FOR SOME REASON, there were very few male teachers at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School. Besides myself and the principal, there were only three others on the faculty. Because of this, we each were given extra "male" jobs to do. One of these lovely privileges was making sure the students left the school grounds at dismissal time.
Thus, around 3:00 PM each day, after making sure my bus students got on the "cheese," (their yellow school bus), I would patrol the front of the school encouraging, asking politely, begging, and sometimes threatening the students to, "Please, go home!"
Fights were always a possibility, so I tried my best to mentally prepare myself. Of course, it eventually happened that I heard the call, "Fight! Fight!" sounding in the schoolyard, while everybody started yelling and running in the same direction. While these types of verbal alarms were usually hype, I had to do my duty and check it out.
By the time I arrived, a large crowd had gathered a short distance from where I was on patrol. The crowd seemed to number close to a hundred. I could hear them yelling and encouraging the contestants to battle it out. It looked serious, so I began walking in their direction. As I got closer, I could see arms and legs swinging madly from the center of the mob.
They caught sight of me. Not only was I an authority figure, I was a white one. The group quickly united. A few students started chanting, "Honkey, honkey." The others picked up the battle cry. "Honkey, honkey, honkey!"
I walked on. There was a single door of escape to my left before I had to confront the crowd. Conflict. Should I get some assistance, or should I carry on and face the mob alone? This wasn't my fight, "let 'em kill each other," I thought. But again, I knew that I couldn't walk away, especially now that I was the focus of their attention. It was them against me, and they were enjoying every minute of it.
I walked on, shaking in my boots, cool and collected on the outside.
The chanting grew louder. They looked at me with both distrust and disbelief. I showed no emotion as I came to the edge of the circle. Their bodies parted while I made my way to the center.
Two junior high boys stood there, locked arm in arm.
"What are you guys doing here?"
They looked at me, stuck out their jaws and lower lips in a smirk, and said, "We're dancing!"
Before the crowd could react, I grabbed both of 'em by the arms.
"Good. Let's dance our way to the office right now. I'm sure Dr. D would love to learn this new step!"
Normally, I would've just spoken to them and let them go. But not now. They had made it clear it was them against me and I knew I had to leave my mark. I marched both culprits into the school, to the surprise and glee of the crowd. They didn't see a fight, but they got their money's worth. Although I had already gained control of my classroom, I didn't dare risk being seen as ineffective within the general population of the school. So once again, later that evening, I dutifully took a whirlpool bath and lifted weights. With this job, I needed to be ready for anything.
Another incident transpired around the third week of school while I was standing in the hallway holding the door open for the throngs of suddenly-happy students who were headed for freedom.
"Adios, see you tomorrow," I said, "Stay out of trouble." I tried to sound like the friendly, cool type.
Suddenly, a large group of students came bombing down the stairway. There were about six or seven fourteen-year-old boys. When they caught sight of me they seemed rather surprised and slowed their pace to a walk. A few of them pointed at me and snickered. Then, just as they passed me, one of the guys raised his hand to his mouth in an apparent sneeze.
"Ah, ah, ah, ah-Jew, ah-Jew!" He made sure to accent the "J" real loud.
The group broke into hysterical laughter and gave one another approving slaps.
My heart started pounding. My immediate reaction was to run to the principal's office to report this infraction. But I reconsidered, knowing that if I turned my back on them, they would view me as a total wimp and I'd be mince-meat from there on in. As hard as it was, I put aside my white, middle-class, Jewish upbringing.
In a quick-as-lightning move, I reached out and grabbed the "sneezer" by his shirt. His mouth dropped open in surprise as I yanked him back into the school. Figuring that his buddies would attack from behind, I spun both of us around to face the onslaught, still holding the kid by the shirt.
To my amazement, no one was there. They had taken off like rabbits! Round one was mine. I stood for a moment, collecting my thoughts and considering what to do with my prisoner. I decided to bring him to the principal, who was finishing his patrol in a nearby hallway.
I explained the entire scenario to him. "Dr. D," I said. "I would like this student to write a ten page paper on the contributions of Jews to American society."
He seemed amused by this.
"Mr. Lazerson," he remarked. "This kid probably can't even write his name."
Now that he mentioned it, it did seem pretty ridiculous. I momentarily felt out-of-place, as if I had lost grips with the tough, inner-city environment that was the stark reality of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School. It was as if I was trying to impose my set of values on a distinct, equally-valid culture; a culture that worked and operated just fine without me.
"You can do what you like," Dr. D. added. "But I'm going to take him in my office and put some wood on his behind!"
He asked me to follow them into the office. My role was to witness the punishment, making sure that, in the event of legal ramifications, I could testify that the "wood" wasn't administered in a brutal fashion. I felt very uncomfortable. This wasn't my way of doing things. Couldn't we just talk to the kid? I was sure he wouldn't do it again. Perhaps we could form a committee and submit our findings to the local chapter of the ADL – Anti-Defamation League. Then we could make long-term recommendations they could insert into the school curriculum about four decades from now.
"Put your hands on the desk, boy," Dr. D. told him. If I had called this student a boy, I'd have been shot, I thought to myself.
Dr. D. reached around and grabbed a large wooden paddle from his bookshelf. He swung it hard into the kid's backside.
The student started to cry. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean nothin'," he wailed. "It was just a joke."
Blam! The paddle found its mark the second time. Now the kid was really crying and I was feeling mighty guilty. I really didn't expect this. I didn't know what to say to this student. Would he forgive me? Should he forgive me? Would he return to school with his big brothers for revenge? Maybe I should've just spoken to him in the hallway.
Again, culture clash. It didn't matter what I thought. It was done. Dr. D. gave him a third paddle. The student was holding his backside with both hands and bawling.
"Don't ever let me catch you talking with such disrespect," Dr. D. told him. "You hear?"
He nodded, sobbing uncontrollably.
Even though this type of punishment wasn't my style, I was impressed that Dr. D. was backing me. He wasn't going to let any student take advantage of me. I think he actually respected me for taking his advice, and not hide who I was.
The student and I left the office together. I think I felt sorrier about the incident than the kid did. I wanted to express that fact to him until I realized that he'd probably view me as a total loser. He would believe I was backing down, and if I came across that way now, the whole event would've been wasted. It would've needed a repeat performance. I decided to get in the last word.
"Look," I told him. "All the garbage your people have been putting up with for so long because of your skin color, you're throwing in my face now because of my religion."
He looked the other way.
"You've got a long way to go before you get back into my book," I said as he walked out the door.
Strangely enough, I sensed he wouldn't come back for revenge; that he realized he had been wrong.
At any rate, the word would get out now, for better or worse, that Mr. Laz was no pushover. I hoped it would be taken as a fact of life, and not as a challenge.