Cumpleaños and Criminal Charges – Community at My School

I said I would start writing down the daily happenings of my life so that I would not loose the emotions and details of my days. And, well, just to prove that there is never a dull moment in the outrageous school and ridiculous district I work in, today was a doozey. But let’s back up and start with last Friday.
After working in my school for two years, I am proud to say that I feel like I am starting to understand and be accepted within the community I teach. It feels good to be accepted into the lives of my students, and their families, and I treasure this trust that has developed between us. One of the defining reasons why I decided to teach a third year at my crazy-ass school came from the mouth of Mr. Perez, a fourth grade teacher whom I respect greatly. He said to me, “Do what is best for you, when you make your decision about where to teach. But I want you to know that I have heard how the students and parents talk about you at our school. Everyone likes you and what you are doing. Students talk about wanting to be in your class next year. If I were you, I would stay at this school because you have made such a good impression with the community.”
Before I go any further I really should describe the school that I work in so you truly grasp what a big deal this sense of community is (This isn’t the type of elementary school where mommies are lined up to decorate bulletin boards and bring afternoon snacks.) First, I will give you the political/socioeconomic rhetoric that is associated with my school. I work in a Title 1 school, in arguably the worst district in my state (it’s not everyday that the State Department decides an entire district is incompetent and needs to be taken over), where 95% of the students get free or reduced breakfast and lunch due to poverty, and I stand out like a sore thumb in the halls of my school where 85% of the population is Hispanic, 14% African American and 1% encompasses all forms of “other.” With that said I will give you my own vernacular description based on my experiences:
I work in the ghetto.
I work where gangs kill the older siblings of my students in homes literally a stones-throw from the front door of our school, and where lock downs happen during dismissal because of random gun fire, or mid-day because a high-speed chase ends in gun shots, crashing vans, and twenty scattering illegal immigrants who run from the back of the van and into the neighborhood trying desperately to out run the police. I work where a student in my classroom is so traumatized by the robbers who looted her house while she, her grandmother, and siblings hid in the shower, that she doesn’t feel safe enough to use the school bathroom alone. I work in a school where brand new computer equipment is mauled by students who etch in the names of gangs into computer monitors, because by the seventh grade they have “chosen a side,” and claim their turf in the computer lab. While I seek to embrace, recognize, and celebrate the unique culture my students have - at times the realities and hardships of this ghetto weigh heavily on my mind and it is difficult to see the community caught amidst the chaos. Labels, political rhetoric and personal judgments aside, I will let you evaluate what (if any) amount of that bullshit really has to do with the students, families, and community that I serve.
The first year of teaching at my school, I really felt like an outcast within the building’s walls – families perceived me as a very young, very pretty, very white girl, who they didn’t really know how to interact with (I am not flattering myself when I say very pretty – I actually had a set of parents come in to a parent-teacher conference – after MONTHS of trying to meet with them - to talk about their sons failing grades, and when they met me they said in Spanish, “well no wonder you are failing, how can you focus on what la bonita is saying?” They laughed and sort of made this and a slew of other lame excuses for their son’s poor performance. He repeated the fifth grade this year.) I don’t think I will ever tire of the looks of astonishment I get from parents when they hear me speak Spanish for the first time or hear about my travels to Guatemala – it sort of gets me immediate street credit with the Mexican families, and my exploits in Tanzania earn me more than a few points with the African American families. And hey - I’ll take it.
That first year all of the teachers perceived me as another know-it-all Teach for America crony come to “save the children” for a few years and then skip town the first chance I got (to their credit – this stereotype is not baseless, many TFAers are as arrogant and self-righteous as they believe). My first day at my school, Mr. Widup, the eternally inhospitable curmudgeon of a teacher who made up the veteran portion of my grade level team, looked at both me and the other fresh faced TFA novice and said, “I doubt you two will make it through the year.” What a warm welcome. This prediction came right after he explained that he only needed to work 6 more years to reach retirement and then he was moving to Spain and opening a restaurant and never talking to a child ever again. Lo! How his passion for teaching truly guided and inspired me that first year. Ha!
He walks the halls to this day, scowl creased upon his face. Only now it’s more like 10 years of infecting-I-mean-shaping young minds because he lost all of his savings in the market. To put it in a nut shell, as with most things my first year, my relationship within and to my school was less than ideal. But I more than worked my ass off last year and students, teachers, and the administrators have begun to recognize this. This year I have been invited to student basketball and soccer games, traditional Mexican folklorica dance recitals, and this past Friday, I attended my first student birthday party.
