April 4, 1968

Snapshot 1: February, 2008
The timer has just gone off and we are getting into it. "Alright ladies and gentlemen. We had a rough day yesterday, but today I have some great things planned and I think that we can have a great class." Dori has his hand up. "I am not taking any questions right now." This moment - beginning class - always fills me with terror. A ship steering through shallow rocky waters. A ship that I seem to crash every day. And it is in this one moment, the day is still filled with possibility. Let's just hold it together folks, no one panic, and I will try my best to steer us through safely today. Trying to avoid both mutiny and shipwreck, I have begun trying to start the first few minutes of class as a tyrant. "There are no questions right now." "I am the only one talking. Your voices are off."

"But this is a question about social studies" Dori insists, hand still in the air.
Dori is the coolest kid in the 6th grade. A mixture of astounding intellect and unpredictable commitment to actually applying himself, Dori constantly inspires awe among his peers - either through his insights or direct laughing defiance to teachers orders.

I accept his question.

"Why are we not learning about black history and its Black history month?"
The other students are enlivened by his comment. A chorus of affirmations and shows of support begin to erupt around the room. 'I hear that.'
'yeah, why is that?'
' that's what they are doing at all the other schools...'

"Actually, I would love to teach about that, Dori," I respond. "In fact, I even majored in black history at college."

"That's even worse," Aldin retorts. "How you gonna have majored in it and not taught us a thing about it?"

These students, 12 - 14 years old, have no idea that they have tapped into a secret little shame that I have been hiding from - tucking under my pillow every night of February, swallowing as I trudge the stairs up to my room in the heaviness of 11pm.

"Well guys," I pause...fumbling for the words...."we have to study for the LEAP Test. That's what we need to be focusing on as our first priority. I promise you, that next unit will be all about black history."

Wow, I think to myself, the college me would have been furious with the me that is now a teacher. So let me get this straight future CJ, you are not going to open your mouth all black history month because you are obsessed with your students passing a standardized test? You must be out of your mind.

The next day, I promise them that the last 10 minutes of every class will be devoted to black history. Every day I tell them that their bad behavior and inability to focus has cost them their black history time, thus passing the responsibilities of my own failings neatly on to them.

February passes. Thoughts of covering the poor people's march enters my head as a sub activity of a lesson on measuring distance with the 4th graders. How far is it from Alabama to Washington? It is late so I decide to scrap the idea. Kings birthday passes and I have said nothing.



Snapshot 2: April 4th 2008

In the midst a shortened class, already to late in the period to review our test, I scrap the lesson's objectives and decide to take the introductory conversation about King's Death (10 minutes on the lesson plan) and stretch it for rest of the 30 minute period. A worksheet, quickly scrawled in my childish handwriting reads. Who was martin luther king? Why was he important.

Who was Martin Luther King Jr.?
Answers from my 4th and 5th grade class include:
• He was Mr. Luther King Jr
• Civil Right Leader and Nobel Place Prize (an answer from many students incorrectly copied from a poster in my room)
• A man who stop slavery
• He whis the man had stop race

Why was he important?
• He gave peace and love to this world (a peace sign, a heart, and a picture of a globe accompany the actual words)
• He wanted peace
• He helped people bring peace to ecuder
• Martin luther king is important because he is from america
(The rest of the answers for my 15 student class are left blank)

We talk. I play the recoding of Bobbie Kennedy announcing that king has been killed. We define segregation. We role play. I knock stuff off kids desks and yell at them (all in jest of course) and ask them how difficult it is to restrain themselves from wanting to do something back to me.

"There are always two choices," I say, "revenge/ hate, and love." "The same choices that King and the blacks of the civil rights movement were facing upon hearing his death are the same that we face everyday in how we treat one another." Somehow my classroom remembrance of King's legacy has devolved into a take-away message 'stop hitting and calling each other names in class.' Part of this is because of my lack of preparation. The other is out of sheer dumbfoundedness about how to talk about race in a room in which Cassie, sits in the corner as the lone white student. Her head is on her desk and I feel like I am looking at her more than the rest of the class.

For your exit slip today, please write me a note about what our conversation has made you think about.

Student responses are as follows:
Dear Mr. Hunt...
• Talking about martin luterking makes me sad because king died.
• Learning about Martin Luther King made me sad and think about violence.
• This made me think about segregation
• Me think about stop harm people. I want to cray.

I sit in my classroom reading these in the fading light of evening. Not yet turning the lights on. The air conditioner is whirring. The heat makes the air stick to your body. And I feel like I want to cray. For all the things they do not know. For all the things I have not taught them. For all the fears and struggles with planning and holding myself accountable to those state tests that keep me from making talks of civil rights the air we breath in my classroom.

There is a closet in the corner of my room so messy that I have moved a shelf in front of the doorway to keep kids from entering and even looking into it. On the floor of this closet sits a big yellow bag. Inside, crushed beneath discarded textbooks and plastic bins lies a timeline of black history that I bought to assuage my own guilt and my 6th graders daily requests for black history during the month of february.

Nearby, in that same closet, my poster of Frederick Douglas lies pressed beneath heavy dictionaries. He was placed there to smooth out the wrinkles in the poster before the school opened. DuBois lies beneath the same dictionaries. Pressed beneath their weight and the weight of the dust and the darkness and the neglect. There, in a room barricaded off from children by a heavy bookcase, DuBois and Douglas sleep, waiting for me to gather the courage and conviction to invite them in to meet my students.

Strange how easily we become what we scorn.

I place the King essays in my top desk drawer. In the way of everything. So that every time I reach for a pencil or sticky, I see their blank unanswered questions and am reminded of what I am supposed to do.