It lay on the floor, small chest heaving, wings fluttering, hopeless, dejected, and lost. The fear was almost palpable, and before I knew it, my heart was beating rapidly and my mind raced trying to think of the right thing to do. The hummingbird had been beating itself against the ceiling when I entered the room. Its luck must have been low when it managed to find the small opening of the classroom window. Try as I might, there was no way that I could shoo it back through the opening. Tears in my eyes, my mind was flooding with the memories of my unsuccessful childhood attempts to save numerous wild creatures I had found wounded or sick. I watched helplessly as this bird battered itself into exhaustion and fell to the floor. Too tired to move, it just lay there, its legs and wings twitching in futile attempts to escape its predicament. My heart was working overtime and my senses were so alive that it seemed as though I could hear my blood pumping through my brain. Not wanting to touch the hummingbird with my hands, as I had always been told that the scent of a human being could be fatal on a wild animal, I grabbed some stacks of paper to scoop up the tiny creature and carry it to safety. Each time I got close enough to pick it up, it fluttered a bit, inching across the floor, desperately trying to avoid my efforts to help. Paper was not working as a tool to pick up the quivering bundle of feathers, so I finally cupped the bird, gently, and moved slowly toward the window, the tiny body feeling so fragile that I feared moving too quickly would be disastrous. Its feathers were soft, and its body was so light I could barely percieve its presence in my hands. I held my hands out the window, the bird’s breathing slowed, and its feathers fluffed, preparing to take flight. In what seemed like a magical eternity, but was probably no more than a moment, I took in as much of the bird’s beauty as I could. Everything about it was just as it should be. It was perfect. The shine of the eyes, the delicacy of the beak and the color of the feathers were mesmerizing. Finally after a fluff of the feathers it was off.
 
 

I walked through the doors and felt the small knot of anxiety in my stomach double in size. It had been four years since I had taught in a public school and here I was in a Chicago public high school. All of the familiar elements were in place, the halls full of students and lined with lockers. As I walked towards the main office, though, passing the cafeteria and several classrooms, I was aware of many differences. For the first time in my life I was a minority, and walking past groups of students and staff I felt the odd sensation that my skin was glowing. Normally highly self-conscious in any circumstance I was propelled well beyond my comfort zone being in a new setting, surrounded by new people, starting a new job, and experiencing a new status. I was a tightly wound spring that would need little pressure to take flight. Rounding the corner to head to the main office I was shocked to see yet another new sight. The students were entering the building, each door manned by security staff and guarded by a metal detector. Bags were being searched and students were waiting in line to get into their school - to get into their school! I had known that this teaching job would be different than the others I had had, but I was confident that my seven years of teaching experience would get me through. This confidence carrying me forward I entered the office, notified the secretary that I was there, and was told to wait for the assistant principal.

Teachers came and went getting ready to begin their day. The school was in full swing and had just begun the second semester of the year. Swtching positions mid-year is unusual for a teacher, but I had just left an intense job at a residential school for severely emotionally disturbed children. I was looking for a job that would be just a job; a job in which my emotional investment would be negligible. So here I sat waiting to begin. As I waited, the principal came through and introduced himself to me. Making a cursory evaluation of me, he asked me if I was aware of the type of school Austin was. Not really sure what he was referring to, I said I was aware of the make-up of the student body, the economic level of the neighborhood, and the probation status of the school. Looking hard at me again he said, "Ms. Pegram, our students are not like students in the suburbs." Becoming aware of the way he saw me - I look younger than my years, am small in stature, and, with my blonde hair and pale complexion could not look any more white bread if I tried - I responded, "I have spent the last four years teaching students who could not make it in your school. I think I’ll be OK." I didn’t speak to him again until the end of the year when he positively evaluated my teaching. That first encounter, though, set my mind in motion. What were these students like, and what had I gotten myself into?

He strutted into the room, ten minutes late, hands in his pocket, face expressionless, his eyes constantly scanning the environment. As he tried to slide into a desk unnoticed, I continued to get the rest of the class focused on the activity of the day. Once they were well on their way, I went over to him to go through our daily ritual. I sat down next to him, took his chin in my hand and turned his face toward me. "Your poor eyes," I said. "What did you do this morning? Smoke?" He nodded, waiting for the next part. "Darrin, you deserve to be treated better, especially by yourself. Seventeen and still a freshman. You need to get help." He listened as he did every day, patted my hand and put his head down to sleep off the effects of the drug. I have read that it takes up to 100 times hearing someone say it before some people accept that they have a problem, so I keep trying. He is a beautiful boy who sees no life for himself, but I can’t help seeing so much in him. School policy would be to call home and have a parent come and get a child who is under the influence, but his grandma would not be able to come, he would end up on the street, and I would worry all day. Instead, he sits in the corner of the room where I can keep an eye on him and make sure he stays safe for at least six hours.

