Obama was like a fight but with words. Obama is focusing on giving. John is focusing on taking away. Their facial expressions, especially on John McCains face was more like hate. Obamas face was more like “I’m making sense.” Obama just sat back and laughed at this guy who wants to take away from us. This election is so important to me because I’m witnessing history. I hear people talking about “I don’t care what happens with the president” but they should, especially African Americans because of the things we’ve been through; we had to fight for our rights. Now we have a chance for a Black man to make history and become the president of the United States of America. We need change!
Jason (18 years old)