The longest day of my life, when the passage of seconds felt like minutes and the ticking of minutes felt like hours, took place in early May 2009. Consequently, I would age ten years on a day that seemed to go on forever.
As a first-year general education teacher at Crawford Elementary School, a high-needs institution situated in the Aurora Public Schools District, I often struggled at my job. The kids were tough, products of their chronically neglected neighborhoods. After spending the entirety of the school year scratching and clawing for their educational growth and my sanity, I’d had enough of them. I just needed to get through the last few days before proffering my resignation letter to Mrs. Everly, the incessantly skeptical and suspicious school principal.
At the end of each school day, all teachers were tasked with facilitating English language acquisition in students. Immediately after the bell rang at 2:00 pm, signaling the end of the general education section, students from an assemblage of grade levels flooded through our open doors, often with little regard for order and safety.
The majority of Crawford students spoke English as a second language. Hence, the level of English language comprehension was not uniform. Students ranged from native speakers to non-English speaking refugees from East Asian countries like Burma and Nepal.
Some teachers were more experienced practitioners of the science, objectively certified to teach this difficult and sensitive curriculum to developing English speakers. Therefore, less fluent English-speaking students migrated to classrooms with more experienced teachers. Fluent native and ELL (English Language Learners) students traveled to classrooms that featured less tenured teachers.
As one of the least tenured teachers, it was my responsibility to facilitate the language acquisition of some forty students, the majority of whom belonged to other classrooms. And as one can imagine, it was difficult to manage a large group of kids that were not your own. However, for the most part, I was able to trudge through forty minutes of intense instruction, as most of the kids were able to receive some valuable insights from the class.
A smattering of participating students did not find value in learning about their spoken language, which precipitated their propensity to act out during the class. This group of five students, two in particular, became increasingly disruptive as the end of the school year crept closer. I referred to them as The Cabal.
On that fateful day in May, three of the miniature cabal were absent, leaving the most rambunctious two, a fifth-grade girl and a fourth-grade boy. They sat at the same table situated at the back of the room, shoulders touching as they whispered gossip and innuendo to each other. Of course, I would have preferred that they emit words that were wrapped within the context of the lesson I was delivering, but I was still resigned to their behavior, as long as they did not provide too much of a distraction for the rest of the class.
The time came for the distribution of the actual written assignment, which would require some of the students to find areas of the classroom to practice. I was hesitant to give the affirmative command, given the drama that occurred in my general education class earlier in the day.
Instead of quietly and purposefully seeking out spaces to demonstrate what they had just learned, my general education students had perceived the transition period as an opportunity to gossip and mill about the classroom space. I caught one of my female students as she furtively applied a chemical spray onto the hair of one of her friends, which caused another student in the vicinity to cough. Enraged, I pointed a finger at the offender and said, “What are you doing?”
Sheepishly, the girl attempted to explain away her actions, as if there was a valid reason for her to be spraying potentially toxic chemicals in the classroom.
My emotions became more inflamed.
“I don’t want to hear your excuses!” I said.
The culprit’s name was Wendy, the only black student in my general education class, who had once cried wolf. During the first few months of my teaching career, she’d spun a horrific tale before the school janitor, accusing me of physically abusing her. She wrenched her forearm with her opposite hand as the janitor observed, as if to imitate the way I supposedly grabbed her. The janitor, a black man who believed in me, dismissed the accusations, cowing Wendy into a petulant silence. She never apologized for trying to get me fired, and I never forgive her for the transgression.
“You’re not going to the Spring Social, Wendy!” I said. “I’m tired of your constant disruption of the class.”
Wendy’s face dropped as the tear slid down the front of her face. Perhaps she thought her upset would lead to a softening of my position. But my face remained as unyielding as the surface of a rocky mountain boulder. Wendy responded by running toward the open doorway.
“I’m going to tell Mr. D on you!” exclaimed an inconsolable Wendy. “You’re not going to get away with this!”
“Everyone else, please go back to your seats,” I said. A couple of my students, also Wendy’s allies in the class, looked toward the open door, signaling that they were thinking about exiting the class as well. “Go back to your seats.”
Mr. Di Lorenzo, a short Italian man with gray hair, escorted Wendy into the classroom a few moments later. Wendy glared at me as she took her seat, eyes full of white-hot vengeful hate. I could care less. Fuck you too, I thought. You tried to get me fired. Though filled with scorn and distaste for the child, my face remained placid.
Mr. D signaled for me to accompany him as he prepared to exit the classroom. I sighed as I approached Mr. Di Lorenzo, the grizzled, veteran affective needs professional. I knew he was too lenient with the students, as many preferred hanging with him as they received their “punishment” — the kids were allowed to play board games in his office. Still, he was the veteran and I was the rookie teacher trying to keep his head above the surface, so I routinely deferred to him.
“How are you doing, Eze?” said Mr. D, whispering.
“I’m doing all right,” I said. “So Wendy talked to you?”
“She did. And I wanted to talk to you about it.”
What is there to talk about? I thought. She had violated the rules, as she had chosen to engage in unnecessary shenanigans instead of completing her assignment.
A significant majority of the entire fifth-grade population had been acting out of turn, no doubt a byproduct of a teaching staff that had given up on disciplining this cohort of students. Recently, a boy had been caught distributing pornographic images in the classroom. Another student brought a cigarette lighter to school, which he used to set paper towels alight in the bathroom. The school was steadily devolving as the end of May approached, becoming a haven for aberrant behavior. However, my fellow educators were all safe, secure in the knowledge that they would be holding onto their jobs next year. I did not think of myself as secure, as the threat of dismissal hung over my head like a storm cloud for the entire school year.
