Why Do Only White People Get Abducted by Aliens? Read online

  “Why Do Only White

  People Get Abducted

  by Aliens?”

  “Why Do Only White

  People Get Abducted

  by Aliens?”

  Teaching Lessons from the Bronx

  Ilana Garon

  Copyright © 2013 by Ilana Garon

  Some material in this book has previously appeared in different forms in the following publications: “Felicia,” on SundaySalon.com; “Chris” and part of the Introduction, in Dissent Magazine; and “Jonah” on MirandaMagazine.com.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  www.skyhorsepublishing.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-62636-113-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Mom and Dad, my first teachers.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue: What This Book Is and Isn’t

  Introduction

  Year 1

  Chapter One: Carlos

  Chapter Two: Alex

  Chapter Three: Kayron

  Chapter Four: Kenya & Crystal

  Year 2

  Chapter Five: Felicia

  Chapter Six: Anita & the Sunshine Class

  Chapter Seven: Chris

  Chapter Eight: Jonah

  Year 3

  Chapter Nine: Adam

  Chapter Ten: Alfredo

  Chapter Eleven: Destiny & Anthony

  Chapter Twelve: Tyler

  Year 4

  Chapter Thirteen: Benny & Mo

  Chapter Fourteen: Tonya

  Chapter Fifteen: Callum

  Chapter Sixteen: Ilana

  Conclusion

  Final Thoughts

  Epilogue: Where Are They Now?

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  The names of the people that appear in this book have been changed in an effort to protect their privacy. If any names are similar to those of actual individuals, this is purely coincidental. I also made an effort to protect the identity of the institutions featured throughout these pages. All events described are of my own memory.

  Throughout this text, I have incorporated journal entries that I wrote during my first few years. In 2003, when I began teaching, blogs were not yet popular—instead, I sent these entries by email to a growing group of family, friends, and colleagues who were interested in learning more about these experiences.

  Prologue

  What This Book Is and Isn’t

  He stood in the front of the classroom, punching his fist against the palm of his hand.

  Smack. Smack.

  I was in the back of the room, bent over the desk of one of the students, so I didn’t notice when he entered; then I stood up, and there he was. He wore a baggy hooded sweatshirt that covered his head entirely, like the cloak of some monastic order. His body was angled away from me. I couldn’t see his face.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” I asked him, startled.

  No answer.

  My ninth-grade students, suddenly silent and alert, were looking up at our intruder with puzzled expressions.

  “Okay, give me your ID.”

  “F— off,” he said.

  “Give me your ID! Now!”

  Apparently, he hadn’t found whomever or whatever he was looking for. Without another word, he turned and moved toward the door.

  I ran in front of him and blocked the entrance to our classroom with my body. He was at least a head taller than I was. I was scared—partly because he had shown me such casual disregard when I’d asked for his ID and partly because it unnerved me that I still couldn’t see his face—but I was compelled to stall him anyway, because I couldn’t lose face in front of the kids. I had asked him to do something, he had disobeyed me, and they had watched it happen; my already limited authority was at stake.

  “Security!” I called into the hallway as loud as I could. I hoped that the school police stationed in our school would, for once, appear at the right time. They were constantly interrupting class to check if the students were wearing do-rags, but when you really needed help, they never seemed to be around.

  “Security!”

  The intruder body-checked me against the doorframe, shoving me aside. My arm smacked against the wall, hard; I was vaguely aware that I would have a bruise later. Instinctively, I grabbed his sweatshirt and tried to hang on, but he shook me off with little difficulty and ran out of the room and straight into the stairwell ten feet away. Before the stairwell door slammed behind him, I saw that he was heading downstairs.

  Without thinking, I ran after him. As I took the steps two at a time, it occurred to me that I didn’t actually know what I would do if I caught him. Above me, I heard my students screaming.

  “Miss Garon! Come back! Don’t do it—he’s Bloods!”

  Bloods. That hadn’t occurred to me, though it probably should have; of the several gangs that had members in our school, the Bloods were the most prevalent. I stopped in my tracks. He was out of my sight, and I could no longer hear his footsteps—I knew I’d never catch him. And now, my students’ anxious voices brought me back to reality. What the hell was I doing chasing a gang member down the stairs?

  I turned and walked back upstairs, out of breath. My face burned with frustration and embarrassment. One of the boys, Carlos, met me in the middle of the stairwell.

  “Miss, it’s okay to cry,” he said. He put his arm around me.

  But when asked later to describe the intruder, the students were tight-lipped.

  “How did you know he was Bloods?” a security officer asked them fifteen minutes later.

  No answer. Several of the students busied themselves picking at graffiti on their desks or biting on their pencils. All they would offer was that he had a black sweatshirt, was either black or Hispanic, and was “mad gangsta.”

