IN SPITE OF MY supposedly adequate preparation for this job, (including a master's degree in learning & behavioral disorders, student teaching experience, and doctoral work concerning urban education & research), I learned mainly from my students. Not so much in terms of factual knowledge, but with regard to relating more openly to others and teaching accordingly. Some things, however, caught me completely by surprise, exposing my rawness and inexperience within this new, real world of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School.
One day, Phil approached me at the beginning of class and said, "Mr. Laz, I got something to show ya."
There was a ring of excitement and nervousness in his remark. Knowing Phil, my inner-voice told me to exercise caution. Or should I say, to listen to my inner-city voice!
Phil lived with a bunch of other siblings in an old, beat-up shanty that was eventually condemned – it had rats. He never knew who his father was. In spite of his short stature, he was "Mr. Inner-City," personified. He conducted himself in a manner meant to never lose face. He never backed down from a fight, even if it meant entering suicidal combat. He and Leland once went at it in the classroom. In spite of the fact that he was being pulverized, he kept coming back for more. He probably would've let himself get killed if I hadn't intervened and dragged him away. He'd rather lose his face than lose face.
He often boasted that he had witnessed a few murders in his neighborhood. I didn't doubt him for a minute. While engaging in individual seatwork, he'd sometimes sing songs to himself. All of them were ad-libbed and contained violent themes. For example, to the tune of Yankee Doodle he'd sing: "I'll bust you in the face. I'll make you cry. I'll jump all over you, and pop you in the eye!"
In spite of all of this, I believed his hype and macho-bravado cleverly concealed real pain. I wasn't sure how to break through this guise, or even if it was ethically right to do so. To be sure, Phil was a twelve-year-old kid who rarely showed any emotion. I subtly aimed toward putting him more in touch with his feelings, to show him that it was okay for an adolescent male to feel things, even one who attends Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. Community School. Without coming out and saying it, I implied that it's all right to experience sadness or to cry and recognize our own vulnerability. Conversely, it's all right to laugh out loud, and not only when someone else is being ribbed.
Phil would be perhaps, the greatest challenge of any of my students. I hoped that between my zaniness and some of our exciting class projects, he would come out of his shell.
All these thoughts entered my head before I responded.
"Oh yeah, Phil? What do you have to show me?"
"Well, I can't show you here," he said looking around the room as if he was hiding a stash of stolen millions in his desk.
I was getting curious.
"Okay, no problem," I said. "But what is it?"
"You promise you won't tell?"
"You've got my word," I said.
He looked around to see if anyone was listening. He told me to bend down so he could whisper in my ear.
"It's a piece."
I looked him in the eyes. He seemed to be waiting for some response.
"A piece of what?" I asked.
He almost hit the floor.
"You mean you don't know what a piece is?" he asked. There was a look of total disbelief on his face.
I hesitated for a moment, and then somewhat annoyed, I said: "No, I don't know what you mean. A piece of paper? A piece of cake? I don't know. A piece of what?"
He shook his head and laughed a bit. I felt like I'd been had.
"It's in my locker."
"All right," I said. "Show me the piece."
I was confident that the whole thing was a spoof.
We went into the hallway. Again, he looked around to see if anyone was nearby.
"You promise you won't tell nobody?"
"I promise. Boy Scouts honor. Now, come on, will ya? We've got lots of work to do."
He opened his locker and lifted the sleeve of his coat to expose a pistol.
"That's the piece?" I asked. I felt like a little kid.
He nodded his head.
"It looks real," I said.
He nodded again and gave me a look like, "Duh!"
"Dang, Mr. Laz," he said, shaking his head back and forth. "You don't even know what a piece is? Where you been brought up?"
I didn't bother asking if it was loaded. I was afraid he'd nod "yes" to that question, as well. But like I said, I was a total greenhorn and must've seemed like an alien from a different dimension to Phil.
"What did you bring it to school for?" I asked, staring him in the eyes. "Where did you get it? What is this, show and tell time?"
He smiled and closed his locker.
"I didn't bring it to scare nobody," he said. "Just to show it to you. I got it from one of my big brothers. What do you think?"