At first, I was a little leery about going. Would my presence at an 11 year old girl’s birthday party be seen as awkward and inappropriate to her family and guests? I argued with myself that if the invitation was extended, then clearly the family approved of this decision. Finally, my mind was made up when (for only the second time in my two years of teaching) a student brought in birthday treats to share with the whole class. I told the older sister who brought in the Hannah Montana cupcakes, that I would see her later that night at the party.
After school I went home and decompressed from the week a bit. I knew I needed to buy a present (what sort of a present should a teacher bring? I had never given a gift as a teacher before.), and I figured I would just stop at a store along the way. A true tell as to how different this neighborhood is, not a single major department store, chain pharmacy, or grocery store existed between my house and the party venue. I had to backtrack through the stinky industrial junkyards and dilapidated neighborhoods until I found a CVS four miles out of the way. (Where do these people get their wares for god sakes?! Do they just not buy anything nearby? Do they take the bus every time they grocery shop? How is there no commerce in their neighborhood at all?) After I had successfully secured a “teacher-y” gift (notebook, journal, pretty pens), I worried that I would too embarrassing late to show up to the house.
Well, when I pulled up I realized this was not going to be like the sleep-over birthday parties that I had as a kid, because this eleventh birthday wasn’t at a home. It was a more than slightly rundown salón, or dance hall, however rough around the edges it was complete with fully set stage for a band, 50 tables, dance floor, DJ booth, and professional lighting. Apparently, my students family owns not only a sit down restaurant, but two rancheros (street side food vendors), and a dance hall. I walked in to a nearly deserted room (apparently starting a party three hours late is customary), but the tías y padres that were present turned and for stared for 30 seconds at me like I was lost. Then my student’s mother came out and greeted my in Spanish and introductions began. There wasn’t another uncomfortable moment all night.
As I waited for the guests and birthday girl to arrive I was treated to tostadas and ceviche which was superb. Family and church friends immediately welcomed me as we talked, laughed and danced (I was taught to dance like a Sinaloan by my students) for hours. It was the best eleventh birthday I have ever been to and the look on my student’s face when she came in and saw me there was unforgettable. She immediately came over to me first (before la familia) and gave me a big hug, saying, “I’m so glad you came!” I felt very honored to receive such recognition.
This was definitely a new high for me as teacher, and as member of Phoenix’s South Side community. Driving away from the festivities that night, I really felt like I had been apart of something very special. As a teacher (and Spanish speaker), I realized I was able to be apart of a community that previously never would have existed to me. I had left the party with invitations to attend worship services at La Sagrada Familia from an Auntie and to go dancing with some older cousins at a Salsa club. I had been adopted as a part of her family.
Having seen how hospitable and warm this community could be, today’s events at my school were even more upsetting than they would have been before. Thirty minutes before school let out, our Principal came over the loud speaker and instructed teachers to pass out an important letter to every student before they went home. I opened one up and read.
An 8th grade teacher at my school, who has devoted her life to this community and worked within my district for 28 years, was arrested yesterday on charges of sexual assault with a minor, she was absent today because she is still being held by the county. I cannot begin to speculate about the truth, but I do know this: whether the allegations the 8th grade boy made are true or not, either way a horrible thing has happened and our school and the community it serves is hurting.
As our principal and the superintendent of the school pulled us into an emergency staff meeting to advise us on what to do about the camera crews (lined up outside interviewing parents as they picked their children up), the teachers who were close to the accused teacher were crying and in disbelief. As our principal finished speaking to us about how to deal with student and parent questions and where to send students who needed counseling, he wiped tears from his eyes.
Immediately, all of the teachers began thinking the obvious: this could happen to me. The superintendent went over standard “CYA” procedures (Cover Your Ass) like; never be alone with a child in a room, never touch a child, etc., and it made me hope to God that the teenage boy made it all up and that this teacher’s life could be put back together. I quickly realized after seeing our school’s name and her mug shot splashed all over the news with the gory details of the “alleged sexual account” that a quick recovery from this would probably not be possible for her even if she was found innocent and cleared of all charges.
It makes me wonder about the world today – where are we going as a society? What kind of person molests a 14 year old boy? And what kind of child makes up a story like that? Why are we so mesmerized by this bullshit that the media shows up in hoards to spoon feed it into our minds?
I am worried for tomorrow. I am worried for the teachers who have lost a friend. I am worried for the student, and teacher involved in this. I am worried for our administrators, and for our school. I am worried about the questions I will get from my students and their parents. I am worried for the community I teach in.
After the mandatory meeting, the librarian stood up and said with tears in her eyes, “If you would like to stay and say some prayers, please do.” I stood in a circle of about 10 of my colleagues and as we held each other’s hands we prayed for the community. It needs all the prayers it can get.