An Honest Look at the Dark Side

One of the biggest challenges of this experience is deciding how to describe my experience to people outside of the city. I had this challenge living and studying abroad in Costa Rica as well––everything is so different in such complex ways I always found it difficult to express how a semester abroad had changed how I look at the world. Living and teaching in Chicago is just barely more familiar than Costa Rica, and is still like living in another world.

Some cultural differences I’ll never be able to describe, but there are some that are worth taking a crack at. The cultural aspect that I want to write about is one that is all too well known in the public, media-driven sphere; the phenomenon of violence. It is a not a judgement to say that, in my part of the city, it is prevalent; this is an objective observation. It seems to permeate into nearly every realm of social interactions at school, ranging from playful (though rough) fighting among true friends to undeniably brutal fights that result from anger, gossip, drama, and failed communication. These fights are alarmingly common, and, as far as I can tell, result from issues like “she bumped me the hall and is always instigating it” to “well, since we both like so-and-so...” to “So-and-so said that she said that I...” All of these are stated reasons from my own students who were involved in fights. More often than not I find out why they were fighting after they return from a three-day suspension.

In March, Michele Clark was on the local evening news channels because of a fight among students after school on the street that got so out of hand that a student hit a police officer and was tased. Her family protested outside of the school for that week with megaphones, encouraging the other students to walk out of school, and implored that they “don’t tell the cops NOTHIN!” Yesterday, two of my students, and 8th grader and a 7th grader fought after school––the result of (unknown to me) long-pent-up animosity between the two girls. Many others joined in, all my students. Today my first period was like a ghost town because of so many suspensions.

This is the type of violence that goes on, according to the students, frequently. Last week I asked one student how his Spring break was.

“Horrible!”

“No way! Why was it so bad?!” I knew the weather had been awesome in Chicago over the break and, knowing this student to be an enthusiastic athlete, was surprised that he wasn’t three shades of green from all the grass stains he would have after a week of playing outside.

“They kept shooting all the time outside our apartment, so we couldn’t go outside and play football. I was so bored!”

I tried to hide my horror, but I must have let out something about his safety, because he reassured me, “No, I was alright because my cousin still runs with that gang so he told us when to look out because he knew when it was coming.”

“I’m really glad you’re ok, LaDarion,” I responded lamely. I didn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah, Mr. Walker, I’m good.”

I hesitate to bring this carnage up in describing my experience because I don’t know if it’s helpful. I don’t mean to say that it’s not a huge part of my experience (it obviously is) but I feel like I carry a certain ambassador status for all my friends and family who don’t know anything about the city. By no means am I an “authority” on city culture or city education, but I’m spending a whole semester here – something most of my friends and family have not done, and by living and teaching in this community I have a clear window into the living culture. I’ve found that there is part of certain people with whom I talk about my experience – maybe not a rational part – that makes it seem like they’re holding their breath to hear first hand accounts of how bad the cities are, like they’re only listening long enough to confirm what they think they know about city education systems: that they’re hopeless.

My friends often joke with me, “Have you been shot at yet, Mr. Walker?” or “Don’t give a kid an F, or he’ll jump you!” And I’m not surprised when I consider how much information about the inner cities are circulated to the non-city public, and what percent of that information deals with crime, drugs, and violence. I try to use to the jokes as an opportunity to bring up how diverse the students are, acknowledging that there are some “troublemakers” (to put it lightly) but to point out that there are also tons of great kids, too.

So why a whole post about violence if I’m worried that the violence is the only thing that other people will see? Because I think that to ignore its existence, and it’s hugely negative effect on the lives of my students, is as useless as depicting the city only as a battlefield. I want others to know that the violence is real, but also that the lines between victims and perpetrators are blurred here; when kids are growing up in a culture of daily violence, everyone loses, even (or especially) those who are involved in the fighting.

My students sometimes share their work from other classes with me, and today during a lunch a group of 8th graders shared some of their poems from english class. This is a poem by one of my students, Rae, published with permission.

I’m all alone

Pow Pow

Gun shots go off

OMG this is where it starts

May 15 is when I started 2 believe that

The whole world was after me.

OMG he was only 16

Why wasn’t it me, he had so many dreams

Gun shot wound straight to da chest

Dear God please do your best

He was my 16 year old brotha

It’s not time for him to rest

He was doing his best,

And nothing less.

Da medics are here, they rush him to the hospital

As I sit in dat quiet waiting room I think to myself

No way he can be dead he was just getting ahead

The nurse comes out and say I have some bad news

Your brother is gone, here’s a tissue

I peek into the room and see that flat line

All I could do was start to cry

My brother is gone, and I’m all alone.

-Rae L

I was shocked by the straightforwardness of the poem, and even more shocked when she answered my unasked question, “It’s true,” she shrugged, “my brother died two days before my birthday two years ago.” She said it without drama. Other students nodded and then, like the script of life gone wrong, they started listing the other family members (all boys) who had been shot and killed. One student exclaimed, “Everyone’s getting shot these days” and shook his head, eyes looking beyond the room.

I think to bring light to the subject if violence here also serves as a testament to these students’ resilience and perseverance. I find it difficult to cope with the emotional stress of constant violence even as an adult, and I stand in awe of my students who can make it through, and even thrive, in a school an community that is sometimes torn apart by physical aggression. Rae (honestly) is one of my brightest and most engaged students, popular and good-intentioned, with a great sense of humor and a drive to succeed. She is one of many who fit this description.

One of the veteran teachers at my school who has been a small but crucial part of my mentoring told me never to be too proud of teaching in the city. “It’s not a badge of honor to teach here,” he said, “or at least it shouldn’t be. Everyone should be entitled great education. These kids have the same right to it as the kids in the burbs.” I understand this idea more as I gain experience and learn more about my students and their lives. When I consider the violence that swirls around and sometimes inside of our school, and I reflect on my role as a teacher, I am undoubtedly proud, but not of myself; I am proud of my students.