Everyone has seen them, if not in person then on TV or in the movies. Many people not only fear them, but also hate and disparage them. Who are they? The angry young black men who populate Chicago’s inner-city streets. Groups of them stand on corners wearing similar styles and colors on their bodies and sinister scowls on their faces leading the average person in our society to assume that they are gang members involved in drugs and violence. There were seventeen of these young men in my classroom, hand-picked by teachers who were asked to identify students with chronic behavior problems or difficulties managing their academic load. The students were told nothing; they were simply handed a new program and told to report to my room. A group of angry boys sitting in front of me, not yet familiar with the school and the resources available, I tried to maintain control and explain why the changes had been made. It was a rocky road, but by the end of that first semester we had established an environment of respect and learning that allowed many of these young men to take positive steps toward graduation. Why, then, is it inevitable that one of the first questions I am asked by people discovering my job is "aren’t you afraid to be in your classroom?"

Fear is an odd, constantly changing creature. One day it might be the horns that are gruesome when the next day they may fade in comparison to the claws. We let fear into our hearts and it takes over as ruler of our minds. Try as I might, I cannot reconcile the feelings of much of society with the boys who sit in my classroom showing vulnerabilities and insecurities on a regular basis. What is it that people fear? Many of the people who asked the question had never had direct contact with the population I teach, yet they were so certain that there must be something inherently wrong or violent about them. How is it that people establish opinions about that which they don’t truly know? In our media-crazed society, we see people and places that we would never have the opportunity to see in our everyday lives. We see them daily or weekly and they become a part of our being. The loss of TV characters is sensationalized and mourned, demonstrating the level of reality achieved by the shows that are broadcast across the country. The growing trend of reality TV, Real world, Cops, When Animals Attack, is the next step in our advancement toward a world run by computers, fax machines, and digital everything. People believe what they see, whether it is fiction or non-fiction. Images of teenagers, especially urban teenageers, are rarely lacking in the implication that gangs and violence are everywhere. Movies like Boys in the Hood, and Dangerous Minds are able to highlight societal issues, but also succeed in creating an image of inner-city youth, People mistakenly think that they know what the lives of these boys, and it is primarily the boys we hear about, are like. A small amount of knowledge becomes a stereotype that can arouse fear in people who are never in the situation that they fear.

All of us are cast into roles which we accept and play with the perfect skill of method actors. These roles are infinite in number, and can be donned or discarded as easily as hats. Inherited or chosen, they are learned, many as far back as childhood. We quickly become aware of what is expected of us in our roles as son, daughter, brother, sister, friend, and even enemy. One of the first things that children are taught is how to label people and what to expect from the different labels. We learn who we must treat with respect, who we must avoid, who can help us, who can harm us, and who we should idolize and emulate. We create of ourselves an image that can change focus based on the setting, the company, or the need. Piecing these roles together we create ourselves, we give ourselves an image that we hope others will see and accept as well. People who have never met, have lived on opposite sides of our country, and have never had a common experience will present similar thoughts and images on hearing the labels, doctor, police officer, minister, teacher, rival and boss. We all know what the basic elements of these people must be, and in many cases we feel no need to go any deeper. If I am in danger, I will be glad to see a police car drive by, but if I am speeding, I will try to avoid that same occurrence. I need know nothing about the person inside the image. For many people this is true of my students. Encountering one of them, the initial reaction would be fear, and they would feel no need to find out whether it was warranted by the individual they face. Even if they did, my students take comfort in being able to raise fear in others, because that means they are safe from any human or emotional contact. The image that others place on them is that in which they hide from the world.
 
 

He stormed into the room already in mid sentence, hands clenching and unclenching, and his face distorted in a grimace of anger. "On the real Ms. P, she shouldn’t have done that . I almost stole on her. Who does that fucking bitch think she is that she can grab me like that. She better watch herself, I’ll show her if she ever does it again." After calming him down I discovered that he had been asked by a teacher to remove his hat and coat. Not feeling that he was moving fast enough she had approached him, taken his arm and turned him around while removing the hat from his head. He had exploded, left, and come directly to my classroom. In trying to get him to see the incident as less threatening and malicious, I asked him how and why she grabbed him. This only ignited a new stream of obscenities which I interrupted by saying "You let me take your arm and guide you, I am sure that is all she was trying to do." "That’s different Ms. P! I don’t let anybody I don’t like touch me. I don’t even know her." This was followed by another string of threats and curses. During this I happened to look up and catch the face of another teacher at my doorway. Looking astonished, she asked, "are you going to let him talk to you that way?" I was taken aback and had to run through the conversation again before I understood her reaction. You see, in that entire litany of anger, I had only truly heard two things. He liked me. He trusted me.
 
