A Short Reflection On My First Year

I started my time in adult education in New Orleans a little over a year ago with no background in education and no experience working with adult learners, which was a killer combination that set me up for complete failure. Luckily, working with AmeriCorps allows a bit more wiggle room than a normal job; that is, you're not necessarily expected to go into the job with the appropriate skills and experience that it might actually take to do the job well. On the flip side, no 16 year-old GED student in New Orleans gives a hoot whether you're an experienced urban educator or a recently graduated 22 year-old Women's Studies major from Wisconsin. Unfortunately or fortunately (yet to be determined), I was the latter.

My inexperience and my profile in general (white, middle-class, young, female) ultimately did seem to help me in the classroom, because neither my students nor I knew what to expect from my presence there. I was able to put myself out there, to admit that I had no idea what I was doing, and to confess that, in fact, I needed immense amounts of help from the students themselves in order for anyone to benefit from the experience. The result of placing myself out on this tiny limb was surprisingly positive.

"Don't let the kids know you're scared" and "Always look like you know what you're doing" are some of the pieces of advice I received before embarking on my mission to educate all of the GED hopefuls in the city. While potentially harmless and maybe even good advice in some educational settings, these philosophies did nothing positive for me and my students. In fact, my first day leading a class this way was met with scowls, slang phrases directed at me that I have nowhere near the skills to translate, and a little message left for me at the end of class on the whiteboard saying, "You is a hoe who could shag god".

Although I felt somewhat complimented by the message- you've got to have something going for you if you possess the ability to "shag god"- I knew that my methods were flawed. It was only when I clearly communicated to my students that they had a wealth of knowledge that I couldn't even touch that they began to trust me. I desperately needed to learn how to function in their culture in order to understand how to teach them, and they needed to learn how to function in mine in order to reach those dreams that only a young person can so wholeheartedly wish for. And eventually we all came to realize that.

At this point I might go back and mention that my students were not fully accepting of my presence even when I did lose my "tough" front. It took awhile. These were kids that were forced by the judge and their probation officers to come to school even if they didn't understand the value of education, kids who couldn't walk through the wrong neighborhood without taking their lives into their own hands or risking police arrest for no substantial reason, and kids who saw me as someone who could never, ever understand their struggle. And they were mostly right. No matter how much compassion or sympathy I felt, I could never say to them, "I understand you", because it would be a total lie. I could understand that the poverty and racial profiling that they lived with was unjust, but I would never be able to empathize. If a student of mine met me on the street and I started an altercation, I wouldn't be the one getting arrested. And they all knew that.

So instead of telling lies of my deep understanding of their plight, I tried telling the truth. I said to them, "I don't understand". One day, a student came into class even though his cousin had been shot in the head and killed on his porch the day before. He said he didn't have anywhere else to go, and besides, he wanted to look on the city criminal court website to see if he could find a picture of his cousin's shooter. I asked him, "Why do you need to see a picture of your cousin's shooter? I don't understand." He told me he couldn't just let someone get away with killing his cousin. I asked if I could talk to him privately, and despite his rage, we went in another room and closed the door. I said to him,

"I don't understand how it feels to watch your cousin get shot in the head. I don't understand how it feels to walk down the street and worry that the same thing will happen to you. But, I do understand how much all of the teachers here love to see your face every day. I do understand how smart you are and how much potential you have. And, I do understand that if you try to hurt your cousin's shooter, you'll probably go to jail, and I'll be heartbroken that you never got to go to college and buy your mama that house you always wanted to get for her."

A very unusual but very appropriate thing happened after that: he cried. And I hugged him. I told him I was sorry that I didn't understand. And I think he understood.

Now, after I've told such a heavy and touching story, it needs to be stated that I didn't stop all of my students from hurting those who hurt them. I didn't inspire all of my students, or even the majority of them, to continue coming to class after something more important got in the way. And I never did teach the student who thought I could "shag god" anything more than how to change his sentence to the grammatically correct version of "You are a hoe who could shag god". But I learned to be real with my students, not to assume that I understand, and that earning trust can be hard. Not too shabby for a Women's Studies major from Wisconsin like myself.

5 tattoos for $1OO and other things I should always remember.

"Where are you goin' Jerrell?"

"I gotta head outta here," he says with a smirk.

"Where're you goin' that's so important you can't even finish this essay?" Keeping Jerrell here is always a struggle, but his innocent teenage face is so revealing that I can't help but know what kind of agenda he's got in mind.

"My deal ends at 5. I gotta get me a tattoo. Five of 'em. For one hundred dollars." The light in his eyes flashes across the room as his smile engulfs his face.

"You're getting five tattoos? All at once? Because it's cheaper?" Obviously, I don't understand the outstanding value of this opportunity.

"Oh yeah, Miss Laura. Five for one hundred. Best deal around."

"Alright, I hear ya. Whatcha gonna get?" Clearly someone with an aspiration for five tattoos at once has to have an intricate plan for his tats.

"Oh, I dunno. Whatever I think of when I get there. Like, if I'm sittin' there, and I think of my gramma, that's what I'll get. Or if I think about my sisters, I'll get summa their names. Or else, I'll get my momma's name again. Or maybe even, if I think about GED school, I'll get that." His transparent face shows his mind searching through the list of everything that exists in his life, mostly bound by the borders of his neighborhood.

"You'll get our program name tattooed on yourself?" Is he serious?

"Oh yeah, Miss Laura. Whatever comes to my mind." He is.

"Okay, well get my name if you think of me, k?" I know that'll get a chuckle out of him, and it does.

"Awright, Miss Laura. Is that my homework?" The light in his eyes spews out into the drab room once again, and I can see more clearly.

"Yeah, and write three paragraphs about it, too."

Sure, Jerrell, you can go get those tattoos, as long as you keep that sparkle in your eye.