Marquis is slow but Shahteik isn’t. Picking up on Marquis’s Freudian slip, Lil’ Rumbles quips, “Yo! Harlem be on that homo shit!”
Marquis shakes his head, “Aww, naw, Ms. P, you got me confused with that Ernie and Bert shit!”
“Watch your mouth,” I laugh and say. “Ummhmm, see that’s just what you get… talking too damn much. Now do some work, Marquis!”
I have quite a spirited group of drama kings, court jesters, flyboy gangsters, tricksters, and wannabe pimps all in my charge, all up in my face, to educate. Corralling this motley crew of bad-news bears to do any lesson is like running boot camp for hyperactive gremlins. I have to be consistent, alert, firm, witty, fearless, and demanding, and most important, I have to have a strong command of the subject I’m teaching. English and social studies are my forte, my strength. But science? Ha! Out in the battlefield armed with science I’m vulnerable and weak; scared. There’s no push-in teacher for this? No, goddammit, I’m required to teach science. I hate science. Shit. They’re gonna eat me alive this period. I decide to teach something I have a little familiarity with—the digestive system. Since I cleanse periodically by juicing and eating live-raw foods (salads, fruits, and unsalted nuts) and because I also get colonics several times a year, I have a general knowledge about the digestive system and should be able to teach the lesson with some semblance of authority. I talk about an unhealthy colon versus a healthy one, which leads to discussing what we eat and how it travels from the mouth, down the esophagus, through the small and large intestine, finally exiting through the anus. Well, saying the word anus gets a rise from the peanut gallery of Barnum and Bailey rug rats. These immature adolescent boys are tickled pink and entertained every time I say “anus.” This lesson is giggle-filled.
Shahteik thinks he’s setting me up when he asks, “Ms. P, did you know your anus could stretch up to twelve inches?” He tries to sound serious, but his sarcasm is so transparent. Mekhai clenches his lips to swallow his laughter but snickers so hard, he blows a snot bubble out his nose. He wipes it with his sleeve. Nasty little sucker.
I ignore Shahteik, which amps him up even more, thinking he has me in his trap, “Ms. P, I’m not trying to be funny, I’m being dead serious—did you know your anus could stretch up to twelve inches?”
He manages to keep a straight face but his hype man, Mekhai the Muppet and snicker king, can’t control his amusement and bursts out laughing. All eyes are on me for a reaction.
Calmly I ask, “Shahteik, now how would you know something like that?” The rest of the class catches on to my subliminal jab and falls into raucous hysterics. Shahteik is confused, slow to pick up on the subtext.
Mekhai says, “Ooooh, Ms. P, that was a good one, I gotta give credit where credit’s due, son,” as he leans over to Shahteik and fills him in on the joke that’s on him.
Finally catching on, Shahteik nods his head and squints his eyes at me as if he’s a snake. “Oh snap. It’s like that, Ms. P. Word? Okay, I’mma git you.” He is outdone. I stung him good. I throw my head back and laugh a loud, gutbucket-belly saloon laugh along with the class as I revel in this small victory. This is the last period before the end of the day, so it is a delicious and perfect finale. As the COs round up my students and walk out, Shahteik, crumpled and embarrassed, yells, “Ms. P, anus… anus, Ms. P!” It falls flat. One for me. I won that match, royally.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Africa Prince tha Don
Tyquan, aka Africa, greets me with a cheerful salutation every morning. In a place where fools rule and apathy is the norm, Tyquan has an uncanny zeal for learning and is academically bright—I adore this kid. He seeped further into my heart the day he shared his childhood wound during a class presentation, triggering my propensity to nurture, amplifying my desire to see him soar beyond his circumstances and win. But Tyquan is needy. He craves attention from me and, like a parent who spoils their wayward child, I give it to him because it keeps him motivated and on task. He’s the teacher’s pet who vehemently guards his self-appointed role, competing with anyone who grabs my attention for too long. When Tyquan’s not in a good mood, he’ll tell me, “Ms. P, I need to sit in the back and get my mind right, lay my head down for a minute, aight? It was mad drama in the house last night. I ain’t get no sleep.” I always oblige him.
