Adding Pieces of Understanding

Last Saturday, I attended a birthday party for one of my students, which was a wonderful way to experience my students in a non-academic setting. I had spent hours frantically searching store after store for the birthday gifts my co-teacher had recommended: “Something pretty and girly, like a necklace, hair bows, or a purse. Make sure it is princessy.” At first, I thought I could handle it; I knew the student and I knew the local store offerings. How difficult could it be to select some cute hair bows? But as I roamed about Clarksdale, I realized just how much I never was a girly-girl growing up, and how much I just wanted to buy her a chapter book, so I could encourage her already advanced reading level and school performance. After all, that is what I would have wanted at her age (I know, think what you must), and that is a gift I would expect from her school teacher. But my co-teacher’s suggestions won out, and we ended up being quite successful in our present, regardless of the minor panic attack I had shopping so far outside my comfort zone.

I realized at the party that I thoroughly enjoyed getting to see and interact with my students outside of school. They treated me like a celebrity—which was new to me and certainly helpful to the self-esteem—but I also experienced the strongest desire to continue such informal interactions and to help develop the entire child rather than simply his or her academics. I spent the rest of the weekend excitedly turning over different proposals for after-school clubs and social gatherings that would both enhance my students’ academics and provide them with an opportunity to socialize outside our school roles. I went into the new week with outlined ideas that I wanted to present to my principal at the earliest possible opportunity.

That energy quickly waned, however, as the intensity of a difficult week immediately emerged. My students were terrible this week, beginning to finish, and I could not muster the enthusiasm to spend any more time with these rascals than I was already required. They would not listen when I presented my new material, so they failed their independent practice. Their social roles between each other are growing more pronounced, and they are getting in the way of our classroom environment. The part of me interested in psychology and anthropology deeply yearns to sit back and observe these developing group dynamics, but my first loyalty—motivated by a healthy amount of doubt and fear—is to the state tests in May, so I continue to battle as best I can.

Come to think of it, perhaps this is the element of my week which is the most interesting to contemplate. I get the powerful impression that my students are starting to consciously realize that they are sexual beings, capable of a wider degree of emotions than they ever thought possible. The interactions between the boys and girls are taking on a different tone, one that certainly terrifies me, given their young age. They are starting to pair off, or at least recognize that status as a possibility. I have even caught snippets of conversation about what my students term “business” and witnessed my most aggressive and confident boy invite two girls to search his body for a hidden dollar. I will give you one guess where he hid that dollar. And yes, the girls did manage to find it…

On Wednesday, I had to break up my first, full-fledged fist fight between two of my boys (obnoxious alliteration completely unintentional), which actually unnerved me more than many of my other experiences. Perhaps it was the physicality of stepping in and restraining these two students, or perhaps it was having to confront the intense anger felt and so prominently displayed on both sides, or perhaps it was the sneaking suspicion that I could have prevented it altogether had I reacted a little quicker. Regardless, the episode changed the tenor of my week from one of desperately trying to reclaim the fun and control I usually get to use, to one of complete submission to my perpetual bad mood and ineffective governance of an unruly class. I gave up trying to redeem the negative experiences and instead fully accepted the upcoming weekend as the only refuge from five days of unexpected challenges.

So heading into a new week, I am already disappointed in how quickly the weekend has come and gone, and dreading the next four weeks before spring break. I question my ability to neutralize the growing tension in my room, and even my desire to continue pushing back against the rising tide. I will wake up tomorrow with lower but perhaps more realistic expectations. I have learned so far that one day really has no bearing upon the next, so it is anyone’s guess what the next week will bring. I find a little bit of consolation in that.

On Friday, a prominent member of Oakhurst Baptist (our landlord) invited my roommates and me to his home for a celebration of the Chinese New Year. Sarah and I went largely for the well known quality of the food and for the sake of having Friday night plans, so we were thrilled at the glimpse we received into the other side of Delta culture. Those in attendance were all Chinese Americans and rather successful members of their community—professors at Ole Miss, owners of local businesses, and high-ranking officials in their given occupations. They had money and education, two qualities most, if not all, my students’ parents lack. As a result, their perspectives on the current events in Clarksdale and our role as public school teachers were entirely different. They were informed and intelligent problem-solvers, and yet their tones were still tinged with that underlying racism I experience everywhere. Many of the problems in Clarksdale are black problems. Blacks cause the situation, so naturally they must also bear the fruits of public education’s downward spiral. Similar to Sarah and me, these community members were able to more accurately pinpoint the underlying issues at work, but unlike us, they refused any role in changing the situation. And why should they take any greater interest? They can sit in their prosperous corners of the Clarksdale community and function without any detriment reaching them from the slums. I finally experienced more concretely the isolation these people must enjoy. It was perhaps the most interesting bubble I have encountered in quite a while, and the closest comparison I can find is the sheltered bubble of white South Africa. I finally understood how completely possible and even comfortable it would be to live and work in the white community and only distantly observe the challenges facing the black community. How completely different would my experiences be!

I had glimpsed the possibility and the appeal, but ultimately I could not accept it. Such willful ignorance in the face of so much education and prosperity is distasteful and disappointing. While I thoroughly enjoyed the company at this party for so many reasons, I could never make their world my world. I want to merge the different communities into one comprehensive picture and to indulge in the best of all these elements, but it is like forcing magnets together. It just does not work, and so it does not happen. On the other hand, I suppose I am a random piece of plastic, and so I fit in nowhere. This reality is always present and unfailingly discouraging.

Unbidden, my co-teacher has actively played the matchmaker, insisting on acquainting me with Clarksdale’s young and successful men. She has a vision of helping me settle permanently in the area and into a lifestyle both happy and comfortable. While it started in good fun, I wonder if she has ever realized an underlying consequence: in finding this suitable partner, she would be pushing me from the small hold I have on her community, and thoroughly relegating me to that white Clarksdale bubble.