An idealistic new Yale grad learns up close and personal just how bad inner-city schools can be—and why.
I didn’t want to devote my life to helping the rich get richer or
crunching numbers to see what views were most popular for the vice
president to adopt. This wasn’t what my 17 years of education were for.
My doctor parents had drummed into me that education was the key to
every door, the one thing they couldn’t take away from my ancestors
during pogroms and persecutions. They had also filled me with a strong
sense of social justice. I couldn’t help feeling guilty dismay when I
thought of the millions of kids who’d never even tasted the great
teaching—not to mention the supportive family—I’d enjoyed for my entire
life. [...]
Five weeks later, I found myself steering my
parents’ old Volvo off R Street and into a one-block cul-de-sac. There
it was: Emery Elementary School, a 1950s-ugly building tucked behind a
dead-end street—an apt metaphor, I thought, for the lives of many of the
children in this almost all-black neighborhood a mile north of the U.S.
Capitol in Washington. I had seen signs of inner-city blight all over
the neighborhood, from the grown men who skulked in the afternoon
streets to the bulletproof glass that sealed off the cashier at the
local Kentucky Fried Chicken. This was the “other half” of Washington,
the part of the city I had missed during my grade-school field trips to
the Smithsonian and my two summers as a Capitol Hill intern. v[...]
As the tour ended and I was about to leave, Mr. Bledsoe pulled me
aside. “The one thing you need to do above all else is to have your
children under control. Once you have done that, you’ll be fine.”
Fine. But as I learned to my great cost, that was easier said than done.[...]
Nothing in the program simulated what I soon learned to be the life of a
teacher. Though I didn’t know it, I was completely ill equipped when I
stepped into my own fifth-grade classroom at Emery Elementary in
September 2000. [...]
My optimism and naiveté evaporated within hours. I tried my best to be
strict and set limits with my new students; but I wore my inexperience
on my sleeve, and several of the kids jumped at the opportunity to
misbehave. I could see clearly enough that the vast majority of my
fifth-graders genuinely wanted to learn—but all it took to subvert the
whole enterprise were a few cutups.
To gain control, I tried imposing the kinds
of consequences that the classroom-management handbooks recommend. None
worked. My classroom was too small to give my students “time out.” I
tried to take away their recess, but depriving them of their one
sanctioned time to blow off steam just increased their penchant to use
my classroom as a playground. When I called parents, they were often
mistrustful and tended to question or even disbelieve outright what I
told them about their children. It was sometimes worse when they
believed me, though; the tenth time I heard a mother swear that her
child was going to “get a beating for this one,” I almost decided not to
call parents. By contrast, I saw immediate behavioral and academic
improvement in students whose parents had come to trust me.
I quickly learned from such experiences how essential
parental support is in determining whether a school succeeds in
educating a child. And of course, parental support not just of the
teachers but of the kids: as I came to know my students better, I saw
that those who had seen violence, neglect, or drug abuse at home were
usually the uncontrollable ones, while my best-behaved, hardest-working
kids were typically those with the most nurturing home environments.
Being a white teacher in a mostly black school
unquestionably hindered my ability to teach. Certain students hurled
racial slurs with impunity; several of their parents intimated to my
colleagues that they didn’t think a white teacher had any business
teaching their children—and a number of my colleagues agreed. One parent
who was also a teacher’s aide threatened to “kick my white ass” in
front of my class and received no punishment from the principal, beyond
being told to stay out of my classroom. The failure of the principal,
parents, and teachers to react more decisively to racist disrespect
emboldened students to behave worse. Such poisonous bigotry directed at a
black teacher at a mostly white school would of course have created a
federal case.[...]
When I asked other teachers to come help me stop a fight, they shook
their heads and reminded me that D.C. Public Schools banned teachers
from laying hands on students for any reason, even to protect other
children. When a fight brewed, I was faced with a Catch-22. I could call
the office and wait ten minutes for the security guard to arrive, by
which point blood could have been shed and students injured. Or I could
intervene physically, in violation of school policy.
Believe me, you have to be made of iron, or something
other than flesh and blood, to stand by passively while some enraged
child is trying to inflict real harm on another eight-year-old. I
couldn’t do it. And each time I let normal human instinct get the best
of me and broke up a fight, one of the combatants would go home and
fabricate a story about how I had hurt him or her. The parent, already
suspicious of me, would report this accusation to Ms. Savoy, who would
in turn call in a private investigative firm employed by D.C. Public
Schools. Investigators would come to Emery and interview me, as well as
several students whom the security guard thought might tell the truth about the alleged incident of corporal punishment.[...]
After 15 minutes, the school security guard appeared at the door and
beckoned for me. My stomach hit the floor, as I guessed what this meant:
yet another corporal-punishment charge. But this time was different.
Chaos reigned in the main entranceway as police officers swarmed into
the building. Raynard’s mother, I was told, had been in school for a
meeting to place her son in a class for emotionally disturbed children.
Raynard had told her that I had violently shoved him in the chest out
the door of my classroom, injuring his head and back. His mother had
dialed 911 and summoned the cops and the fire department. The police
hustled me into the principal’s office, where I sat in bewilderment and
desperately denied I had hurt Raynard in any way. [...]
Two months later, Raynard’s mother filed a $20 million lawsuit against
the school district, Ms. Savoy, and myself—and the D.C. police charged
me with a misdemeanor count of simple assault against my former student.
Thus ended my first and last year as a public school teacher. [...]
As I had surmised, this whole case finally came down to money. Even
after my acquittal, even after the accuracy of Raynard’s story had been
seriously undermined, his mother and her big-firm lawyers aggressively
pursued multi-million-dollar damage claims on the civil side. Yet even
as the lawsuit dragged on and the legal cloud over me caused me to lose a
job opportunity I really wanted, I refused to entertain Raynard’s
mother’s offers to settle the case by my paying her $200,000—a demand
that ultimately diminished to $40,000. The school system had no such
scruples; it settled the mother’s tort claim in October 2002 for $75,000
(plus $15,000 from the teachers’ union’s insurance company—chump change
compared with the cost of defending the litigation). It wasn’t $20
million, but it was still more money than I imagine this woman had seen
in her life—a pretty good payout and hardly deterrence to other parents
in the neighborhood who felt entitled to shanghai the system. [...]
