Damaged Goods

Every now and then I just have a hard week.  My work gets under my skin.  The infinite injustices around the world come over me and I find myself overwhelmed with questions and not enough answers.  I have these days when my words don’t always come out correctly because I can’t seem to grasp what it is I’m actually trying to say or what I’m trying to process.  And this steady stream of thoughts and moments and experiences flow through my brain in a schizophrenic furry.  And I go back and forth on what I’m really feeling—because I can’t actually pinpoint what it is except some combination of anger and frustration and compassion and an honest attempt at understanding.  So bear with me here.

For weeks now the babbling in my head has been about race and class and all the things in between.  Between health care reform and the Tea Party and the economy, I hold my breath every morning as I read the New York Times, convinced I’ll stumble across something that will make me cuss.  Before 8 am.  And almost every morning it happens.  (The cussing)

Today the question was posed to a group of 7th and 8th grade students by a mentor and colleague: “As a young African-American, what negative assumptions do you feel are made about you?”

The words starting stumbling from these young kids mouths—real, fresh, cutting words that didn’t come from some artificial canned place but from real experience.  From real feelings. 

My eyes were groggy with my last three nights worth of work-related events, restless sleep, and anxiety over too-much-to-do-and-not-enough-time.  The coffee in my hand had just barely begun to create the chemical reaction I needed to be alert and then this:

“That I’m ignorant, untrained, impolite, and loud.”

“That I’ll never finish anything I start.”

“There are people who don’t think I deserve an education.”

“That what happens in the neighborhood happens in the school.”

Okay.  Awake.

My guttural response was immediate.  There was something powerful happening in this room.  I let out air from my mouth, quick and fast, and made that sound old ladies make in church when they’ve heard something that moves them—something that cuts right to the heart. 

The students continued, each adding to each other’s thoughts, creating this list that could have been in a textbook.  All the worst-of-the-worst stereotypes of black, urban America. 

Earlier this week, my alma mater hosted Ed Burns, co-creator of The Wire, The Corner, and a variety of other television shows.  I’ll note that I wasn’t there, because I was at a benefit for Wide Angle Youth Media, but I’ve heard nothing but bubblings from my students and colleagues about his talk—mostly negative.  It seems Burns is pretty much over being hopeful about the Baltimore City Schools (that is assuming that he ever really had hope in the system to begin with).  And there is one resonating subject I cannot seem to shake from my system.  From what must be a very bitter, burned place, Burns insinuated that most of these children are too damaged to be capable of learning after age 4 or 5.   That a kid raised in the inner-city was too damaged to learn.  Incapable of success.  These weren’t his exact words, but they were easily inferred.  And the message that was taken home by a lot of people from this event was dangerous.

For someone like me, who spends her days and nights and all my money trying to think of better ways to get these kids to succeed—supporting people and organizations and teachers who BELIEVE in these children, these words strike me as so painfully despairing.  And infuriating.

And the subtlety flows like water—this infectious disease of assumption.  When these words feed fuel to fires that need no help burning.  When the news reports the latest rash of youth violence, of murders, of drug busts—these words feed the hungry people sitting on the sidelines: the hundreds of thousands of people sitting around waiting to say, “I told you so.”  The people who haven’t given up—but the people who never had faith to begin with.

And I'm the first to admit the flaws.  The system is large and unorganized and completely mangled.  My friends who are teachers and principals and administrators come home exhausted and burned and seething with bitter contention for the machine that is the public school system.  It's hugely damaged.  But to think that these children are somehow unreachable.  Unteachable.  It seems so archaic.

And furthermore, to think these kids don’t know where they fall in the pecking order.  That somehow they’ve managed to ignore it and not fall fatal to the painfully well-thought-out role they’ve been given: the black, inner-city teenager.  To think that doesn't play out in real life, with real-life consequences like babies and addictions and death.

In a matter of moments, these young people generated a powerful list of all the things the world thinks of them.  A list that contained dark truth and painful subtext.  It hits you like a ton of bricks.  This “thing” we’re fighting.  This enormous beast of ignorance and racism and classism rolled into one big nasty –ism.

And it struck me as so powerful that here are these children—these supposedly damaged children.  Who were talking with such confidence and such authority.  Who raised their hands when they spoke.  Who spoke clearly and used articulate vocabulary.  And who seemed to exercise a subtle defiance towards those who assume they’re damaged.  They’re broken.

The moderator also asked them about codes—rules they live by in the neighborhood and rules they live by in school.  Maybe two or three rules overlapped while the others remained staunchly planted in direct opposition to each other.  These children know more rules about more places and how to navigate between them than most adults.

As I lay in bed last night awake for the third night in a row, I heard something in the background that sounded like a gunshot.  It occurred to me that it very well could be—it’s never outside of the realm of possibility.  And it occurred to me how rare this moment is for me—the moment where I have to decide if I’m in danger or not.  And how little my roles change from home to work to school.  And listening to these kids today it confirmed all the things I’ve been thinking lately.  How infinitely lucky I am.  And how hard it really can all be.  And how complicated.  And messy. 

I’m reminded of my favorite Thomas Hobbes quote:  Life is nasty, brutish, and short.

But shouldn’t we all have a chance at being successful while we’re in it?