Passages Academy

"The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why." – Mark Twain.

            "Good morning,” I chimed, walking into my classroom. My students were curiously quiet this Monday morning. Head down, I walked quickly to my desk, knowing I might have only seconds before this peaceful moment vanished like a fart in a fan factory. Loud and unruly was the norm in most school settings, whereas erratic and ludicrous was the norm here.

            CLING! CLANG!

            What the hell was that? A silver glint streaked across my peripheral vision. I arrived at my desk and lifted my head, horrified at what I saw.

            "Oh my God! CHAINS? CHAINS?! They have my class linked together in CHAINS!" I yelled.

            "Yo teach,” a student shouted. “Don’t you know ain’t nothing good in here?”

            Here was Passages Academy, located within Crossroads, a secure detention facility for juveniles, smack dab in the middle of East New York, Brooklyn. The immaculate brown and white brick-and-mortar extended in two directions along a city block.  At a glance, the facility seemed to boast to the shabby neighborhood that Crossroads/Passages wasn’t part of this ghetto.  Even the din of blaring car horns, the roaring trucks, and the masses of shoppers going in and out of Pitkin Avenue stores couldn't mask the catacomb-like atmosphere that surrounded this juvenile prison where I, Dorian Bellamy, a newly minted teacher, had started working just two weeks ago. 

            I started each morning with a good morning to the security guards stationed behind plated glass, never getting a response. After I signed the logbook, I waited for one of them to hand me the four-inch brass key that opened the hallway doors, which allowed staff access to the classrooms. Then, after securely checking in and receiving the black panic box known as a duress, I was ready for the “Jailhouse Rock.”

            The classrooms at Passages Academy, unlike traditional schools, were small with large plexiglass windows that granted everything except the sun a view. Different too were the teaching tools. Traditional paraphernalia such as notebooks, binders, pens, tape, staplers, pencil sharpeners, rulers, scissors, markers, little-ass paper clips, and sweet treats were considered contraband. Students were allowed paper and pencils without erasers and little else. And since teachers’ items also had restrictions, it took days for me to find a clear backpack. Boys outnumbered girls eight to one, and they were intentionally separated. Both groups were outfitted in Velcro jumpsuits, blue for girls and brown for boys. Students were between the ages of twelve and seventeen and were always escorted by a Juvenile Counselor called a "DJJ". Occasionally, I would arrive ahead of my class, but often, students would be seated and waiting for me. Except this morning, they waited in…

            “CHAINS! CHAINS!” I shrieked.  

Seconds after, the classroom door opened with a bang.

            “All teachers have been called to a meeting, Miss Bellamy,” A DJJ barked as he entered the classroom.

“I’ll take your place until you return,” he said

            Unsettling relief engulfed me as I left. Shit! I couldn’t teach kids in chains.

            Five minutes later, I nodded at my twelve colleagues before plopping into a swivel chair at the conference table before Mr. Griffen, the Chief of Security for the Juvenile Facility, entered the room and, like most staff meetings, the mood was cordial until...

            “The ties are for the safety of teachers and students," Mr. Griffen said. 

            “Excuse me. Excuse me,”  a powerful voice rang out.

            All heads turned toward Thelma, a short, stocky teacher dressed regally in African attire, who was seated at the end of the table.

            “Yes, Mrs. Christion,” the Chief called.

            “Did you just say ties?"

            “Indeed, I did.”

            “Well, they looked like chains to me,” Thelma muttered. “Slave Chains!”

            The room soared into pandemonium.

            “That’s what I thought too,” roared Mr. Ward, a male science teacher dressed formally in his usual crisp white shirt and tie.

            “You got those kids chained up like it’s 1863,” yelled our gym teacher, Miss Sequoya.

            “They're already incarcerated. So why they got to be chained up too?” Shouted Mrs. Steward, the math teacher whose crucifix swung from side to side as she rotated in her seat. 

            “Teachers, Teachers!” Miss Riquelme, our school administrator’s voice boomed above the rest. “We’re not here to argue. Please allow Mr. Griffen to finish.”

