What I did on my summer vacation

How was your summer?  I asked for about the 92nd time today.  We'd staggered the kids' arrivals back to school, with freshmen coming on Monday, sophomores on Tuesday, and juniors and seniors on Wednesday.

The older kids always came in taller and skinnier than they'd left.

"Aight," said Shawn, "Boring," said Katie, and "Too short," said Brianna, smiling at me.

I smiled back.  And I know you're so happy to be back at school.  You look happy.  I just know you want to do some Algebra.

"Stop," said Katie.  "I hate math."

You love math, I said.  Don't lie.

Shawn smiled then.  "You right," she said.  "Algebra II.  Bring it.  Anything's better than the last couple months."

I stepped out and began to wander in and out of classrooms.  I do that a lot during the first few days of school; it's one of the first things they teach you in administrator school: be highly visible.  Everybody likes to know somebody's in charge.  The freshmen were adorable: so scared.  You need to enjoy these weeks, when they're scared, because the minute they settle in, they start smelling themselves and you spend more time on them than anybody else.  I hit a senior class. They're my favorite because I can still see the fourteen-year-olds they used to be.

They were working alone at computers, so I wandered in and out of the rows, asking them questions about their work and asking them how their summer was.

"Fantastic," said Christopher.  "I played ball all summer."  Christopher was a star basketball player on Varsity.

"You know what I did?" said Kendall.  "I went hunting."

Wait, I said.  Did you say hunting?

"Yep."

Like deer?  Are you telling me you shot Bambi?

"Nah," he said.  "Rabbits.  And a squirrel."

For the first time today, I was speechless.  You shot a squirrel, I repeated.  Did you cook it?

"Nope," Kendall said.  "It wouldn't die.  I shot it twice, too, but it just kept running.  We cooked the rabbits, though.  I was with my uncle and he was teaching me how to live off the land.  He said it's how they survived when they didn't have any money and I wanted to learn how."

Huh, I said.  You cooked at ate rabbits.  I don't think I've ever met anybody who's ever done that.

"I went to Navy Pier," said Christopher.

"Yes," Kendall broke in.  "I ate rabbits."

Where did you hunt these rabbits? I asked.

"I don't know, somewhere in the suburbs."

It was the second time he'd left me speechless.

"I was up at Navy Pier for a basketball camp," said Christopher again.  He named some Bulls player whose name I didn't recognize.  I'd stopped following basketball after Jordan retired.  To tell the truth, I can probably only name about three current NBA players: Lebron, D-Rose, and  Joakim Noah.  I like him because I really like his hair.  "He was there to help us kids play ball, and when he asked for a volunteer, I popped up."

How'd you do?

"I kept hitting air and he told me to use the backboard. I was so terrible but it was awesome."

Kendall broke in, "We roasted the rabbits.  With carrots and potatoes.  They were really good."

Carrots?  I said, chuckling, then realized he wasn't being ironic.

Christopher broke in again: "Oh.  And? I met Bill Cartwright."  Now, Bill Cartwright I knew.  He'd played for the Bulls back when we were good.  That's a team where I could name every player.  Christopher pulled out his phone and showed me a picture.  "He was at Ms. Biscuit.  Prater says he knew him but I think he's lying."

I wandered into a Spanish class.  They had a sub because we've been having a hard time finding a decent teacher.  I had high hopes, though.  "Yo, where's Miss G?" asked Kiara.

I shrugged.  She took another job.  She wanted to be closer to home, to the baby.

"And Miss P?"  This line of questioning begins every school year.  There's a high teacher turnover rate in the city.  Lots of people begin their careers here, gain experience, and then shift out to a job in the suburbs where the pay is higher and they're less like to get mugged.

She took another job too, I said.  Kiara looked like she wanted to cry.  It's not that she didn't love all of you, I added.  She just needed to do what was right for herself.  I've been here for a long time, but someday I might move on too if life took me somewhere new.

"You best not," said Kiara.

Not right now.  Right now, this school is close to my house, I love you guys, and I love my job.

"Wait," said Brianna.  "You live close?  Where?  Party at Miss B's!"

I've missed you guys, I said.  School is so boring in the summertime without you here.

"I missed you too," said Kiara.  "I mean it."




I made it back to the main office just as William walked in.  William is one of our recent grads.  Last year he got a freshman girl pregnant so he comes back up to school every so often to see her.  Even so, I hadn't seen him in months, so I gave him a huge hug immediately.