 

Where does fear enter into the equation? When someone doesn’t fall neatly into the roles or image cast for them. When someone is different in a way we can’t understand or explain away. The fear rises out of ones inability to rationalize and understand the choices of another. The fear comes out of realizing that the choices and roles are arbitrary and any one of us could have ended up in any situation; birth is a lottery - we all win, but some of us don’t want the prize we have been given and some of us are thankful that we were blessed with a life that is deemed acceptable by society as a whole. My students were not so blessed. Society frowns upon them and their lifestyle, and is more than content to leave them in the segregated neighborhoods full of violence and poverty. After all, that is where their kind belong. Maybe what mainstream America really fears is being wrong, making the gap wider instead of narrower. We may not always know exactly who we want to be and how we want people to see us, but we know who we don’t want to be.

The roles we learn in childhood are the most entrenched as well as the hardest to cast off. Many of us gleamed ideas of who we wanted to be by watching the sappy and somehow wonderful sitcoms of the sixties and seventies. What girl didn’t want to be Marcia Brady with her perfect shiny hair, good grades, and ideal disposition? What boy wasn’t aware that he should strive for the wholesomeness of Greg Brady or the morality of Opie all grown up and now called Richie Cunningham. The vestiges of the fifties nuclear family still had a firm hold in the realm of TV, but the view that was always missing in the 1950s continued to be absent in these sitcoms. What roles did the young men of the inner-city find? Frequently minority members, these young men would have to look long and hard in order to find an image that they could recognize and relate to. If you didn’t grow up in a middle class neighborhood with two parents, loving siblings, and, of course, the loyal pet, then you would look long and hard to find an image that you could see in your frame. No doubt, however, that there were many examples of the angry young criminal and many chances for them to become aware of the fears and expectations that others attached to them. Sometimes it is easier to go with the current and be what people expect you to be rather than swim upstream to discover another you.

Do people know my students? I would argue not. They know the image, they know the persona that is advanced by these boys as well as by the media. In some magical way, though, all of us are more than the sum total of our roles in life, becoming someone who transcends any label that could be applied. People don’t know about the boy in my class who is often late for school because he has to care for his grandmother, sometimes even to the point of calling an ambulance for her. They don’t know about another boy whose parents left him sitting in a park with a suitcase because neither of them wanted him. They don’t know about the boy who wants desperately to learn to read, but can’t let his image be tarnished by being a conscientious student, who would actually be in danger from the gang for participating fully in school instead of in recruitment and sales. These are the complexities of life. These same boys fight at the drop of a hat, hate quickly and for no reason, and are very likely heavily involved in gangs and some illegal activity. No one image fits, so how do we judge them? How do we integrate the complexities to allow for a complete image? How do we let them know that they are more than the way others see them, more than the way they see themselves?

Our roles and our images are very important to us. When I am asked what I do for a living, I respond, " I am a teacher." I don’t say "I teach." In my mind the answer to that question is not an action but a state of being. Other professions are similar - "I am a doctor," " I am a lawyer," and on and on the list goes. We don’t do things we are things. So in turn, in our minds, these inner-city kids don’t do gang activities, they are gang members. They don’t sell drugs, they are drug dealers. They don’t kill each other, they are killers. It’s all a neat little package that allows us to think we know people when we can never truly know anyone, because we can never see them in all their roles and all their forms. How then, can we decide who is dangerous and who isn’t?
 
 

He wasn’t in class which was highly unusual. He had only been absent two times in the entire semester, and he had never skipped class. As the morning went on and I had done my usual amount of eavesdropping to find out what my boys were up to, it was clear to me that he was in school. Now I was worried. While none of my students always do what they are supposed to do, highly unusual behavior such as this raises many red flags for me.

I decided to call home and to let his parents know he was skipping class and to find out if anything unusual had happened. I didn’t get mom or dad and in talking to grandma I became even more concerned. She didn’t know where he had spent the night, felt he was becoming heavily involved in gangs, and was fearful of what might happen to him. What had triggered this change? Mom and Dad were both in jail and had been for a few weeks. "Please," she begged, "Please don’t tell him who you heard this from. I’m afraid of him and all his friends. At this point my blood went cold. I had never seen him as violent, especially not towards his grandmother.