Some mornings I’ll put brainteasers on the board, and every time I do Tyquan excitedly jumps at the 7:55 a.m. challenge, quickly figuring out the most obscure and difficult mind benders, loudly exclaiming, “Ms. P, come on, I told you I’m smart. I read all that Grimm fairy-tale shit back in kindergarten, son!” Once he got so wound up, I witnessed him slip into a psychotic zone, which I believe explains his special ed classification. It was a bizarre emotional outburst that might have otherwise scared me if I didn’t know him. In that moment it became crystal clear: Tyquan is disturbed, a little throwed-off and crazy as cat shit, but still my favorite baby rug rat, nonetheless. I am convinced that when painful childhood experiences and multiple complex traumas are not acknowledged, interrupted development will occur and the child will have great difficulty self-regulating their emotions, which manifest as behavioral problems—specifically, emotional outbursts. A lot of kids don’t need meds; they need the elephant in the room, their trauma and source of pain, to be unearthed and properly addressed. Inner-city schools are already overcrowded, understaffed, and without the resources to handle a child who needs extra attention, so the “difficult” kid gets placed in a smaller classroom setting labeled Special Education/Special Needs.
All the kids in my class eat raw, powdered Kool-Aid straight from the small paper packet like it’s candy, turning their tongues into bright cherry and grape Popsicles from the synthetic food coloring. This powdered crack gives them the shakes and has them transforming into ADD gremlins at warp speed. I forbid the guys to eat it in my class, but they still sneak it in, frantically licking their hands for one last granule, just like crackheads. Their red- and purple-stained palms, lips, and tongues incriminate them every time. For Tyquan, this shit is kryptonite, launching his already hyper ass into the stratosphere of red alert. Ring the alarm and get the straitjacket on deck cause he’s about to turn up.
Tyquan popped a pack before he came to class this morning and walks in high, already beaming up, up, and away into a galaxy of madness. He is having a sure-enough crack attack. I think it must have been a bad batch or he overdosed because suddenly his eyes begin to jump around like my cat when I give him too much catnip.
Already excited about figuring out all the answers to the brainteasers, he proceeds to go into a manic victory rant, turning to the class, not speaking to anyone in particular, and blurts out, “What, nigga? What? You can’t touch me! Ain’t nobody on my level, Ms. P! I’m not even human. I’m from Prince tha Don World!”
“Tyquan sit down, please,” I calmly ask like a nurse dealing with a beloved patient.
“Naw, Ms. P, fuck that. I don’t feel like doing no work today.”
Tyquan turns to his buddy Fred and demands, “Yo, nigga, gimme some of that honey bun I see you got in your pocket!”
Like an ethical bartender who refuses to serve the drunk at the bar any more liquor, Fred calmly refuses to give Tyquan more sugar-crack. “Naw, you buggin’, son. Yo, why you coming at me like that, son? Relax.”
Tyquan gets more agitated and belligerent. “What, nigga? Yo, son, you know I will make it hot. I don’t give a fuck. I will turn it up! It’s about to be a problem, my nigga! Gimme that fucking honey bun, son!”
“Tyquan!” I yell.
“Yo, Ms. P, you might as well get that mutherfucking orange slip out now because I’m ’bout to catch a fucking infraction this morning, I don’t give a fuck! I got bodies,* ya heard, fuck I care about an orange slip! I shoot niggas! I make ’em leak and meet their maker!”
Thank God Fred didn’t fall into his trap but instead took the high road, just shaking his head in disgust, ignoring Tyquan’s exaggerated empty threats. Whew. A youn
g Jedi move; Fred is a quiet storm who walks with strength in his aura.
During one of my lessons on the Black Panthers, Fred took copious notes, paying attention more than I’ve ever seen from him. I praised his focus and he shared his personal connection to the history. Fred’s grandmother’s brother is the late Geronimo Pratt, the well-known Black Panther and political prisoner. I told him he carries a mighty legacy. He told me he wants to live up to it. I did a little praise dance in the aisle, making him open a smile and share a giggle.
My spidey-senses detect it’s more than the Kool-Aid spiking Tyquan. It’s not so much how he’s acting, but what he’s saying. He is talking so erratically, looking wild in the eyes, and becoming so unhinged he’s diving off an emotional cliff and it scares me. I’m not scared for my personal safety but scared for him; he’s unraveling into a pain I can’t yet identify. My mind races trying to assess what is going on. A few weeks ago, I remember he told me that he was getting closer to his date to be transferred up top* to serve his sentence in an adult prison. He is noticeably terrified and perhaps this is his way of pumping himself up, convincing himself how gangster he is, inflating his courage and pounding his scrawny chest, practicing a roar that he can believe.