"Can I talk to you?" he said.

We went back into my office and he started telling me about his summer job and the babies and how he changed his mind and decided to go to college.  "I want to do better," he said.

That's wonderful, I replied.  What changed?

"Do you remember on the news this summer?  That shooting at the night club?  That was my brother."

Your actual brother or your play brother? I asked.

"My real brother.  Same Mama and Daddy.  My whole brother.  My only brother."

I'd never seen such a look on his face in all the years I'd known him.  See, the thing about William is he's a guy who always laughs.  He likes to rhyme and he's a quick thinker, and so he's always got a group of laughing people around him.  What happened? I asked.

"He got in a fight," he said.  "He won that fight, and when the guy knew he couldn't beat him, he went and he got a gun and he shot him.  He shot him.  He shot my brother."

I'm so sorry, I said.  You were close?  But they were.  I knew they were, because I remembered now how many times he'd told me about his older brother.

"It's funny," he answered instead.  "You hear about the murders in Chicago, and it's sad, and it's awful, but for the most part you can ignore it.  You can keep your head down and go to work and try not to let it get you.  But sometimes it just hits too close."

I nodded.  We'd lost a student at our school last year, and over the last three years at least five of our kids had been shot in the leg, one by cops.  He was running away from a crime scene and must have looked guilty.  You know how many gun injuries are in the leg?  A lot, especially when the shooter is inexperienced. The kick from the gun makes the bullet go down.

"It's the kind of thing that you have to ignore until you can't," he said.  "I've been crying all summer."

How's your mom? I asked softly.

He smiled.  "She's fine.  She's strong.  And I'm fine too.  And now I've got my transcripts and I'm going to enroll in Kennedy King and I'm going to take care of my kids and I'm going to do better."  He looked up then.  "What's wrong?  Smile.  You need to smile.  You can't be looking at me like that.  I'm okay.  We're all okay."

Sure, I said.  Sure.

Three Kings

"I asked for everything.  XBox One, PS4, iPod, iPad, everything."

Right, I said.  And what did you put on your regular list?  You know, for your relatives who don't have a million dollars?

He shook his head.  "I don't think about that.  If I thought about who couldn't afford things, Christmas wouldn't be any fun.  All I do is build my list, ask for what I really want, and if I get it, I'm happy.  And if I don't get it, I'm still happy.  Because it's still presents."   

Triston was on intervention.  He had to come to my office every day so I could make sure he was in school. 

"Listen to him," said Jose.  Jose had an attendance problem too, but ever since I started promising him free candy at the end of every perfect week, he'd been there every single day.  

"What?" said Triston.  "I like nice stuff."  He flipped to his sheet in my book and put a sticker in today's square.

Jose laughed.  "You only like that stuff because you don't have to work for it.  I've got a job. Spoiled."

Listen to you, I said.  I'm sure you like presents too.  What did you ask for?

"Nothing," said Jose.  "I work for what I have."

You don't celebrate Christmas?  How about Three Kings?

"Both," he said.  "We celebrate both."

"What's Three Kings?" said Triston.

"It's like ..." Jose paused a moment.  "You know how you don't get everything you want for Christmas?  You get it on Three Kings."

I laughed, and I made him explain how it was because of the gifts of the Magi and it was a big holiday in Mexico.

"Oh yeah," Jose said.  "Los Reyes Magos.  And Baby Jesus.  But really, it's the presents you don't get."

Triston thought hard for a moment.  "Oh," he said.  "I just made the connection.  We still have Three Kings here.  Except they call it Tax Day.  Refund!  Presents!  What? What?"

Go to class, I said.  You Maniacs.

They both grabbed a Reese's.  I always kept candy on my desk because I'm not above bribing children to do the right thing.

Scary

"What are you looking at?"

I nearly jumped out of my chair at that.  I'd been alone in my office late in the day and had just finished my last report when I began browsing the headlines.  And I'll admit it: I'm a sucker for a good headline.  This one read "Boy Charged With Killing Baby is 1000% Not Guilty."  I mean, would you leave that news story unread?

So of course I was reading it and Marcus, as he is wont to do, walked silently in my office and was staring at my computer screen before he announced his presence.

No, I said.  Just no.  You can't walk in my office and scare the bejeesus out of me, Marcus.  Go back out that door and knock.

"But you know I'm here," he said.  "What's the point?"

The point is it's polite.  You can't scare people.

"You was scared?"

