Back when I was in 80s high school, (three different ones in four years) the first day of school for me was rife with haunting worries of alas unrequited threats from last year’s last day of school. “Don’t come to school the last day, I’m going to get you “ I was regularly warned. So, when I was able to “skip,” I did. When not, I found refuge in the Principal’s office or as a teacher’s special helper. I can still smell the mimeo aroma from the mimeograph machine that made purple stained paper copies at Byron Kilbourn Elementary School. The drum cranked around, my arm powering the official operation.
Every single, solitary year, I or someone I knew, was a target. Sure, I was slightly – ok –mostly, loud, obnoxious and opinionated. Not only that, but I was what is called today, a “snitch.” Still am. (I highly recommend it, by the way).
Today, I prefer the term honest communicator.
Back in the day, they called me teacher’s pet, do gooder, brown noser, (go figure) or even Oreo. I loathed and loved authority figures, intermittently and simultaneously. I could be the star pupil or the expelled girl, shipped from MPS to South Milwaukee on a big yellow “220” bus. Consistently, I ratted on whomever I could. I felt a very strong need to bring truth to the fore and help my “school” friends see the error in their negative ways. Of course, I had truckloads of my own negativity, but theirs seemed more succulent.
I was the chipper chirping in my teacher’s ear. I was always in the hallways gathering intelligence to report, somehow. Sometimes, I spent good chunks of my days in the Principal’s office, either telling it, or getting told.
So, yes, the first day of school, no matter what school, was a day I sought to avoid because no one ever “got” me on the last day of school.
As a new high school principal, I am tickled by those school “daze.” I struggled; really I did, academically, emotionally and socially. Sometimes I got it right. Other times, miserably wrong. I was pretty angry, often for no reason, or for reasons that made sense to no one but me.
Still, I am mushy, corny, cliché’ at times and nostalgic about those days. Also why, in part, I am so serious about not throwing away kids who are hard to teach – hard to reach. They need us most. They fight us much.
I cringe with sheer horror at the sound of three little words, “kids these days.”
What, these days?
Kids were reckless, rude and rebellious, even in the 1950s. Kids don’t get here without adults that put them hereEverybody can’t give up. Somebody’s got to believe in the unbelievable and somebody has to shift from neutral into drive.
Alverno College never promised me a rose garden, when they taught and certified me as an English/Communication teacher. They did not prepare me for cherubs that throw chairs, scissors and insults.
We have a whole new group of learners “these days.”
Not so much.
I think we get what we look for and we expect urban, black young people to be savage. At unexpected times, they don’t disappoint. Again, that is not new.
We had not, by high school, resolved ourselves with Slavery, Racism and Poverty. We or at least “I” took out my teenage angst, anger and frustration on nearly anyone, sometimes. They are loud and boisterous, just like I was. They fight, when words weren’t possible, just like I did.
They did not ask, nor did we, to be here. Really, no one of us asked to be here. I don’t know that every child can be saved but I do know that every child is worth some effort even when that child is 17teen, 16teen and so on. I was worth it, though many argued against me then. They are worth it, though they don’t consistently demonstrate knowledge of their own self worth.
I did not either.
