The Way It Is and the Way It Will Be

My feet crunched over gravel in the parking lot. It was quite a walk from my car to the entrance of the building; I was a roving white beacon amidst dingy brick and gray sky. I tried to calm my nerves and push fear completely from mind. Stereotypes were creeping up like undesired bile in the esophagus – I was angry at myself for even letting them surface. But the fact of the matter was that I was a young white female stepping into the complete unknown – an alternative high school in the heart of Lansing. When I found out I was going to be placed at Hill a few weeks prior I was excited – absolutely anxious to get my foot in the door. Unfortunately those around me weren’t as enthusiastic. Dreary thoughts and weighty concerns started to drag me down; my aspirations for becoming an urban educator trampled underfoot before getting a chance to grow. I swallowed hard, wiped my hands on my khaki pants, and opened the door.

I made my way from the main office through the labyrinth of hallways until I found my mentor teacher’s room. Over the next few weeks I worked intimately with a small reading class, mainly catching the students up on their work, as most of them had fallen behind due to absences. My duties granted me access to personal pieces the students were writing; these experiences were the most poignant in shaping my time there. Reading the students’ stories permitted me a glance into lives I would never fully know; a glimpse at consequences that couldn’t be undone.

The particular day I recall now, and often times since, was surreal. My teacher informed me that he wanted me to read over three pieces by girls in the classroom, he didn’t have to say anything more, the look on his face foretold what I would encounter. I read the pieces, slowly, silently, while the authors stared off at nothingness or pretended to be engrossed with scribbling black spirals on paper. None of the narratives (written as vignettes) was over two pages in length, but the harrowing details in nonchalant ink silently screamed from the page. When I was finished reading each piece all I could mutter was “this is a beautifully written piece. Very descriptive. Very personal.” I didn’t earn a response. Looking back, I can’t even remember how I proceeded to work with them on revision. Emotions consumed my mind, eating, regurgitating, and cluttering the space with a sickening residue.

The car drove itself home that afternoon as I heard the stories of these girls being narrated in my mind. “I had to climb out the window to get away.” “My mother turned me in to the police.” “I ran after the patrol car that took my father away from us.” Different narratives. Different girls. Different lives. But all three affected by tragedies resultant of living in the concrete jungle – girls to be brushed off as urban casualties. I felt a burning sensation in my chest – I wanted to save them. I wanted to save students I didn’t know. I wanted to save students I had never met. I was sure I felt my heart being tugged toward becoming an educator in an urban environment, a place where I could help foster opportunities. A space where I could help students move beyond the ways in which they had been wronged. I wanted to teach, and I wanted to heal; I wanted to reveal a life beyond the overpass.

I don’t know why those girls were placed in an alternative school. I’m not sure why any student must fall through the cracks and sewer grates in our society. But what I do know is that my passion for becoming a teacher that day was intensified. I carry my time at Hill in my heart. I have woven it into my reasons for teaching. With this I expose myself to being labeled as another affluent white teacher trying to save the poor black children. This isn’t the case, I assure you. I wrote this to expose myself as an agent for greater change, social change, a change that goes beyond race and class. I knew that I would never be satisfied with the way things were and are, so I will fight (here on out and ever after) for the way things should be.