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Pan Comido. (Costa Rican Equivalent to "Piece of Cake." Literally, "Eaten Bread." Hilarious!)

“You know who you look like?”

“Who?”

“Harry Potter.”

“Edwin, the vampire from Twilight.”

“Spider Man.” (see also “Tobey Maguire”)

“Yankee Doodle” (derogatory?)

“One of the Jonas brothers.” (consensus seems to be Kevin)

“A guy who would collect comic books.”

Me: “...oh. ... Really?”

Group of Sophomore girls: “yea. Do you?”

Me: “No...but, just out of curiosity what type do I look like I’d collect?”

Girls: “Batman” “Yeah, Batman.” “No Spiderman.” “Yeah, Spiderman.”

Me: “Oh. Cool.”

After three weeks of wearing a tie:

“Mr. Walker, do you like Macy’s?”

“The store?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been there...I guess I like it ok. Why?”

“Well, you look like one of those fake people in the store.”

“You mean a mannequin?”

“Yeah! All dressed up and stuff...That’s a good thing, Mr. Walker!”

And the finale: this is my favorite not because of the person, but because of the context in which it came up. A Janitor, we’ll call her Janice, wearily left her broom at the door of our room and sat down for a moment in one of the students’ desks. I introduced myself to Janice, as I have introduced myself to every new face since I arrived, and learned that she has worked at Michele Clark for more than a decade. I explained that I came to Clark to complete my student teaching, and that I actually chose an inner city school (Why’d you come here?) because I want to teach in US cities after I graduate. Her response was my first taste of the raw honesty--the “real” in “keepin’ it real”--that I have come to recognize as a mantra of the inner city.

“You want to teach here? Why do you think they’d listen to you? You look like Doogie Howser!”

Her voice was not malicious, but she didn’t laugh and looked at me matter-of-factly. It seemed deliberate that her comparison to the boy doctor indexed not only my young age, but my race as well. (If it were just my age, why not Gary Coleman, or even the Fresh Prince?) I laughed at first, but then stopped and, dumbfounded, exchanged her expectant look with my blank one. I wanted to explain that I believe effective teaching has more to do with a teacher’s ability to promote deep investigation, to organize a routine classroom, and to reach students on an individual level while maintaining high expectations and then finding the delicate balance between “teacher” and “anything else” in student relationships. I wanted to say that all of these things have essentially nothing to do with race or differences in race, but I didn’t know how to say to that to an elder woman--one who had been in the inner city far longer than I--and also, after thinking all these things, I wasn’t sure that I was right; I began to question if my race had more to do with effective teaching than I gave it credit.

This happened during my first week, and I’m about to start my fourth tomorrow. Since the Doogie Howser event I’ve thought a great deal about race and education. I’m reading about it in books I’ve checked out from the library and I’ve had several conversations with colleagues at Clark. More about this later. Meanwhile, I’ve made incredible progress building my rapport with my students, and I think that the more students realize that I’m serious about teaching and that I’m ready and more than willing to empower their educational adventures, the more the issue of my skin color fades to obscurity.

One group of girls asked me what nationality I most identified with. I told them that my ancestors were from all over Europe (I admitted I didn’t know much about them), but that I was born in St. Louis, and that I most closely identify with the United States. They looked unsatisfied, and one said, “so are you Caucasian?”

I said, “Sure. I just call it ‘white’. I’m not sure it matters.”

They nodded thoughtfully.

To be polite, I asked them with which nationality they most closely identified. The first girl shrugged and said, “I guess I’m just black.”

“But you’re from the U.S., too, right?” I asked this, I admit, in hopes that I might build a bridge between us through our common nationality.

“Yeah. I was born here in Chicago.”

I thought this a success, but if I hit a single, the second girl hit the grand slam that brought me home. She thought for a second, also shrugged and said, “We’re all just people anyway, right?”

I marveled for one second, and then said, “You got it.”

Spoken Word

This is a blog of sound bytes from one day at Michele Clark. These were either spoken directly to me or within the context of a conversation of which I was (more or less) a part. The contributors to this blog are freshmen, sophomores, teachers, and security guards, and no single contributor is quoted more than once.

“That’s the first time I heard her speak practically all year.”

“You got change for a 20?”

“She said, ‘I don’t even like you; you phony.’ an I said, ‘I on’t even care, we ain’t friends, I on’t even care.’ and then she said she wanna fight me and came at me.”

"Yo, you know I have to walk him around cause otherwise he funna get jumped."

