AT FIRST, I HAD MIXED FEELINGS about forming a scout troop with this bunch of guys; though I was convinced scouting had a lot to offer. They would learn so much about nature and camping that they couldn't help but enjoy it. I remembered what it had done for me growing up.
Unlike school, scouting taught about real things in a real way. In Scouting, you didn't memorize facts from a dead page in a book. My scout leaders demonstrated real-world examples of exciting skills. Scouting was liberation from the confines of the classroom to the incredible open expanse of the living world. It wasn't just the motivating activities, like building flint & steel fires, using a compass, backpacking in the woods or rappelling off a fifty-foot cliff, it was the gut challenge of it all. This factor, built into any decent scouting program, could inspire anybody, Leland and Phil included.
My only hesitation involved animals, and specifically, the way these guys related to animals. After all, to them the canine kingdom consisted of ferocious Dobermans or German Shepherds trained to rip intruders apart. Anything resembling a gerbil was a rat, and something to destroy. How could these kids learn to love and appreciate wildlife? It seemed almost impossible.
I wasn't sure where my feelings originated from. Were they legitimate concerns, or manifestations of stereotyping that had begun to affect me? Was I succumbing to the notion that black males are insensitive, hardened people? These kids had proven me wrong before and were, in fact, about to do so again.
The "Freaky Pet Center" at the back of our room contained an entire menagerie of somewhat bizarre creatures, including one large white hare, (who left "land mines" all over the place), two hermit tree-crabs, two chameleons who ate crickets for breakfast, (crickets that chirped incessantly and made the classroom sound as if I were teaching outside in a field), a garter snake who ate a few worms and crickets each week, the usual array of gerbils, hamsters, and guinea pigs, and a whole bunch of mealy-worms that quickly morphed into beetles. Our pet center also featured a dynamic critter that demanded everyone's curious attention and inner dread – one very large, very hairy, rather creepy looking tarantula! He was appropriately nicknamed Dr. Dread. (We were way ahead of the time, because this was long before Dred or Dre came on the scene). This creature inspired more fascination and terror than any threat ever issued at that school, including that of our principal's infamous "wood paddle."
Dr. Dread's presence also promised to provide me with additional affirmation as an authority figure. Their teacher, although replete with beard, skullcap, and "Jew-strings," was also so wild and crazy that he was gonna place Dr. Dread, (all eight hairy legs of him), on the palm of his hand without so much as flinching! And then, in fact, he was going to walk around the dang room with a smile on his face! (If I got really brave and out of control, I was going to place Dread on top of my head). I figured this would guarantee me absolute authority. If they ever got outta line, all I would have to do is head for Dr. Dread's cage. "What's Laz gonna do with that big hairy creepy spider?" they'd be thinking to themselves. "Is he gonna bring that ugly thing close to my desk? Is he going to threaten to tie me down and place Dread ever-so-gently on my chest?" This was one behavior modification plan that hadn't been covered in my urban and special education textbooks.
Well, that was the plan, anyhow. I should have listened to my sweet grandma's wisdom. She used to recite, quite frequently in fact, one of her favorite Yiddish sayings: "A mentch tracht un Gut lacht." Literally, it means, "A person thinks, and God laughs." It was her way of saying that you can plan all you want, but if it ain't in the cards, it ain't happening. Then, she would gently pinch my cheeks and add, "Now be a good boychik and behave yourself!"
Our project began pretty smoothly. Dread was placed in the large tank while still in his white box with tiny air holes. I opened the lid and tilted it to the side so that Dread could slowly make his grand appearance. As one big fuzzy leg came out followed by another, my tough macho guys melted into squealing preschoolers.
"Disgusting!" one student whispered in terror.
"Ugh!" Another barely voiced. "That thing is gonna kill us all."
A few of my guys, Leland included, were standing on their desks for safe measure.
"Watch and learn, y'all!" I said slowly putting my hand into the tank.
Soon the squeals turned to shrieks; and demands for reason and sanity.
"Yo, Mister Laz. You downright lost your mind!"
"Yeah, who's gonna teach us when you're gone?"
"How far away is the hospital?"
"Didn't yo momma teach you not to play with bugs! Especially spiders!"
"Especially big ol' hairy gross-looking ones!"
It was time to turn the session into an educational, learning experience, (before they all fainted dead-away on the floor)! This lesson would be one that none of us would forget, yours truly, included. A few brave students gathered close to the tank as I slowly opened my hand to welcome Dread. I had to gently nudge him with a stick so that he would approach my palm. It was utterly strange to hold a spider that had some substance and weight. Usually, the only way we know a spider is on us is that we feel their tiny legs moving. Or they bite us. But Dread was different. He had some mass. A few more students crammed in to get a closer look at this killer critter.