             “Thank you, Miss Riquelme," Mr. Griffen said, coughing into his fist.  "As you know, we have fights due to gang violence. And when that happens, furniture gets tossed or overturned. Last week, one of my counselors was taken to the hospital for stitches.  It’s my job as Head of Security and the job of every DJJ to keep you and the students safe."    

            The meeting ended with mumbles of protest from the teachers and Mr. Griffen’s monologue sounding like he was discussing rainbows and lollypops instead of how kids expected to learn while they were in chains.

            When I returned to class that afternoon, the chains were gone. One point for the teachers, I mused.    

            “Good afternoon,” I said to the group of young men as they entered the classroom.

            “Yo Teach, would you stop with that good bullshit,” a student spat.

            “Let’s review today’s affirmation.” From the board, I  read, ‘What you can visualize in your mind, you can hold in your hand.’ I said, ignoring his remark. My colleagues and I knew better than to fall into the trap of taking their rude behavior personally.  “Anyone want to explain what this means?”     

A hand shot up.

“Yes.”

I’m living life do or die, what can I say?

Nineteen ain’t livin' to see twenty.

I’m livin’ a gangster paradise.

I’m livin’ a gangsters' paradise…”

          “Boys...boys," I called, slapping the top of the desk with my fist. But the gesture only prompted them to go louder.

          Nervously, I glanced through the plexiglass window where the DJJ was sitting. He glared at me and stuck his nose in his paper. Counselors were instructed to intervene only if teachers pulled the Duress. Unlike counselors in conventional schools, rather than guide and advise, DJJs were hired to deliver messages and discipline the students. And they manhandled the kids every chance they got.

          “Stop! STOP IT!” I shouted above the commotion. At Teacher’s College, we learned that if instructors didn’t seize control of their classes, their students surely would. “Boys, boys!” I roared. But it was too late. My pleas were drowned out by their singing and the wild melody. I sank heavily into my seat as my head began to pulse in defeat.

            This display was not unusual. During our lunch and prep times, teachers complained about students' abusive and insulting behavior. Fights, a daily occurrence, sent teachers cowering for safety in the corners of their classrooms as DJJs rushed in to quell the violence. When they weren’t fighting, students' voices rang loud and strong with rap songs and fierce desk poundings. Profanity was used recklessly, and the boys frequently opened their jumpsuits to display knife and bullet wounds. Although teacher’s roll books listed names like Robert, James, and Jerome,  students adopted titles such as Deadeye, Monster, Gangster, Snitch Killer, Black Guerrilla,  and Criminal. It didn’t matter how many times I asked to be called Miss Bellamy or wrote it on the board, I was dubbed “Yo teacher.” And that's how it was all day, every day, for my colleagues and me. All, except for one…

            “Thelma, you’re late again,” Principal Blair shouted as she stood in her mink coat, watching Thelma as she entered the building.  

           Behind a pole, I peeked into the lobby. I was curious about Thelma Christion. She was the teacher whose comment started the chain's commotion.

          Pulling the cuff back on her Mud cloth jacket, Thelma glanced down at her watch and said, “Well, according to my four-hundred-dollar Gucci watch, I still have three minutes.” 

            I took off to the lady’s room before my giggles erupted. Damn, she was fearless and bold. And all that sassiness was only the tip of the Pope's hat. I heard she was the only teacher who remained seated during our forty-minute classes. Mind-boggling, too, was the Kente cloth she kept draped across the back of her seat. The cloth stayed in place, I was told after she stated to her class that in Africa, teachers sat on Kente cloth because the orange and yellow patterns represented knowledge. On the other hand, her colleagues couldn’t keep an eraser on their desk without it disappearing. The kids called her Mrs. Christion or Mrs. C. instead of "Yo Teacher". And stories were beginning to circulate that some of the DJJs, rather than sticking their noses in newspapers, were leaving Thelma's door ajar so they could listen in on her lessons. And a few were said to have asked her advice for their children. But most amazing? Thelma was the only teacher who got returns on homework. I wondered what did she have that the rest of us desperately needed and didn’t possess.