"Can you help me, please?"

“NO, I didn’t have a good weekend. My cousin got...I don’t even wanna say it.”

“Where Ms. Coi at?"

“It’d be nice to teach the same thing as the other teachers every day, but you never know what they’re doing.”

“Ya’ll need the blood of jesus--that’s what you need!”

“I get all A’s in science, but I don’t like it. At all.”

“You gotta pencil?”

“I used to dance, but I can’t anymore.”

"Yeah, that's my name, but you can call me Yung Motion, cause I'm the baddest baller in this here school."

“That’s why I always take up for the kids who’s getting picked on; because you never know when they’s gonna snap. This kid probably just got picked on too much. That’s why he stabbed that other kid in the hand today.”

“Why would these kids need to hurry to class? It’s only finals week.”

“Girl, I got all the chocolate you need right here.”

“They wasn’t no one absent in 5th period. We had a full house.”

“I don’t wanna laugh, you know, but sometimes these kids just make me laugh.”

A note about names

All names in this blog, except my own and including those previously mentioned (Mr. Hickory the football coach and Mr. Bunch the security guard) are pseudonyms. My cooperating teacher chose her own pseudonym today (because I couldn't come up with anything she liked enough!) My cooperating teacher's name is Ms. Coi (pronounced "coy").

awesome!

A Run in the (Neighbor)Hood.

Today, after Sunday services, I laced up my sneakers and ran out into the tropical mid 40’s chicago weather. I live in Austin--”the Hood” as every person I’ve talked with, including all of my students, has called my community. As this was my first run since I arrived here, I thought to run west, into the bordering suburbs and explore. After a few blocks, though, I realized didn’t want to go see the suburbs. After all, I grew up there.

Instead I turned south and skirted Columbus park, where the snow fields are melting and the pathways a series of puddles. I ran to the Eisenhower (all of the highways in Chicago are named after presidents) and turned East. I smiled to myself as I crossed Central Ave, where one concerned (white) mother told me to never to go east of, even in a car. (I didn’t inform her that I live on Central and that my school is several blocks to the East.)

The surprisingly warm weather brought many people out of doors, and as I jogged farther east and then north, nearing the main thoroughfare of Madison Ave., the streets exploded with life. Groups talking, kids playing, people carrying grocery bags along the sidewalks. I turned one corner and almost ran into a whole family, quickly apologizing to their stunned faces. I wondered if they were startled more by our near collision or by my white face. I hopped from the sidewalk onto the street and tried not to stare back at all the people staring at me. They were not hostile stares, but I was certainly a spectacle. I raised my hand in a sort of jogging salute to the people I passed close by. Many of them greeted me in return. Little kids waved with their hands inside their coat sleeves and swiveled as I passed to watch me run off down the block.

One older woman saw me coming and said in a clear, knowing voice that spoke volumes, “Hey how you doin, honey,” and as I gasped a hello I made eye contact and her small smile and slight head shake, her face said, “yeah, you’re a white kid in an all black neighborhood and you know it and I know it and I’m fine with it but you’re asking for people to notice you even if you don’t think you are, and you’re going to get reactions and it’ll be friendly from most people, like me, but don’t think it’s always going to be friendly, because honey, you’re a white kid and you runnin' in the hood.”

Another asked me how many miles I had run, and I panted, “just a few...” and then truthfully added, so as not to seem too proud, “and I’m dyin’.” He and his friends laughed for about a block.

One woman said as I passed, “When you start jogging, come and get me!” and her group laughed until was two blocks away. Not knowing what else to say, I just laughed.

There were a few cat calls, one comment about “crackers on the run!”, but the reactions were positive overall. I hadn't planned to take an ambassador-type run, but on the run I realized there was a part of me that wanted to run into the heart of the black neighborhoods as if I could show them that I'm not afraid, or that I don't judge a community based on rumors.

I’d like to think that this community is just like every other community I’ve been a part of: full mostly of friendly people, who don’t mind or don’t care about a white skin beyond maybe an initial surprise to see one in this all-black community. Sure, there are probably a few of the rougher people that give Austin and the surrounding areas a reputation that would make a concerned mother tell me that she is praying for me until the day I move out (which I very much appreciate, though I don't know how necessary it is). I think I’d be hard pressed to find them out on a Sunday afternoon as the after-church gatherings flood the streets.

One security guard at Michele Clark, Mr. Bunch, said to me this past week, “ninety percent of these kids are good kids. They want to be here and all that. We just got this ten percent of kids that show up and bring ten types of stupid with ‘em, and they make this place crazy. And give it the reputation its got. But most of them are good kids. You’ll see.”