Tyquan is fighting. He’s swinging at a haunting only he can see, the ghost of what could be, nightmares of unsolicited sodomy. It’s a coping mechanism to help him walk toward the unknown, horrifying fire he’s imagined. He continues ranting, confirming my theory. “When I go up top, I’m going straight to the bing,† ya heard? Ain’t no nigga gonna take my peanut butter.‡ I’mma wild out, knock niggas out—bam ! And go straight to the box, nigga what! Ain’t no nigga touching me!”
Tyquan is consumed with fear and shaken to the core. I understand where it’s coming from, but for now Tyquan has to go.
I shout, “Tyquan!” But he doesn’t hear me. I have to climb two octaves higher to reach him at the ledge of the beanstalk to pierce through his frenzy. “Tyquan! Go take a walk, right now! You crossed the line, go take a walk.”
Tyquan isn’t budging. I need help. He won’t sit down, he won’t leave, and he won’t calm down. I poke my head out the class and call my buddy, Officer King.
King comes to my rescue and asks with concern, “What you need, sis? What’s the problem?”
“Tyquan won’t calm down and he’s totally out of character, being extremely disruptive and disrespectful. Please take him out of my class; he needs a lil’ time-out behind the gate to calm down. I’m not putting up with his behavior this morning. It’s causing chaos and we’re about to have a guest speaker next period and I’m not having it.” I turn to address Tyquan. “Tyquan, you know I give credit where credit’s due—you’re one of my best students—but today, I don’t know what’s going on with you… Actually, I have a feeling what it is, but I won’t go into that right now and don’t have time to address it this morning.”
Officer King barks at Tyquan, calling him by his last name like they do in the military. “Jefferson, let’s go!”
Tyquan leaves without a struggle and surprisingly no back lip. He wanted to be rescued, shaken out of his self-induced hell-trance. He had to walk it out.
The gate is an open cage—a visible mini holding pen on the school floor that is situated at the end of the hallway. The gate looks out onto the school floor, and on the other side of the gate is an ironclad door that leads back to the main jail area. In between the bars leading to the school and the iron door leading back to their cells are two rickety benches for the daily incorrigibles to sit on. The gate is for kids who “cut up” enough to be put out of class but not enough to be taken off the school floor for the day; it’s the time-out pen.
When the kids come up from their housing areas in the morning, escorted by COs, they all pass through the gate and walk through the metal detector where an officer’s desk is stationed. My classroom is four rooms down from the gate.
Today we have a guest coming to present a life skills workshop and I really wanted Tyquan to be present for it, especially now. Mr. Kenny is my boy and former coworker from Friends of Island Academy. Now he works for Corrections in the social services department. We’re both up in the belly of the beast on a daily.
The day we first ran into each other in the hallway, speed-walking to our respective chambers within the dungeons at Rikers, we jumped for joy. We’re comrades, light workers in a dark house. Kenny is a man who, during his adolescence, served time at Rikers and eventually wound up going upstate. After his bid up top, he got involved with Friends of Island Academy and became a youth leader in the program, dedicating his time and energy to helping other young adults in the program stay “Alive and Free” and out of the grips of incarceration. He is a dynamic and powerful speaker with a gripping story that contrasts with his well-manicured, preppy appearance and command of the King’s English.
Kenny is the bomb. He’s a great group facilitator and leader. When I told him I was teaching full-time on the school floor, he immediately asked if he could run a pilot project with my class and conduct an eight-week life skills workshop. “Damn skippy, you can,” I said. It wasn’t even a second thought. I’ve seen him in action, running groups and working with wayward warriors. He knows how to reach, teach, drop jewels, and get the young’uns to think critically. He was once just like them—an incarcerated adolescent sitting in Rikers Island with gangster dreams and tales of life-threatening escapades in the street. He speaks their language. I am so psyched to have a comrade on the Rock whose heart, like mine, is aligned with helping our children to consider options beyond street culture. Me and Kenny are on the same team. Team Wake-the-Sleeping-Giants. Team Alive and Free. Team Teach the Babies. “Hell yeah, Kenny, let’s get it popping. You’ve got an open-door policy in my class. They need to hear what you’ve got to give them. Shit, can you start today?” I wasn’t joking.