  ***

            Fridays were court days. Students and teachers never knew exactly when appearances were scheduled, but we did know our students suffered emotionally and psychologically when it was their time to be sentenced. Imagine you’re thirteen years old and have been living in a secure and stable environment for ten months. Suddenly, you’re shackled and led off to face a magistrate who will decide your fate. And what will the judge say?  Will you be sent home? Sentenced to an institution upstate, further away from family, or will you be remanded back to Crossroads?  Even Thelma’s classroom lost some of its serenity on court days.

            On these days, teachers overlooked the excessive disruptions that went beyond the usual, and designed lessons were replaced with crosswords, Hangman, and unstructured free time. This often led to surprising performances as student's imaginations flowed freely, resulting in spontaneous and unexpected performances.  I was amazed by the genius of youth who were labeled illiterate, delinquent, and dumb. For instance, those with supposed math deficiencies, on the outside, had managed and maintained thousands of dollars in drug money as if they were licensed accounts. Others had invented ciphers and codes that baffled administrators. Kids created new dances long before they became popular on the streets. Once, in the middle of the game Mouse and Cheese (similar to Hangman), a student with a boxer’s physique yelled Simba and jumped down on all fours. His powerful arms bulged as he pranced and circled the room with his hands balled into fists. His muscular body exuded the sleek grace of a lion, with an elegance that embodied the essence of the Lion King himself.  I observed cartographers who encrypted diagrams for safe houses and hideouts for gang members that were intricately detailed and breathtakingly elaborate. I thought these events incredible until a boy called Dead Eye (since he had only one) walked in wearing his typical brown jumper—now decorated on the back was a carefully pressed tic-tac-toe game, complete with a diagonal line crossing triumphantly through the Xs.  

Fabricating ignorance, I marveled at how such extraordinary brilliance went unrecognized. Then again, society couldn’t give a rat's foot about poor misguided children of color in lockdown. And that’s how the Department of Juvenile Justice and the Department of Education got away with shackling kids and dropping teachers into a meat grinder, watching as our mangled emotions tumbled out.  Battered and marred we were. Most of the white teachers departed, setting off a cycle of persistent turnovers. Those who stayed complained bitterly or sought a strong shoulder to cry on. A few like me ended the school day in tears and migraines.

             Adding to our ongoing frustration was the endless bureaucratic BS from the Department of Education, mandating that instructors teach, test, and evaluate core subjects without providing the materials and resources. When resources did appear, the Department of Juvenile Justice would misplace, withhold, or poke their noses through the supplies before giving them to the school.

 ***    

“Today we’re going to learn about Kwanzaa,” I said, writing the word on the board. Over the weekend, I borrowed books on the subject and brought in art and music material.  I was hoping the topic would motivate the students since it was an ethnic holiday. 

            “Who knows about Kwanzaa?” I smiled.

          “It’s for pussies just like Christmas. Easter and Thanks-fucking-giving,” snarled a Spanish kid with a Latin Kings Crown tattooed on his arm. Everyone laughed and the Passage’s show of horrors erupted into blearing rap songs accompanied by savage pulsating beats.   

          “Gentleman! Boys, can I have your attention?” I screeched.

          In response, the Tattooed King got to his feet and boogied around the room chanting, “Kwanzaa, conza get me a fuckin’ Honda …”

          Teary-eyed, I pulled a tissue from the pocket of my wool skirt, brought it to my nose, and slumped into my seat.  How did Thelma avoid this classroom abuse, I pondered, feeling as dumb stuck as a butterfly stuck on gum.

            “Let's go, Boys.” The DJJ yelled, jolting me out of my misery.

            “Miss Bellamy, Miss Bellamy,” Deadeye called, stopping at my desk on his way out.

          “Come on, Boy,” the DJJ hollered.

            “Just a minute,” I called as the other students streamed out the door.

           “How can I help you?” I grinned at my pupil, delighted to be needed instead of shunned for once.

          “Miss Bellamy, you’re a great teacher,” Deadeye said. "I know my peers act as if they don’t care. But in our dorms at night, they say good things about you.”  

          I blushed. Maybe I was making progress after all.

          “I’m not going to call you again, boy.” The DJJ woofed.