When I located him later in the day, and attempted to talk to him about it, I got very terse answers, hateful looks, and challenges such as "What do all these questions about my family have to do with what happens in the classroom?" He grew more and more agitated as we talked and I finally had to back off for fear that I would push him to breakdown. He assured me that he was staying with an aunt and would bring her in next week, so even though it was a weekend, I let him go that afternoon with no follow-up. It was the longest weekend I have had as a teacher, and I have never been happier to meet a family member in my career.
 
 

We cling very tightly to our identity almost to the point of ignoring any of the inconsistencies we may notice. Rationalization becomes a prized skill. Often, we need to establish and develop the labels of others in order to protect the integrity of those we choose for ourselves. If the evil and criminal elements live in the inner-city, in poverty and among minorities, then clearly they cannot reside within us. Perhaps society fears these young men because it is easier to do that than to constantly wonder where danger may lie. It is more acceptable to fear those who are different and separate rather than those who most closely resemble ourselves. We place our disdain in a convenient place, hoping and praying that we never have to judge the situation from a front row seat. Why? What is it that most of us are afraid to see? If we look these boys in the eye, what horror do we expect to face in the reflection? I would argue that the image we cringe from is that of our eyes looking back at us; the fear that we could be like them. If this image were to crystalize, then what would it say about the cozy little worlds that we have built for ourselves? What would it say about the people we have chosen to trust? What would it say about our children in our homes and our schools who are supposed to be so far removed from the ugliness? Who would we blame for the crime and the drugs and the bloodshed, if we looked into these strangers’ eyes only to see ourselves? This is our biggest fear. The all encompassing terror that politicians and media moguls play upon every day as they come into our homes with news and promises. Maybe this is what mainstream America wants; a place and a system in which we can house these members of our society, the personifications of our weaknesses. This allows us to keep the ugliness hidden away so that we can tout our liberal society as one in which everyone has a chance to succeed. Sure they do, as long as they perform the proper contortions to fit the image of success. It is much more difficult to congratulate ourselves on political correctness if we acknowledge the unnofficial segregation that still characterizes our city streets and public schools. It is much more difficult to tout the freedom of our land if we acknowledge the abuse of power that epitomizes our police force and our judicial system. One of my students recently told me that if he didn’t come to school, he would never see a white person. It is convenient and easy to develop and nurture these opinions of other societal groups because of the success our country has had in assuring that these groups will rarely have any meaningful contact.

Many of the teachers at my high school refuse to see themselves in the students. The problem kids are just "crazy," or "bad," and we need to find a way to weed out the ones who will never be successful by our standards. Instead of finding out what the student’s perspective is, we simply categorize and prioritize them to death. They are reduced to numbers so that we do not have to acknowledge the humanity that may force us to be aware of their complexity. I have witnessed security guards being physically aggressive, I have heard police officers call my students retarded, I have seen numerous adults recoil when one of my students approaches them for any reason. Kids are not dumb. They are aware of the labels we give them; some wear them as a badge of pride while others just accept them and live up to the expectations. When the security guards see one of my students approaching they immediately gear up for a conflict, speak to the student in a condescending, antagonizing way, and usually get rewarded with obscenities thereby allowing them to add to the evidence that these students are bad. Reputations are easily built, and have a longevity that could frighten an immortal.
 
 

It was report card time, and for the first time since starting this job there was actually some excitement about grades. Many students who had failed everything in their previous semester had begun to take school seriously and were now daring to hope for some positive feedback. Even though he knew what day they were being handed out, Lucio kept asking each day, "Do you have it yet? Can I just peak at it?" This big tough guy who won’t back down from anything was like a kid waiting for Christmas. He could hardly contain his excitement.

The day finally came when I could hand them these long sought after reports. Just as he came to get his, I saw the change take place. It was as if a shade were drawn in his eyes, dulling them, removing the sparkle and any inkling of emotion. His face went slack and expressionless as he prepared, clearly assuming the worst, to receive his grades. I handed him two pieces of paper, his grades and a certificate of achievement for passing all of his classes, and watched as the life slowly returned to his face. He looked up at me with a grin like I had never seen, and said, "Dang MsP."
 
 

I started the new school year with a renewed confidence and restored energy ready to face the boys and all the difficulties they were sure to throw my way. The freshman strutted in shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, and eyelids set at that indifferent and challenging half-mast that only teenage boys can manage with any authority. In contrast, the boys who were returning came bounding in ready to give me as hard a time as possible. Suddenly, I didn’t really know if I was ready for this again - all boys, all emotionally and behaviorally disturbed, and many involved in gangs and drugs. Other teachers and staff were treating me with the deference that would be given an unstable mental patient. I never had any visitors to my classroom, in fact, most people gave our door the widest possible berth or avoided taking a route that made it necessary to walk by us at all.