Knock, Marcus.  Knock.  And I gave him my best teacher look.  Just because I'm not in the classroom anymore doesn't mean that they don't still know it when I mean it.

So he did, because he enjoys it just a little too much when I scold him.  Then he came back and made himself at home. "We good?" he asked.

Yes, I said.  But only kind of.  You need to knock every time.

"I really scared you?"

You were silent, and you walked up behind me when I thought I was alone.  What do you think you did?

"I didn't think I was silent.  I really scared you?  You're scary."  He laughed.

Now, when kids at my school announce that I'm scary, it doesn't mean that they think I'm a monster.  It means they think I'm scared and I'd better get over it.  The last thing I am is scary, I said.  I just don't like silent people who walk in without knocking.

"So what are you looking at?" he asked again, and I showed him the article about the kid who shot the baby who was 1000% not guilty.  "Oh, yeah, I heard about that one.  They shot the baby in front of the father."

No, I said.  I knew exactly which one he meant, because everybody was talking about it, but this one was in Georgia.  The one in Chicago was where they were changing the diaper in the car and they did a driveby to get the dad but hit the baby instead.  Georgia was the mom and the baby in a stroller.

But he was fixated on Chicago.  "So they was after the dad and not the baby?  That's not so bad."

I just looked at him.

"It's not.  They didn't mean to hit the baby.  That's different than aiming for the baby and shooting it."

And I supposed he was right.  I mean, if you discount everything about precious lives and sweet-smelling feet and toothless smiles lost, there was a difference.  A driveby is different than deliberately aiming for the baby and shooting him in the face.  It's a long time since I thought to myself that anywhere was worse than Chicago for violence, but we may have found a winner.  Georgia.  Who knew?

But Marcus was still thinking.  "Did the dad die in that one and the baby lived?  That's messed up.  They should shoot that dad.  He should have died, not the baby."

Then again, perhaps not.  I couldn't make him walk outside and knock again for that one, though.  Some things you just can't redo.

Chi-raq

"Something's got to happen up in here," Sarah said.  "This is too much."

I was sitting at the security guard station at the front door because we needed all of our guards outside.  Some students from the school up the street had beef with our kids, you see, and had recently taken to showing up in groups, finding an isolated kid wearing our uniform, and jumping him.  But of course this kind of thing never stops. Our kid got jumped, then their kid got jumped, then it grew.

So.  We held our kids after dismissal, had a ton of adults on the street, and then one of our kids left the building, crossed the street too fast and got hit by a car. Completely unrelated. In the ensuing mess of ambulance and police, the other school showed up and new fights ensued.  So I was sitting at the security guard desk because we needed everybody outside.

So much was going on that there was no way I could keep track.  So I did what I always do when I want information: I asked Sarah.  She will be truthful.  I may not like her truth, but she will be honest.

She had theories.  They jumped us today because they had time to get out of school and wait for us up at the Walgreens.   "What we should do," she said, "is change our schedule so we can get up out of here earlier."

Why? I said.  So we could wait for them up at the Walgreens?  Violence begets violence, and then it escalates.

It was a conversation I'd had a hundred times before.  I'll probably have it a hundred more times.  It never stops.  We live in a war zone, I said.  The murder rate in Chicago is higher than it is in Kabul.

"I know," said Sarah.  "That's why we say Chi-raq.  Get it?  Chicago and Iraq.  Chi-raq."

Clever, I thought.  And I wanted to disagree.  This thing with fights in the streets was just another day at the office for me, to be honest.  It's happened before, and it'll happen again, and we will go out of our way to keep our kids safe.  It's what we do.  And then one day it will happen again and the cycle will continue.

I can sense that you, reader, are a little surprised by my blasé attitude.  Don't mistake me.  I'm worried.   I'm plotting ways to ensure that this situation deëscalates.  I don't want any more kids to get hurt.  I've seen enough kids get hurt, talked with too many cops.

It was just so hard for me to react today.  I was still reeling over what happened to Edgar.

Usually when I write this blog, I change the names of students for privacy, but today I will not, because it is important to me to state his name.  His name was Edgar, and I can already feel this blog getting away from me, because I hate that I am writing it about this kid.  Edgar.

Edgar, not the "20-year-old man who was fatally shot on the South Side" that the Tribune reduced him to.  That makes him just another statistic, and Chiraq's statistics aren't Edgar.

He was in my English class his sophomore year, and he was one of my favorite students. I always like the kids who constantly get in trouble best.  They're so wily, and I enjoy matching wits with them.

