Save Your Voice

I remember their eyes.  They had a certain intensity that they lacked all year long.  Today they were alert.  Alert, like when they hear gunshots outside their windows at night, alert.  Alert, like they were expecting an earthquake to start shaking their minds empty, alert. 

“What if we forget everything we’ve learned Mr. Choi?”

Alert like they were ready for flight, but not to stay and fight, and win, alert.   They were so afraid that they were quiet.  It was surreal.  After months upon months of chaos I felt somewhat in control for the first time, and it was nice.

“Who ate a good breakfast this morning like I told you to?” I asked to comfort, but all I got were blank stares, a couple of “sheeesh” and a few shaking heads.  “You guys are going to do great as long as you remember to do everything I taught you.” I made another feeble attempt but knew I was just wrapping clear scotch tape around broken legs.

I hadn’t taught much at all that first year, and frankly, I had no confidence that my students were going to pass the exam that morning either.  My students would simply remain in the “far below standards” category, and many would not even see the backs of the “approaching standard” kids because I wasn’t able to get them on that path to begin with.  I tried so hard.  I barely slept, and many a morning I lay in bed tortured in my soul because I loved my students but seemed not to be making any progress with them.  I really tried to teach, but they simply didn’t let me.

The phone in the corner of the room rang alarmingly in the midst of tense silence. Sandy from the office notified me that Corey, a student who had missed more than half the school year, had shown up on this particular day.  How did he know to come on the day of the English Reagents Exam when he missed everything else?  Principal Thomas was escorting him down to our room as the rest of class 705 sat waiting to hear the squealing wheels in the halls to come around with the exams.  Anthony twisted in his chair to whisper something to Israel, and then peered over at me with a whiny face begging me to save him from this nightmare.  I desperately wanted him to do well on this exam, but I was powerless and I simply answered with a raised eyebrow and a shrug of my shoulders from across the room. 

“Whaddup my NIGGAS!  The king’s back in the house!”  Corey announced himself as he busted through the door punishing the wall behind it.  He came impressively dressed for the special occasion. He had freshly done cornrows, and his shape-up was so straight and tight I could have parked a car against it.  He had on clean white Jordan’s under his baggy jeans that were thoughtfully tucked in on the front of his shoes behind the tongue.  Black and white laces crisscrossed each other and none of them were twisted like they inevitably do.  Reaching almost to his knees was a bleach white Sean John t-shirt.  Corey swaggered in with a certain confidence about him that was intimidating, and even as he addressed the class he managed to make eye contact with me out of the corner of his eyes only for a split second but just long enough to assert his dominance and disrespect for my authority. 

“Welcome back Corey.  Please take a seat at the desk in the back.”  I tried my best to appear unnerved by his obnoxious entrance.

“Oh, I gotta sit in the back now cuz I’m black right? Yeeeaaah son, I got you!  This little Asian punk’s tryin’ to play a brotha.”

I felt my jaw tighten and sensed my sanity jolt as if a car door unmercifully jammed it between two metal frames while attempting to settle in for a smooth ride.  I held my breath, wanting to spit out curses propelled by saliva and exasperated breaths.  But I held it.  I turned around and held it, letting it wheeze out slowly from the corners of my mouth, like when you carefully unscrew the cap on a shaken Pepsi bottle.  I felt my anger stretching the tiny capillaries in my eyes, but I managed to hold my composure.     

One would expect a class to look on nervously and wait for the teacher’s wrath to engulf the aggressor in such a situation, but my students burst out laughing and gave Corey high fives, their minds completely off the exam now.  In that short moment I lost the class and I couldn’t bring them back to that place of focus, the place of utter fear and nervousness, their hell and my haven.

Students were out of their seats and walking all around me like I was nothing but a friendly ghost and as if my stern urging for them to “Sit down and be quiet!” were just the sounds of their neighbors fighting behind thin walls. I hated feeling powerless.  How did these thirteen year olds manage to make me feel so small and stupid, and so often?  Damn it! 

Without any regard for me, the class settled down on their own and resumed their zombie status when the exams arrived with Ms. Ramos, the short fiery Puerto Rican school aid.  She always felt bad for me when she walked into my class, and I guess also felt obligated to scream the cornrows off my kids before leaving the room.  This assistance often didn’t help because it fueled the students’ rambunctious spirits even more just before they were left alone with me again.  Still, I always appreciated her intentions.  She was a good lady.  She once stole butcher paper from the office for me so I could cover my bulletin boards sky blue. 

With Ms. Ramos out of the room, the tests were now out on everyone’s desk and I began to read through the directions.  Silence resumed over the room, but just as I got to “Remember to only use a number two pencil to fill in the circles” Corey stood up and proceeded to belt out off-key notes to I Believe I Can Fly.  Maybe he was more scared of failing than anyone else in the room.  Maybe he knew he would fail and simply wanted to delay the inevitable.  Either way he did not stop.  He kept on going despite my repeated instructions for him to sit down and be quiet. 

I could not endure him singing, taunting me as he joked with his eyes, a smug grin on the corner of his mouth, and completely disarming me of all authority.  Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer and I tore into him without mercy,

“Save your voice for the subways kid cuz you’re going to need it to feed yourself in about three years!“ 

That’s what I said to a boy who had been thrown away from birth, yanked from one abusive foster family to another, left alone to fend for himself in the streets—completely foreign to my reality—by making deals and winning respect.  I made an imprint on this 15-year-old kid that day.  He was just a kid.

Everything that happened afterwards is a blur.  He was spitting threats into my face one minute and then was being dragged out the door by blue uniforms the next.  Maybe he had succeeded.  After all, he had saved himself from failing the exam by never having to take it.

Consequences will follow my condemning prophecy as he would later be thrown into jail for possession of cocaine.  He was caught while pimping a girl in the streets.  However, he was indicted for possession of cocaine the police found in the inside pocket of his jacket, which one of his girls were wearing.  Learning of Corey’s fate recently, I couldn’t help but wonder what I could have done differently from all his other teachers in his life, and if it would have made any difference.