As the year went on, the roster slowly shrunk - students either dropped out or had so many difficulties that their needs could only be met in a therapeutic day school or the department of corrections. The boys that remained had managed to establish negative reputations with security and administrators alike. Much of my day was spent in the discipline office trying to keep them from allowing their mouths to get them deeper and deeper into trouble. I watched closely as they interacted with each other and with the adults around them. In almost every interaction between these boys and any authority figure there seemed to be an attitude on both sides that things were going to turn ugly. My students were treated as if they were guilty until proven innocent, and the staff was treated as if they were on a recognizance trip for the local "make all teenagers miserable club." How can altarcations be avoided when they were so openly sought after? How can these kids ever reach their potential if they are assumed to have none?

The question, then, is whether or not I fear my students. The answer is no. I have a healthy respect for what they are capable of but I enter into every relationship making the assumption that the student is trustworthy. This is something that my boys can’t do - their experience has taught them that the reverse is probably true. Just yesterday, one of my students noticed me taking a sip of water out of the travel cup I bring in to work every day. It was near the end of the day and my cup had been sitting on the desk all day long. "Ms. P you just drink out of that even though it has been there all day. Anyone could have put anything into it. You shouldn’t do that." " I have to," I said,"otherwise I would spend my day being afraid and looking for trouble. I have to expect the best of you or I wouldn’t be able to be here everyday."

No, I don’t fear them. I fear for them. I lose plenty of sleep, and hear plenty of stories that make my hair stand on edge. One afternoon, we had some down time and all of the boys were sitting around my desk just talking when the subject of guns came up. "I have never seen a gun," I told them. This began a litany of stories about people they had watched get beaten to death, or shot and killed. One young man who is just three weeks beyond his sixteenth birthday was able to count at least nineteen such incidents. They speak of these things nonchalantly and talk of watching them through the windows, just as we would watch traffic or the weather. They all know how to handle a gun as well as the way to get one if needed. "I have never killed anyone," stated one young man, "I just don’t wait around to see if they drop." Their lives are created around violence, they have no other option as young children. It is like a twighlight zone episode in which you entered a world where violence is the norm, respect and gentility the crimes.

Long weekends and vacation, while greatly needed are pure torture because I know that they have all the unstructured time that they need in order to get in serious trouble or be put out of the game completely. Watching the local news has become a source of anxiety whenever the west side of the city is the focus of a story. This job that was supposed to be just a job has become another facet of who I am. They are a part of me now as I can never go back to who I was before I knew them. These boys who behave in ways I would never have dreamed of, who see violence, drugs, and promiscuity as normal parts of anyone’s life, who throw authority back in the face of anyone who tries to control them, who cannot imagine themselves in ten years because they don’t see themselves living that long, have won my heart. They are also the boys who act as though a sticker for a job well done is the best reward, who want nothing more than approval, praise and affection, who hold the door for me, carry heavy items without being asked, and look out for me in my naivete and ignorance, and who love their mothers and grandmothers to distraction. Am I afraid of them? No. I see more than the role of the delinquent. My image includes their compassion, intensity, and potential.

These boys create emotion wherever they go be it love, hate, or fear. There is no way that this job could be just a job, that I could remain detached, that I would want to remain detached. They make me fear myself and the power of my emotion for them, make me fear what my response would be if something were to happen to one of them. My success is now enmeshed with theirs, and the relationship is far from painless. They push me away with their actions, but pull me in with their eyes. They throw up solid defenses but crumble when challenged. They know the world of the street, but are amazed by the world beyond. They limit themselves, and discard themselves while trying to defend themselves. They fight you off, but grab a fast hold once you gain entry. They give glimpses, but never a full view. They enter your heart only to gain the footing necessary to do the most damage when they leave. They see nothing ahead, ignore what’s behind, and distrust what is now. They defy the roles we place on them and create their own to use as smokescreens behind which to hide. They are everything and nothing that we see when we look at them.

Several weeks ago, I was walking to the main office to clock out for the day and on the way I passed several police officers who were attending the sherriff’s academy that is housed in our school. They passed a group of students who were leaving for the day and acting as teenagers often do - goofy. The officers passed without a smile or a glance, but once the kids had gone by began to laugh when one of them said, "There go some future department of corrections inmates."

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