Edgar was no exception.  He was, in fact, one of the most brilliant minds I've ever had the pleasure to have in my classroom.  Brilliant, you say?  But he failed so many classes.  Yes, brilliant.  He failed classes because he skipped school so often, not because he wasn't smart enough.  I don't care what the debate was, he usually chose to argue the opposite of what everyone else was saying.  I never knew if he believed what he was saying, but he was always passionate about it.

But that was Edgar.  One day, I overheard him talking to his buddy.  Something was going down, and they were plotting.

I've got another idea, I told them.  How about you stay away from that?

"Don't worry, Miss B," they said.  "We don't bring that stuff to school."

That's not what I'm worried about, I said.  But he just laughed when I said they needed to keep themselves safe.

"That's not always possible," he said.

I never could convince him to watch out for his future.

That was the first thing I thought of last night when I heard what happened to him.  So of course I went looking for him on facebook.  I wanted to see if he still looked like I remembered. He did.  A few years older, but he was the same.  His profile picture showed him kissing a baby girl, his daughter.  I started clicking through his other photos.

I don't know if Edgar took this picture, or if he just thought it was cool.  Either way, I can't think of a single image that represents the lives of the children of our city better.  They grow up surrounded by this, and they forget how to be kids.

His name was Edgar.  He was flawed.  He was brilliant.  He is not another statistic.  I'm so tired of my kids turning into numbers.

In the past, when things were bad for me, I'd tell myself to buck up.  I'd think of places like Israel and remind myself that I didn't live in a place where bombs went off.  There aren't bodies in the streets, I'd tell myself.

But that was before Chicago turned into Chiraq.

I watch the news and see the candidates and none of them are talking about what's important.  To me, there is only one thing that is important: improving the lives of our children.  We can do better.  We must do better. We are Chicago.  We are not Chiraq.  And his name?  His name was Edgar.

Confabulation

"You look tired," Michael said to me. He'd come into my office with his best friend Ashley because that's what they do.

I've been getting that a lot lately. Sometimes when you're a teacher you look at administrators and think about all the ways that they're messing everything up and then you become an administrator and you mess things up, all the while thinking longingly of those days when you used to get sleep.

So I told that that I looked tired because I was working hard for them.

They didn't buy it.

"You know what you should get?" said Michael. "It's that thing that Caucasian people wear."

Caucasian people?

"Ooh, yeah," said Ashley. "They put it on their face so people can't tell they're tired. Miss A uses it all the time. You should ask her. She looks good."

Um. I thought hard, trying to figure out what they were talking about. You mean concealer?

"Yeah!" said Michael. "You put it under your eyes. It covers up those dark circles."

I couldn't help myself; I started to giggle like a little girl. They looked at me blankly, unsure what the joke was.

I decided to help them out. So what you're telling me is I shouldn't get more sleep; I should wear more makeup.

Ashley nodded. "Yes." She was so pleased with me. "Because then people can't tell. That's important."

They both told me bye then and ran out of my room so they didn't miss the chicken sandwiches at lunch, which reminded me. I needed to eat lunch, too.

I keep forgetting.

Simple Gifts

My name came over the loudspeaker. Report to the main office, they said.

I'd been expecting it, ever since our Parent Coordinator told me that some kids were looking for me. They had something for me, she said. I shouldn't go too far. So I ran a quick errand but apparently it wasn't quick enough, because a teacher stopped me on the way back to the office saying that she wanted to reschedule our observation. It wasn't a good day, she said, and she knew I had high expectations. I was trying to talk her out of it because really, I'm not that scary, before the announcement gave me an out.

When I got back to the office, three of my former students were standing there, with a large picture wrapped in what looked like the paper we used to cover bulletin boards.

"We're here to give you a present," Jenny said. She was holding a dusty plant, which she immediately thrust into my hands.

"We feel you need it," said Alan. "A present, which we will present to you with great ceremony."

Alan was always one for a clever turn of phrase. This is one of the reasons, in fact, that I enjoy him so. He handed me a somewhat ragged stuffed bear. Dog. Something. It was white and fuzzy.

Jose then presented me with what was clearly the real present. I could tell because they'd gift-wrapped it with bulletin board paper. It was a poster in a tattered frame.

So of course I opened it with great ceremony and even though I knew they'd found these items all over school, I let them hang it with even more ceremony, because when someone goes to this much trouble for a joke, you really need to let them get to the punchline.

Kids. They're funny.