Young and idealist. Privileged and guilty. Another teacher enters the streets of Washington, DC to brave fighting and foul language and glassy-eyed parents to balance an unfair world, to give eight-year-olds a solid education, a ticket out of purgatory. Those eight-year-olds needed a teacher who did whatever it took, who refused to give up. By the end of the year, these students might pass the standardized tests, and most importantly, find the spark of hope that they might find a way out the multi-generational trap of poverty. After graduation, they might go on to be doctors and lawyers and teachers. Maybe that teacher that made all the difference would have been me. I believed he could be me. But not all stories that start out as a stereotype end as one too.
Daley Elementary was four miles away by bike. My bike was a gift from my mother-in-law, who had bought it from a neighbor. I would be surprised if she actually bought it; I think my mother-in-law saved it from a dumptruck. It was a bright red and white Cruiser with long, wiry handlebars that arched up like they were from the 50s. It only had one gear. The commute had five hills each way, and there were two hills that I couldn’t ride up without getting off the bike and walking. Imagine pushing a 100 pound bike up a hill with a hiking backpack filled with notebooks; it's not the best way to start your first day of work in the late summer in DC. When I finally got to school, I didn’t know where to lock my bike so I rolled it to the back of the school and locked it onto a rusted metal railing of an abandoned trailer. There were three unused trailers in the back of the school, and they were all surrounded by knee high weeds. By the end of the day, my shiny new Wal-mart helmet was gone. It didn't take that much ingenuity; you can just cut the strap. But still, who wants a Wal-mart helmet with a cut strap? The next day I locked up my bike again, but this time behind the trailer, wedged between the moldy vinyl siding and a chain link fence. Whoever stole my helmet might not see the bike now. But, at the end of the day, I saw the culprit, or actually, culprits. There were four young kids who were students at my new school with a hacksaw sawing away at my chain. They must have had a thing for bright red and white Cruisers with the grandma handlebars. They heard me approach, and they took off, screaming and laughing. It didn’t seem that funny to me so I dropped my backpack and started running after them.
I chased them around a corner along a back alley, further into the school's neighborhood known for its gangs and record-breaking homicide rate. Over the previous summer, this neighborhood had so many homicides the police department set up checkpoints to block the neighborhood’s entry points. The kids lead me to the back of a sloping yellow row house. It was up against an alley, and the late summer wind blew the street trash along the yard. Next to the yard was a telephone pole with an over-sized grayish-pink teddy bear taped to it. There was a school picture of a small girl with pigtails; I wondered if she was hit by car or maybe a bullet.
The kids squeezed through the backdoor, and a woman that wore glazed eyes and a nightgown was hanging her clothes up along a wire that lazily stretched across the backyard. Between breaths, I explained that I saw her kids trying to steal my bike. It didn't seem like she understood, there was no reaction—the same slack jaw, eyes unblinking. After a few long moments, she yelled out of the side of her mouth to the eldest daughter to come out and apologize. The daughter sauntered out and muffled an apology with a large grin on her face. I walked back through the alley to the school. I was quite close to where I had started as I didn't realize we had made a circle. I picked up my backpack, unlocked my sawed up chain, and I slowly pushed the pedals up the beginning of a hill that I knew I wouldn't make. It was then when I first thought, “what the hell am I doing here?"
Daley Elementary was four miles away by bike. My bike was a gift from my mother-in-law, who had bought it from a neighbor. I would be surprised if she actually bought it; I think my mother-in-law saved it from a dumptruck. It was a bright red and white Cruiser with long, wiry handlebars that arched up like they were from the 50s. It only had one gear. The commute had five hills each way, and there were two hills that I couldn’t ride up without getting off the bike and walking. Imagine pushing a 100 pound bike up a hill with a hiking backpack filled with notebooks; it's not the best way to start your first day of work in the late summer in DC. When I finally got to school, I didn’t know where to lock my bike so I rolled it to the back of the school and locked it onto a rusted metal railing of an abandoned trailer. There were three unused trailers in the back of the school, and they were all surrounded by knee high weeds. By the end of the day, my shiny new Wal-mart helmet was gone. It didn't take that much ingenuity; you can just cut the strap. But still, who wants a Wal-mart helmet with a cut strap? The next day I locked up my bike again, but this time behind the trailer, wedged between the moldy vinyl siding and a chain link fence. Whoever stole my helmet might not see the bike now. But, at the end of the day, I saw the culprit, or actually, culprits. There were four young kids who were students at my new school with a hacksaw sawing away at my chain. They must have had a thing for bright red and white Cruisers with the grandma handlebars. They heard me approach, and they took off, screaming and laughing. It didn’t seem that funny to me so I dropped my backpack and started running after them.
I chased them around a corner along a back alley, further into the school's neighborhood known for its gangs and record-breaking homicide rate. Over the previous summer, this neighborhood had so many homicides the police department set up checkpoints to block the neighborhood’s entry points. The kids lead me to the back of a sloping yellow row house. It was up against an alley, and the late summer wind blew the street trash along the yard. Next to the yard was a telephone pole with an over-sized grayish-pink teddy bear taped to it. There was a school picture of a small girl with pigtails; I wondered if she was hit by car or maybe a bullet.
The kids squeezed through the backdoor, and a woman that wore glazed eyes and a nightgown was hanging her clothes up along a wire that lazily stretched across the backyard. Between breaths, I explained that I saw her kids trying to steal my bike. It didn't seem like she understood, there was no reaction—the same slack jaw, eyes unblinking. After a few long moments, she yelled out of the side of her mouth to the eldest daughter to come out and apologize. The daughter sauntered out and muffled an apology with a large grin on her face. I walked back through the alley to the school. I was quite close to where I had started as I didn't realize we had made a circle. I picked up my backpack, unlocked my sawed up chain, and I slowly pushed the pedals up the beginning of a hill that I knew I wouldn't make. It was then when I first thought, “what the hell am I doing here?"
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