Kenny looks like a hood-nerd. He strolls into my class donning an argyle sweater over a crisp, button-down periwinkle-colored shirt, soft leather loafers with a classy buckle on the side, fresh Caesar haircut, and gold wire-framed glasses on his flawless, mocha-brown face. Kenny walks in holding a Dunkin’ Donuts extra-large coffee cup and the guys immediately start sizing him up. His style throws them off; they think he’s a square or an herb with nothing to possibly tell them that they’d be the least bit interested in. Even his tone is calm, smooth, and measured. The kids are yawning in his face. Then he drops his story at the precise moment they’ve decided he’s a chump and he sucker-punches them. “When I did my first jux before I got knocked, I was straight ’bout the business of multiplication. Multiplying my weight, my money, my power, and putting fear in your heart. My motto was ‘fuck it,’ everybody got a date with death so might as well do me to the fullest. Consequences, fuck it. Jail, fuck it. Death, fuck it. My crew was always scheming.”
His hands move like a boxer as he spits the scenario. The hood creeps out, transforming his Clark Kent façade into K Boogz from around the way. He starts speaking another language: their language. The class sits up, side conversations cease, and the murmurs begin. “Oh shit, son is wilding, he talking that real shit, son…” “Word, that’s how it be.” “Yo, where you be at?”
He rocks them every time. I love watching Kenny get at ’em and kick the funky bo-bo, ninja-style. The guys look forward to him coming, except for Shahteik, who walks out each time he comes. After Kenny shut him down like a closed window at the post office—no clown stamps here, son—Shahteik decided it was wiser to leave rather than attempt to disrupt the workshop and get embarrassed by Mr. Kenny, again.
“Hey, Ms. P!” Kenny greets me cheerfully, then says under his breath, “Prince tha Don, you know, Tyquan, was calling me from behind the gate when he saw me walking down the hallway towards your class. He begged me to let him back in class and I told him I’d come ask you.”
“Well, Mr. Prince tha Don was cutting up this morning, I mean cutting the monkey-ass fool. What he ask you?” I have my hands on my hips,
lips curled.
“He was like, ‘Mister, ask Ms. P to let me take your class, please just ask her.’ He was straight begging, reaching through the bars. I’m not trynna interfere and you know I have no problem going back out there and telling him he’s deaded today. You know how we rock, Sista Liza, that’s not a problem. Just give me the word.”
I suck my teeth. “Only ’cause it’s you, Kenny, and he needs to get all he can right now. His act-out this morning was just him crying out for help. He’s about to go up top and he’s scared shitless, covering it with fake gangsta.” I sigh in defeat and continue, “I know… I’m soft, right?”
“Naw, sis, you far from soft, you just care.”
I roll my eyes at Kenny, knowing I wasn’t going to deny food for his consciousness to a hungry student, and Kenny knows it too. We both laugh at my pretend attitude. I head toward the gate at the end of the hallway and see Tyquan hanging on the bars: “Ms. P, Ms. P! Mr. Kenny’s here—I wanna take his class, I like what he be saying. Can I come to the class, Ms. P? I promise I’mma be good, I just needed a little time-out. Please don’t let him start the talk without me. I probably need to hear what he’s gonna say. I’mma be good, Ms. P. I promise.”
Tyquan knows exactly how to wear me down and wiggle back into my good graces.
I squint my eyes and speak through clenched teeth. “Tyquan, if I have to talk to you one time, you hear me, one time, it’s a wrap,” I growl. I ask the officer if he can let Tyquan back in my class since we have a guest speaker that he needs to hear. The disengaged officer barely looks up and unlocks the gate, letting Prince tha Don out the cage and back into my care, but not without shooting Tyquan a mean ice-grill.
Midway through the workshop, Kenny calls Tyquan up to the front of the class for a role-play demonstration. Tyquan’s personal truth begins to seep out during the role-play to reveal his wounded soul, right in front of the class. He begins talking in a stream of consciousness with no inhibition or filter. The class is transfixed on Tyquan as he draws us into his painful reality, speaking passionately with fire shooting from between his teeth.
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