As far as I’ve seen in my two weeks, he’s completely right, and I wonder after my run today if his observation extends to the surrounding community. I would not be surprised to find that Austin is much more than the reputation that precedes it.

Noise

I loved living in Miami’s res halls all four years; there was always someone around to talk with, someone playing music, dudes slaying 100,000 aliens on Halo and yelling across the hallway, and I continued to make close friends from my res hall right up to my last semester at Oxford.

Now, in my final semester, I live by myself in a one-bedroom apartment that dwarfs my post-dorm-room furniture and sometimes makes me feel like I have enough extra space to hold gymnastics practice in my dining room. It’s pretty cool, or, at least, I feel pretty cool; living by myself is big step, especially in a completely new city. I own a mop, I clean my bathroom, I grocery shop and cook for myself (the only change that makes me hurt for the dorms), and when I come home, it’s just me.

I grew up with two crazy brothers, and we were all extremely loud. Yelling for fun, yelling in fights, fighting for fun...our house was a gong show. These days, I love coming home from college because--even though college is its own fun cacophony--the noise in my house that my brothers and I seem to generate simply by existing in the same place is how I know I’m home. Everywhere else is normal-decibal range, but it’s not home without the noise.

In Chicago it’s the opposite. I can almost hear my school before I see it. Michele Clark Academic Prep Public High School is a bustling, heaving giant of noise. At only around 1000 students, its the runt dog in the fight that you bet on because you see the glint in its eye. It’s got fight, spirit, and when it cuts loose, you just can’t believe the deafening roar. It starts with the twin metal detectors, where students line up to have their backpacks pass through the x-ray and rev up for a day of yelling, screaming, shouting, in and outside of the classroom. If my classroom is ever quiet, I know that either one of the security guards (or Mr. Hickory, the feared football coach) just came into the room, or that I went deaf.

When I come back to my apartment after staying a couple hours after school or after volunteering at a NPO bike shop (more about that to come), I know that I’m home by the silence. This absence of noise and stillness was at first foreboding, but now I recognize it as a necessary part of my routine here, part of what balances the intensity that accompanies every school day. To be honest, it’s much more intense, both the positive and the negative, than I have ever experienced or even imagined. Each day is vicious sine wave of incredible triumph and horrendous failure. My teacher friends prepared me for this, but it’s a ride I could never have fully anticipated.

What’s crazy to me, though, is that I’m not exhausted when I wake up in the morning. Even with more-than-usual sleep (which I’m not getting) I would expect this to flatten me, but every day I get up, and I want more. I’m learning every day, and I’m making the most I can of this opportunity.

Bring on the noise.

Why Urban Education?

Since my freshman year, when I began to learn about issues of inequality in urban education, I had considered teaching in inner city schools. Later, when I was lit on fire with social justice and activism, I was certain that I would at least start in urban education, if not commit my career to it entirely. Inner city schools, from everything I have read, seemed to be where the greatest population of students needed dedicated teachers the most, and I want to be that dedicated teacher.

I think education is the most effective way to empower young people and prepare them for their futures, and in some cities, education is the only chance students have. In short, I need to be there. But there’s one catch: I’m not from there, and have no idea what living or teaching in an urban city (not a suburban city like where I grew up) is all about. Conclusion: dive in. I figured if urban schools are as tough as everyone says (“you’re going to teach where?”) I should start right away, in my student teaching, when I at least have the opportunity to work with a teacher who will (theoretically) facilitate my transition into what is essentially a new world under the same American flag.

BLAST OFF!!!

Hey Team!

Welcome to my student teaching blog, Planting City Roots! Here’s the Deal:

• I’m in Chicago from January 6 to April 30th. (Awesome!)
• I’m here to complete my undergraduate degree from Miami U (Integrated Math Education) by conducting my student teaching.
• I’m paired with a cooperating teacher at Michele Clark Academic Prep Magnet School, a 6-12 school in the Chicago Public School (CPS) system.
• I live in Austin, the City of Chicago’s western-most community (not in the burbs, but 8 miles from the lake), only a mile and a half away from my school.

I am keeping this blog so that I can keep friends and family in the loop about what’s going on during this crazy first step in my professional career. Stay tuned for frequent updates. If you need to get in touch with me, look forward to hearing from you at my new email address: benjamin . Q . Walker @ gmail.com

All the best from the Windy City,

-BWalk