          “One second, Mr. Jones," I pleaded.

          “I need your help, Miss Bellamy,” my stdent pressed.         

          My brows furrowed. Teachers were strongly advised not to get involved with affairs between students. But this was my chance. Maybe earning the trust of this young man would start a valuable mentorship.

          “Miss Bellamy, I can’t hold the entire class in the hall much longer,” the DJJ called.

          “What can I do for you, Son?” I asked.

          “My friend Westly is in your third-period class. Tell him he’s a Hamburger,” Deadeye said, rushing for the door.

          “Westly, I have a message for you I whispered when my third-period walked in.

Cautiously, he moved towards my desk.

            Delivering the message, I grinned like I’d hit the Lotto.

 Westly stumbled backward and blinked as if he were having a seizure. A vein in his neck pulsed, his eyes grew large as storm lights, and his breath became sharp and erratic. 

            POW! BOP! BLAM!

            It sounded as if bombs were being detonated as Westly moved around the classroom like a crazed dog. He overturned desks and chairs. Threw papers and pencils across the room. Spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled, “That Nigger called me a hamburger, that Nigger called me a hamburger...”

            Next, the shit and the hogs hit the fan as his peers cursed and threw punches at one another. In nanoseconds, the classroom mirrored the battlefield in the movie Braveheart.

            “Oh, GOD! OH MY GOD!” I screamed as someone grabbed my arm and hustled me out of the classroom. In a hot New York flash, four burly DJJs rushed in. They slammed the boys against the walls and floor and handcuffed them.

            “Secure,” a linebacker-sized counselor announced as he yanked a restrained student towards the door.

            Trembling, a few feet away in the hall, I watched in dismay as the chained gang was led out of the room, cursing and screaming.

            “Oh God, Oh God! What did I do?” I wailed like a bleeding infant.

            “What went wrong? What did I say?” I cried to a friend that evening on the phone. In bed, I tossed and turned like rice in a skillet and searched the shadowy ceiling for answers.  When I arrived at work the next day, I got dirty looks from the Juvenile staff.  And then...

          “Miss Bellamy, can I have a word?”

          Turning towards the voice, I saw Mrs. Riquelme, our assistant principal, with her head sticking out of her office door.

   Oh-shit! I knew this was coming.

“I’m so sorry. So sorry,” I sobbed as I stepped into her tiny office.

           “Have a seat,” she said, handing me a box of tissues. “Miss Bellamy, do you recall the meeting we had just before the school opened? When we advised teachers not to get personally involved with students?”

          “Yes,” I blubbered, looking down at my suede boots.

          “Well, you’ve just learned the hard way the reason for that warning.”

          “What did I do wrong? What…?” A tear meandered down my face and dangled at the tip of my nose. I dabbed at it with a tissue.

            “Sadly,” Mrs. Riquelme said, shaking her head. “Teachers were given the rules but not the training to work with gangs. And that’s the reason why you still have a job.  However, it also paved the way for you to inadvertently fall into the snare of a double standard. In other words, the message you presumed was innocent was a code that meant 'You're Dead Meat!' Take my advice, Miss Bellamy, as long as you’re working here, forget everything you’ve learned in traditional schools. None of it flies here.” 

            Leaving her office, I headed straight to the ladies room where the water streaming down my face exceeded what was in the bowl. Although Mrs. Riquelme had explained the reason behind the class riot, the only thing that made me feel any better was Mama's voice ringing in my head. It takes considerable knowledge to realize the extent of your ignorance.  This riot was my fault. I had to fix it.      

            I was relieved when I didn’t see Deadeye in class. But this small comfort slithered downhill faster than a thief in British Knights when my third period arrived without Westly. I was disappointed. I wanted to apologize to him and the class for delivering the message that sparked his rage. 

            “Excuse me,” I called to the DJJ in the hall. “Where’s Westly?”

            “In solitary,” he mumbled. His face never left the newspaper.