I couldn't believe it. He wasn't trying to intimidate me or anyone else with his "piece." He was simply sharing something with me that was important to him, something that represented power and status in his culture. I knew that it was important for me not to over-react, and it was especially important that I not turn him over to Dr. D or the police.
"Phil," I said. "I appreciate your showing me this. But it really doesn't belong in school. I don't even want you playing with this at home. It's too dangerous. Man, when I was your age I used to play with water guns."
"Look," I said. "If I turn you into the office you will be locked up for probably 10 to 15 years. Minimum. That means that when you get out you're gonna be around 30 years old."
He was staring at the floor.
"But that's not the only thing," I continued. "When you get released from jail, your buddies... well, some will be married. Some will have kids, by then. Some will have good jobs. Some will own cars and a home. But you? You'll be coming back for your 8th grade diploma. At flippin' 30 years old!"
"I was just showing you, Laz. Didn't mean no disrespect. It ain't even mine. It won't happen again," he finished, still looking at the floor.
I had to back up my disapproval; I told him to take it home and never bring it to school again. (He gave me his word, and for the three years that I had him in my class, he kept his promise).
After writing Phil a note that allowed him to head for home, he returned some 20 minutes later. He looked like he had just come from confession or something. He was beaming ear to ear now that he had a "clean slate." To my surprise nobody asked him where he went or what happened.
On another occasion, another of my guys, Terrence, approached me with similar information.
"Mr. Laz, guess what I've got in school today?"
Terrance was very different from Phil. He was still a young kid, and not nearly so street-wise. He had guilt written all over his face. Besides, I was on to the game now.
I decided to play my hand a bit.
"Gee, Terrence, let's see," I said. "I'll bet you brought a model airplane. No, on second thought, your stamp collection! No, no. Probably not. I got it! You brought your antique doll collection!"
The class was enjoying it. Terrence just stood there with a smirk on his face and shook his head.
"It's in my sock," he said.
"Your sock!" I shouted in amazement. "How did you manage to put a doll in your sock?"
"Shoot, man. Enough," he said. "Come on and feel my doll then."
In a frisking type motion, I felt along the sides of his sock. Sure enough, inside was a slender, hard object, about five inches long. Switchblade!
Yup, inner-city show and tell time strikes again! The rules were clear. First, don't be intimidated. Second, don't overreact. And finally, encourage him to leave it at home. I did all three.
"What did you bring this to school for?" I asked.
"In case I get jumped after school on the way home. Ain't nobody gonna mess with me."
If this continued, I might as well teach for the Green Beret Special Forces in some God forsaken place on the planet. It was time to use the higher authority rap with the entire class.
"Fellows, you just can't bring these weapons with you to school. You want to get hurt at home, that's your business. But if the principal catches you with a .22 or a switchblade, or a rocket launcher or a tank, or whatever other kind of nasty weapon you get your hands on, he's gonna throw your hide outta here so fast you won't know what hit ya. You'll ruin any chance you have to make it in school, or in life. You can bet that he'll call your homes, too. But only after they've hauled you away to spend a decade or two in the can!"
Each and every one of them was afraid of their homes being called. They especially didn't want their moms getting word about anything that went wrong at school. At the beginning of the year, many of the mothers told me to thrash their kids if they got out of line. One mother said that I should give her son an "oops upside his head," if he misbehaved.
"If your mother found out about this kind of nonsense, she'd hit you so hard that your clothes would be out of style when you woke up!"
They got the point. The concealed switchblade incidents rarely occurred during subsequent years. Thankfully, no student ever brought a piece for show & tell again.
But these situations helped encourage me to move full speed ahead with my scout troop idea. My entire class would become an official troop. I reasoned that this was a healthier way to channel their fascination with macho things. If they were so interested in knives, let them learn how to take care of a Swiss Army knife. Let them learn how to properly use an ax to chop wood, not heads! Let them learn to build a flint & steel marshmallow-roasting fire, rather than a garbage-filled bonfire that might burn down the school. From that point on, scouting activities became an integral part of my public school classes, including those at the high school level.