  “That describes the entire school,” the officer told me.

  ______

  This is me: I’m a five-foot, five–and-a-half-inch Jewish girl who weighs 135 pounds on a bad day. I have a curly ponytail, freckles, and Harry Potter glasses. I like running, swimming, independent films, popular history, and reading. I wear lemon-scented body spray. I compulsively say things like “Oh, for the love!” and “No shit, Sherlock!” and “Okay . . . here we go.” On my wall, I have a poster showing the genealogy of all European monarchy since 1000 AD.

  My students will tell you I am the whitest person they’ve ever met.

  I grew up in Falls Church, Virginia. My family moved to France when I was two, and my three younger brothers were born during the five years we spent in Paris while my father was working for the International Energy Agency in France. We moved back to the States when I was seven years old, at which point I was enrolled in a private Jewish parochial school.

  This is the school I
went to: In addition to our “secular” subjects such as math and English, students in seventh grade and above took daily courses in Bible, Rabbinic law, Hebrew, Jewish history, and theology. We attended nine periods a day, not including lunch. After school we played sports, edited literary magazines, and performed a mandatory eighty hours of community service by graduation. I went through twelfth grade there.

  Our school was strict. If you were late to class three times, you had lunch detention. After two lunch detentions, you had an in-school suspension, which would take place on a Sunday. An unexcused absence to any class would result in the AWOL student’s parents being phoned, a total loss of credit for any work done that day, and a 3 percent deduction from one’s marking period grade.

  The 3 percent deduction was the clincher—that could make the difference between an A– and a B+. For students who had been groomed since birth to follow family legacies at Ivy League schools, this was an unthinkable penalty.

  Myself, I never got further than lunch detention, which I acquired several times for being tardy to various classes. The first time it happened, I sat in the detention room eating my sandwich and crying. The math teacher monitoring the detention room that day came and sat down next to me.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because I was late to Bible class—my locker’s on the other side of the school.”

  “Is this your first time in detention?”

  “Yes.”

  She burst out laughing. “This is good for you,” she told me, as I stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You’re not a detention virgin anymore!”

  ______

  This is what you will learn if you watch Dangerous Minds, Lean On Me, The Freedom Writers, or any of Hollywood’s other takes on inner-city education that have been released over the past fifteen years:

  1. The problem with inner-city schools is that most of the teachers don’t believe in their students’ potential. A bright-eyed, newly minted teacher who “believes” is all that delinquent kids need to do a 180-degree turn around and gain admission to Harvard.

  2. You will have no more than fifteen students in a given semester, and the first time you raise your voice at them, they will all suddenly realize you mean business and cooperate.

  3. You will know a school is an underfunded, gang-ridden cesspool if there is graffiti on the desk, loud rap music playing in the hallways, and . . . gasp . . . crooked window shades!

  ______

  When I first saw Dangerous Minds, I was twenty-three and had already been teaching in the Bronx public schools for a couple of years. My friends back home in Virginia had rented the film, figuring I’d appreciate it.

  “So is that just like your life, Ilana?” they asked, when the lights came back on.

  “Well, kind of,” I said. “Except for the fact that I teach 150 students a term, not 15; that I compete for attention in the classroom with mice and cockroaches; that I never have enough books or desks; that I yell and scream and care all the damn time, and still there’s so much that’s out of my control. . . .”

  I stopped for air. They stared at me.

  “Oh yeah, and that stunt Michelle Pfeifer pulls, where she goes to the kid’s house in the dangerous gang neighborhood? And then later he comes over to her house and stays in her bedroom with her all night, talking about life? Totally illegal,” I added.

  They continued to stare.

  ______

  Popular media is inundated with the myth of the “hero teacher” who charges headfirst into troubled inner-city schools like a firefighter to an inferno, bearing the student victims to safety through a combination of charisma and innate righteousness. The students are then “saved” by the teacher’s idealism, empathy, and willingness to put faith in kids who have been given up on by society as a whole.

  This is not that type of book.

  The other familiar model of teacher stories, perhaps best exemplified by educational activist and writer Jonathan Kozol, is the “teacher as a sociologist” theory, wherein schools and the profession of teaching are used as a lens through which to view socioeconomic inequity in the United States.

  While I have learned a great deal from Kozol’s writing, and though the following stories are in many ways about the day-to-day experiences of poor kids, ultimately this is not that type of book, either.

  This book isn’t a scathing indictment of inner-city education or even a story of disillusionment. It’s a story about a suburban kid having her eyes opened and learning to distinguish between mitigated failure and qualified success. This is a book about being a new teacher: about the trial by fire that all teachers must undergo, about making mistakes, and about learning from one’s own students. It’s is a book about trying to work within a broken system, while at the same time being bolstered by the very same kids you came in wanting to save.