“I’ve got some kids that have allergies,” I said. “Spraying that stuff during class is not acceptable and it is not safe.”
“She understands now,” said Mr. D. “I can promise you that. How about we give her another chance?”
“I don’t know Mr. D.”
“The end of the year social is important to the kids. It would not be right for her to miss the opportunity. Eze, I promise you that she has learned her lesson for good this time.”
I shook my head from side to side.
Mr. Di Lorenzo took two steps to the left as he prepared to issue an admonishment: “Isn’t that right, Wendy? You have learned your lesson. You’re not going to be a disruption anymore.”
Wendy begrudgingly nodded her head. “Yes.”
Mr. Di Lorenzo, with a quirked eyebrow, said, “There you go.”
“That’s fine I guess,” I said.
Three hours after the incident with Wendy, and against my better judgment, I gave my assent to the language acquisition class. Admittedly, the majority of the students transitioned quietly and stayed on task. The two remaining members of the bad-behavior cabal ignored my instructions. They were too busy attending to their needs, which included gossiping, harassing earnest students, and chasing each other around the classroom when my back was turned. As the more serious students observed these two as they continuously engaged in unacceptable behavior, they looked to me, as if they were expectant of some kind of intervention on my part. I knew I had to step up, for fear of losing the rest of the class.
As I approached the desk where Michael, the fourth-grade boy, and Sherry, the fifth-grade girl, were situated, they endeavored to project the appearance of acceptable classroom behavior. Of course, I was not bamboozled by their pantomiming, as it was just so obvious.
“The two of you are to remain after class,” I said.
Michael and Sherry stared up at me, utterly disbelieving. As was the case with Wendy a few hours before, they searched my face for any sign of leniency. They could not find even a smidgen of doubt. Because after nine months of having to countenance their behavior, my patience was gone.
“Why Mr. Ihenetu?” asked Michael. “What did we do?”
“Yeah,” said Shelly. “What did we do?”
I felt the need to smile derisively, though I suppressed the urge. “Are you being serious?”
Michael and Shelly said, “Yes” in unison.
“We’ll talk about it after school,” I said.
As a seemingly disgusted Michael turned from me, he emitted a statement, one that was barely above a whisper: “You a racist motherfucker!”
“Did you say something, Michael?” I asked.
“No.”
“I heard you curse, Michael,” I said. Although, the cursing was not what upset me the most. Because a young black boy was accusing me, the only black male teacher in the entire school, of racism. “We’re going to talk with Mr. D after school.”
After Mr. D arrived, we formed a semicircle just beyond the entrance to the classroom.
“What’s going on?” asked Mr. D. “What’s happening?”
“These two were disturbing the class today,” I said. “And it is not just happening today. We have had behavior issues throughout the entirety of the year.”
Sherry was a tall light-skinned black girl, with elongated arms and legs that seemed to go on forever. Ostensibly, she was a good-natured girl, a collector of friends from many different backgrounds. After attending Crawford Elementary School for her entire scholastic life, she had endeared herself to many of the long-serving teachers at Crawford, including Mr. D. A few weeks ago, I caught her trying to affix a Kick-Me note onto the back of my shirt. Ever since then, Sherry’s propensity for derailing the class had become more intense.
Through an intense scowl Sherry said, “That’s not true at all Mr. D. Mr. Ihenetu is always picking on the two of us.”
“Yeah,” said Michael. “He is always punishing us for the way we act. Other kids act up. Why doesn’t he go after them?”
“I do talk to the other kids when they have issues. And they usually listen,” I said pointedly. “So I don’t have to bother them again.”
Sherry and Michael synchronized as they stared in my direction, distilled contempt contorting their delicate facial features.
“Why do you think Mr. Ihenetu chooses to pick on you?” said Mr. D, sounding skeptical.
“I think it’s because he doesn’t like black people,” said Michael with a sneer.
Sherry nodded, signaling her approval. “Yeah, Mr. Ihenetu is racist against black people.”
Mr. D gaped at me, his wide-open eyes full of surprise. In all his years of existence — he was sixty-four years old — he’d never heard of a black person accusing another black person of racism.
“Really?” said Mr. D. “You think Mr. Ihenetu is racist against you two?”
Once again, Michael and Shelly responded in a synchronized manner: “Yes!”
Mr. D shook his head and said, “How about the two of you go home? We’ll talk about this in my room tomorrow.”
Mr. D watched Sherry and Michael exit the class before turning to face me. “Can you believe those kids saying that you’re racist?” Mr. D chuckled heartily, a prelude to a downplaying of the seriousness of the situation.
I was not amused.
I had spent my formative years in a neighborhood situated less than a mile from Crawford Elementary, and I thought I could make a difference in the lives of kids who grew up in similar circumstances. I wanted to act as a role model for kids like Sherry and Michael, show them what was possible through hard work and dedication. However, all of my work and sweat was amounting to barely above naught. The black kids that I wanted to help were treating me, a vulnerable black teacher, as if I was their existential enemy.
As a teaching intern at Mont view Elementary School, I’d run into issues with Tiana, a black fourth-grade girl with anger management issues. Of all the students, she was the most critical of my presence at her school. Her aversion to my existence was often irrational, as she could not hide her disgust during our most mundane interactions. As was the case with Michael and Sherry, I knew that Tiana thought less of me because I was a black teacher. These kids were used to looking up to a white educator, as the reality of a big black man occupying a position of authority upset their equilibrium.
Mr. D was wrong to laugh and dismiss the accusations put forth by those two students. Michael and Sherry were projecting, as they were the true perpetrators of the racist behavior.
I was the victim of intraracial hatred.