            My heart sank. Worst, my class mirrored a morgue. When I spoke, the kids stared or turned their backs as if I were invisible. There was no rap song, no profanity, and no wild drumming. This silent treatment continued into periods four, five, and six. Their behavior was unnerving. For weeks, I craved for peace in the valley. Now, I shunned the tranquility.    

            The following week, nasty drawings showed up on my desk, before and after class. Most portrayed me as a wild-haired, screaming fat woman. Then, pictures of hamburgers appeared. Some had devil horns, others with gang signs on the buns. One hateful drawing exhibited a skull with a hamburger between its sharpened teeth.

            When I attempted to apologize, the students laughed. Their message was clear. NOW I WAS DEAD MEAT! DEAD MEAT!

            After a few days of this, my nerves were frazzled. In the mornings, when I approached the building,  my stomach knotted, and I got sweaty. My ignorance had twisted my career into toxic waste. Contrary standards had saved my job. However, student resentment was pushing me out the door.  I had to do something. But what?

          Losing weight was the only good thing about stress. I didn’t have an appetite, so I avoided the cafeteria. One afternoon, I was drifting along the hall, searching for a quiet reading spot, when I noticed Thelma in her classroom, seated in her Kente-draped chair. Her short curly hair emphasized her earrings with a Gye Nyame Adinkra symbol from Ghana. The circular shape and spiral design expressed God’s spirituality. At her desk, Thelma looked so peaceful that my eyes watered. Serenity was something I’d lost and desperately needed to get back. I clutched the doorknob with trembling fingers.

          “Dorian,” she called, looking up.

          I didn’t know she knew my first name. But I did know that everyone, no matter what side of Crossroads they worked on, knew about the riot in my class.

          I released a deep wail.

          “Honey, I’m so sorry. Please sit.”

            “Sobbing, I recounted the incident and described the horrible drawings.

            “Sounds like mutiny to me,” she said.

            “Sounds like they want me to quit,” I sputtered.

             “Have you seen the Godfather?”

             “Yes.” I wondered what that movie had to do with me.

            “Well, I suggest you make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

          “What are you talking about?”

            Thelma slipped a hand into her drawer and withdrew a brown bag.  My eyes went owl wide.

            “Yes, it is,” she chortled. Unwrapping a red Tootsie pop, she stuck it in her mouth.

            “Some rules are made to be broken, Dorian. Have one.”

            We stared at one another for a moment and then cracked up.

             “So, this is how you've managed to tame the herd while the rest of us have been swirling around like nuts on a funny farm?” I giggled, shoving a pop between my lips.

            “Yep, and Ooohhhh, how sweet it’s been.”

             High-fiving one another, we relaxed in our seats enjoying our forbidden treats.

            “Who knows something about Kwanzaa?” I asked my first-period class a second time.

            No one looked at me. Twelve boys chatted and chuckled among themselves as if I weren’t there.

            “Does anyone know?” I raised my voice above the din without getting an answer.

            “Oh, okay,” I said, opening the desk I made a big fuss about displaying the colorful bag.  Students turned toward the sound.    

“What’s that, Miss Bellamy?” A kid with a linty Afro asked.

            “It has something to do with Kwanzaa. But it seems no one is interested," I muttered. "The first person to tell me what they know about Kwanzaa gets to see what’s inside.”

            “Kwanzaa got seven principles,” Linty Afro said.

            “Yep. Catch.” I smiled and tossed what appeared to be a loose-leaf paper ball in his direction. 

            Thelma had advised me to conceal the candy wrappers and remove the sticks from the pops so they couldn’t be used as weapons.

            Grinning like a Hyena, Afro tore open his catch and flung the pop in his mouth.

            “Oh shit!” Slipped from a bunch of lips.

            “Kwanzaa means first fruits,” said another kid.

            “That's correct,” I said, tossing another paper ball to the kid with a pencil behind his ear. I wrote the words "first fruits and principles" on the board.

            “It has candles, I think,” yelled a kid called Freckles.

            “Right, you are,” I laughed, tossing him a paper ball and adding candles to the list.

             The entire class were on their feet now.

            “Boys, the only way we can continue learning about Kwanzaa is from your seats.”

            Chairs creaked in unison as they sat, and I smiled as if the glowing sun was shining on my face.