  Introduction

  How Many Lives Did Your Last Spreadsheet Change?

  Eric Evans wasn’t doing his work.

  I had just given the twelfth-graders in my summer school class a writing assignment: “Have you ever done something that you regretted, or that made you feel guilty long afterwards? Discuss.” We were reading John Knowles’s A Separate Peace, and I kept thinking that if ever there were a book more disconnected from my inner-city students’ lives than this tale of overprivileged youth at a thinly veiled fictionalization of Phillips Exeter, I had yet to see it. Or was it so disconnected? Couldn’t themes of loss and guilt be relevant to even the most jaded, world-weary teens?

  I hoped maybe they could. Otherwise, my lesson would be shot to hell.

  But looking over at Eric, I knew I was in trouble. His paper was blank and his pen lay on his desk untouched. He was making exaggerated yawning and stretching noises, reclining his seat back against the lockers in the rear of the classroom. His classmates, looking up from their own work, had already noticed that he was not doing the assignment. I knew that in a moment his influence would cause me to lose my hold over them as well.

  I came over to him. “Come on, Eric,” I said. “Just try—don’t you have anything you want to write about?”

  “Miss Garon,” he said, grinning at me slyly, “I’m a tough inner-city kid. Are you going to ‘reach me,’ or what?”

  ______

  Explorers High School stands four stories tall, all Cold War–era architecture with no adornment or decoration to define what is otherwise a plain, square pile of faded red bricks. There are rusting “fall-out shelter” signs on some sides of the building and bars on the windows. Generations of students have remarked, not incorrectly, that the place looks like a prison.

  Explorers is flanked on two sides by housing projects, and on a third side by the gated, incongruously plantation-style campus of a school for the deaf. From seven to ten every morning, a metal detector and a scanner are placed at each of the school’s four main entrances, along with a slew of security guards with walkie-talkies. On particularly slow days, the gender-separated lines for “scanning” stretch around the corners of the school.

  For my first four years and a summer, I took the 2 train from the Ninety-Sixth Street station in Manhattan all the way up to the northeast Bronx to get to Explorers. The trip lasted close to an hour door to door, and that was on a good day, when the train didn’t become stuck (as it did, all too often) for twenty minutes in between 149th Street Grand Concourse and Third Avenue. On those days, I would find myself sprinting the half-mile from the subway station to the school, my backpack thumping against my back. If I were late enough, I’d figure “What the hell?” and stop to buy a sixty-cent coffee at one of the bodegas along the way. Then I would come up the steps to the school, past the metal detectors and the line of students who looked as though they were at the airport, patiently holding the belts and sneakers that they had taken off to speed up the scanning process.

  ______

  It was an ad on a subway train that first gave me the idea to become a teacher. In March of 2003, my senior year of college,
I was riding along listening to my MP3 player when I looked up and saw an advertisement for New York City Teaching Fellows—a black background with stark white lettering: “How many lives did your last spreadsheet change?”

  The Teaching Fellows program seemed like a good deal. It would pay for me to get a master’s degree in education (I only later found out that due to budget cuts relating to the Iraq war I would have to pony up half the cash); I would receive a full teacher’s salary; and I would get to teach in a tough school where I could “make a difference.”

  The job seemed like a challenge, and that was what I was looking for. I liked kids—all my token transcript-building projects in high school and college had involved tutoring students in my upper-middle–class suburban community in everything from swimming to bar mitzvah preparation to arts and crafts. At Barnard, I had majored in English and psychology. I even had a couple years of counseling experience on a university crisis and suicide hotline; I thought this might prove useful working with high-needs kids, who I imagined would have a slew of emotional problems they would want to discuss with me during cozy heart-to-hearts after class.

  Plus, my college graduation was two months away and I had no other plans.

  I applied to the Fellows program, hoping to be assigned to teach high school English. I had spent so much time dawdling that by the time I heard that I had been granted an interview, in early May, the last round of the application process was drawing to a close. The program was trying to fill all its available spots as soon as possible. I had to prepare a demonstration lesson for the interview. I “taught” my favorite Wordsworth poem, “My Heart Leaps Up.” I had always liked the line “The child is father of the man”—it seemed somehow appropriate for someone embarking on a career working with children. I ran over the allotted five minutes, got flustered, and started rambling about a hypothetical quiz that I would give were I teaching a real course instead of a mock lesson. Afterward I sat down, red-faced with embarrassment. I didn’t feel that I had done very well. But due to the sheer force of my enthusiasm for Wordsworth, or more likely out of the hiring committee’s desperation to fill the staggering number of teacher vacancies in the system, I was accepted to the Teaching Fellows program two days after my twenty-second birthday.