Then, one student accidently pushed into another, who pushed into the tank, who jostled my arm, which shook-the-hand-that-was-holding-Dread. I never knew, (none of us did), that tarantulas jump! Let me clarify that. Humans jump with one or two legs, (if we're blessed to have both and they work, of course). Dread had the unique advantage of being able to use all eight legs to leap skyward, like a rocket. And leap he did! The tank was at least fifteen times the height of his body and Dread easily cleared it and landed on Curtis, who was standing about four feet away. In human terms, it would be like LeBron James going in for a dunk, missing the backboard, leaping through the roof of the building, and landing in the parking lot.
In a split second, our room was filled with screaming, petrified students. Even the student teacher from a nearby university was standing on my desk screaming bloody murder.
The entire class ran in every direction and huddled in the four corners of the room. Curtis, staring at Dread, who was firmly attached to his shirt, attempted to join the screams, except that not a flippin' sound came forth from his distorted mouth, (that now spanned his entire face). His arms were moving nervously at his side while he helplessly watched a fellow student approach and begin smacking at Dread with a rolled up magazine. It was hard to tell who was more terrified, but Dread was certainly experiencing the insect version of freak-out mode. He didn't take too kindly to being smacked at, and he seemed to dig his little feet even deeper into Curtis's shirt.
This entire pandemonium transpired in just milliseconds; at which point I grabbed Dread's original travel box, placed it over him, and slid a thin book between Dread's legs and Curtis's shirt.
Just like that it was over; although it took nearly 30 minutes before the color returned to everyone's faces. The student teacher was in the worst shape. She took the rest of the day off. In fact, she took the entire week! To my amazement, (and her credit), she did return. But she never entered that classroom again, until first making sure that Dread's tank was completely covered.
We had each acquired a new-found respect for Dread. My guys came up with all sorts of new nicknames for their hairy, eight-legged friend: Dr. Dread / Dr. Terror / Jammin' Dread / Slammin' Dread / Leapin' Dread / Curtis Grabbin' Dread. And one of my favorites, Steady Ready Dready. Certain members of the classroom felt that it would be more appropriate to simply name him Dead Dread and make the name reality so that calm and tranquility would return to our MLK classroom. It was just wishful thinking however, because Dread survived in our room for many, many months.
Quite frankly, I was surprised that Dr. D allowed us the pet center. First, there was the problem of the rabbit "dooky," (slang for droppings). Although my students tried building several ingenious containers for this varmint, each morning when we arrived at school he had always escaped. Most often, he was just munching casually in the middle of the room. A few times, he hid in the closet. Once, he got out of the classroom and was hopping away down the hall! Eventually we had to give him to a farm, where he probably belonged in the first place.
Then there was the problem of smell. Stench. Odor. Whatever it was, it was Strong. It emanated from our class and permeated through the walls until it encompassed Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School like a cloud of nuclear gas. It was particularly lethal after a long weekend. We did our best to dispel this offensive cloud, we really did. The guys cleaned the cages nearly every other day. They even bathed the freaky inhabitants and sprayed fancy bathroom deodorizers all over the place until we smelled like the powder room at the Waldorf.
In spite of our best efforts, the stench war was a never-ending battle. As long as it was kept at a tolerable level, we caught no flak from the office. Tolerable was described as containing the smell behind the door of our classroom, which was by now allowed to; no, greatly encouraged to – remain very closed.
From the onset of this project, my students proved they could be both responsible and responsive to their pets. I made the rules clear. First, they were in charge of the center. They had to make sure the pets were clean, fed and watered. Second, they had to raise the necessary funds to maintain and expand the center, (if they so desired). Third, no one was allowed to abuse or mishandle any pet. Simply put, I would function as their guide, but they would have to assume these responsibilities. Even after this orientation, they voted unanimously in favor of the Freaky Pet Center.
I was truly amazed at the degree of sensitivity they showed toward other living things. This story is but one example: Our class was participating in a general school cleanup campaign for "Earth Day." We had already spent a few hours cleaning broken glass and garbage from the cement playground at the back of the school. The school lay-out included a tall fence that enclosed a thirty-foot drop onto an expressway. As we were raking out this area, a kid from one of the eighth grade classes picked a worm out of the mud. Waving it over his head, he exclaimed, "Yo, check this out," and proceeded to throw it over the fence onto the expressway below.
"What's the matter with you?" one of my guys said to him.
"Yeah," another blurted out. "Suppose we chuck you over the fence like that?"
The culprit smiled nervously, not sure if it was a joke, or if he should take off.
"How'd you like some big hand to come down from the sky, pick you up like that, wave you in the air and step on ya?"
"Get this worm-killer," they shouted.
In an instant he was surrounded by my class.
At this point, I broke it up. And to think that I was worried about their lack of sensitivity...they were ready to kill this guy for picking on an innocent worm!