            “People get presents. Like on Christmas.” The Latin King replied.

            “I thought you said it’s for Wusses,” I chuckled.   

            The class cracked up. “Naa, that’s not what he said. He said it’s for pussies, Miss Bellamy.” The six-footer known as Scar laughed.

            “I know. But teachers don’t use that kind of language in the classroom. And from now on," I said, knowing it wouldn’t happen overnight. “I don’t want to hear it from you guys either.

I faced the King. “And I forgive you. Catch.”

            As the boys were eating their sweets, I grouped them into pairs so the more advanced could support those who were struggling. My Kwanzaa packets had words to unscramble, word searches, and for those with reading difficulties, fruit mazes and coloring by numbers.    

            When they were done, I turned their attention to the board where I’d written the seven principles of Kwanzaa and five additional words. Volunteers were asked to choose a word and to write their sentences on the board or from their seats.

            The word I’d written on the board minutes before class ended was accountable.  

            “I'll read my sentence first,” I said. “From now on, I promise to be accountable and will never again pass messages from one student to another. I’m so sorry.”

The class was seated in silence when the DJJ flung the door open.

      “What the hell is going on in here?”

            “We’re all good,” Linty Afro said, getting to his feet as his eleven peers followed in a row out the door like reformed saints, at least for the moment.

.

            Sinking gratefully into my seat, I mused. In this environment, where youth idolized posses, in ranks of soldiers, lieutenants, and generals, there was one supreme ruler and… Candy Was KING!

***

It's 7 AM—RUSH HOUR!

 I’m on the train. On my way to work, squashed back-to-back and belly-to-belly with hundreds of commuters I don’t know and a smattering of those I wish I didn’t have to smell.

As the train doors opened at Prospect Park, the man who was dozing next to where I stood cracked an eyelid and jumped out of his seat.

EUREKA! I mused taking his place while he knocked travelers sideways and dashed out the doors. Passengers bitched… “You crazy Fool!” “Damn didn’t even say sorry!” “Jackass!”

Content to be off my feet. Relaxing back, I glanced up, and that’s when I saw him. A handsome twenty-something-year-old man was staring at me. That wasn’t unusual. Passengers often lingered on the spot where subway incidents occurred. Giving him a quick grin and nod, I reached into my bag and pulled out the book Midnight by Sister Souljah and stuck my nose in. But something didn’t feel right. When we were young, my brother Dana called this our Spidey sense. Looking up, I gazed into the young man's face as the train swayed his beanstalk frame from side to side. He examined me as if I were an actress on his favorite  TV show. I returned to my book but couldn’t focus.

            What did he want? Who was he? He was at least twenty years younger. He couldn’t be making eyes at me... Could he?

            “Atlantic Avenue,” The conductor announced. “Next stop. Atlantic.”

            I closed my book, shoved it in my bag, stood, and did a rickety[OB1]  train shuffle towards the door. On the platform stopped to catch my breath.

            “Miss! Miss!”

            Oh No! I brought my bag closer to my body and quickened my steps.

            “Miss! Please, I just need a minute of your time.”

            Oh God! Beanstalk had grabbed my elbow. I turned cautiously as passengers rushed past. My neck gave a rubber band-like stretch as I tilted my head back. Beanstal’s teeth were keyboard straight and pearl white. His eyes were hazel. His beard and curly hair were copper-toned and neatly trimmed.   

            “Are you Miss Bellamy?”

            “Yes.” I nodded.

            “I apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to thank you for being my teacher at Passages Academy. Because of you and Mrs. Christion, I’m an assistant principal at a junior high. Flashing his pearls, he steadied his briefcase and rushed off into the crowd of dashing commuters.

            I counted. Eight years had passed since I taught at Passages. I tried to recall his face, but it wasn’t possible. Some of my students were only there a few days. There was a bench on the platform. I collapsed onto it. Teachers rarely get to taste the fruits of their labor. Telling tears began to huddle. I swept them aside. Smiling, I coddled in the passageways of this miraculous moment.

For Thelma and the Youth At Passages Academy.

 [OB1]