There's something about a day of teaching that makes one want to go for a long walk with one's dog.
Normally, Bandit and I get in the car and drive to the dog park at Point Isabel if it's not too dark. Today, I didn't have it in me to get back in my car, so I did something I have never done since I moved here in July. I went for a walk around my neighborhood.
That may seem a bit hermit-like, and admittedly, it is. I think I was afraid of people seeing me and questioning what I was doing here. I don't look like I belong in this neighborhood. My car doesn't look like it belongs in this neighborhood. And my furry terrier with her pink leather harness certainly doesn't look like she belongs here.
There are plenty of dogs in the neighborhood, but I never see them out on walks. Mostly Pitts and Chihuahuas, they bark at my dog from behind fences and closed doors. The smaller dogs sound frantic with their high pitched barks. The bigger dogs sound like lions.
I figured I had about twenty minutes to explore the neighborhood before it got dark. My first instinct was to explore the area behind the row of apartments in front of me; this is where the kids run after throwing rocks at my house. I decided to leave that instinct alone and make a wide loop around the area.
The first thing I noticed was that I was being stared at. A lot. I underestimated how unnerving it was to be constantly scrutinized. In fact, I guess I completely underestimated how much staring there would be. I lived in this neighborhood on purpose, and it was embarrassing to see how many people -- my neighbors -- were visibly surprised by my presence after nine months. I responded to the stares with an awkward wave and friendly smile. Happily, my waves and smiles were reciprocated.
I came upon an open area with barbecues and grass. It looked to be the recreational area for the surrounding apartments. The apartments and the lawn look brand new, although they're a few years old. I learned from my students that they razed an area called "Easter Hill" upon which my house was built as well as the apartments in the neighborhood. I think this is partly why I get looks with raised eyebrows when I tell my kids the general area where I live. I've had students turn to one another and say "Layfield stay on The Hill". I felt pretty special, even though I know the days of The Hill are close to over. The Hill is notorious for being home to the Easter Hill Boys, a local gang about which the local papers are continuously writing. Whether or not the gang still is active here, I don't know. I've read a few articles in the local paper that lead me to believe I'll be better off if they aren't.
Though it was getting dark, the recreation area was a sea of people. At first I thought there was some kind of party, but then I noticed that there wasn't really a central activity going on apart from a game of basketball. Groups of teens were standing around laughing. Some had cans hidden in paper bags.
One called over to me, "Hey. You live in this neighborhood?"
"Yeah," I responded carefully. I wasn't sure where this conversation was going.
"For real? I've never seen you."
"Yeah I do. I just don't go out for walks a lot."
I appraised him and his friends with a teacher's eyes. They looked maybe 19 or 20. Old enough to be some of my students. Bandit wagged and walked toward them. They recoiled.
"Don't sic your dog on us."
"She doesn't even know how to sic. She's really friendly."
"You're pretty."
Awkward.
"You guys probably know some of my students. I'm a high school teacher."
They looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Their faces said "oh snap."
"Where?"
"Over at Leadership."
"No, we don't know nobody over there."
"Oh I see. Well have a good day."
"Can I have your number?"
"I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate that. Goodbye."
As I walked away, I wished for a moment that I had engaged him in casual conversation about the kids throwing rocks. I'm sure he knew them, and I think putting a face to the crime would make an impact. I thought about turning around, but then decided against it. Probably not good to continue a conversation after my number was asked for. I saw his interest in having me as a neighbor decline sharply after I mentioned my boyfriend. Too bad. He seemed nice.
Bandit was excited by the interaction but upset at not being pet by the stranger. She was elated, then, to see two little girls running toward us as we turned the corner back onto my street. The younger one, a five year old with her hair in braids across her head, grinned at me showing a mouth sparse with teeth.
"Can I pet your dog?"
"Of course!" I smiled, letting Bandit cover the girl with slobber. Her older sister walked up and put her hands on her hips, obviously playing the caretaker of her younger sibling.
"She's five," said the older girl.
"Oh," I remarked. I'm not used to younger kids after spending all day with high schoolers. I was rusty.
"I'm ten," the older girl said pointing at herself.
"Very cool," I said. "Bandit likes you guys."
The younger one giggled.
"I used to have dogs, but mommy gave them to her friend."
"They ran away," the older one stage whispered.
We chatted casually for a bit, and I explained that I was a teacher. This got both girls talking about their teachers. They both hated the teachers at their school.
"My teacher doesn't teach history or science because he doesn't like history or science. We just do math all day."
"My class is kindergarten but most kids can't even count to ten. The preschool can already count to twenty."
"She got sick," the older one pointed at her sister, "and they gave her a packet of work this big." She held out her hands. "She still didn't learn nothing."
"Bummer," I frowned. That explains a lot.
I told them about where I worked and that we just had a College Week. They were enthralled as I told them about my 12th graders and where they want to go to college. They're bright girls; they asked me great questions and giggled as they told me about their friends at their school.
"I have a guy friend who's evil but I still call him my friend because he is my friend, but I think he likes me and people think we're dating because we always hang out." The older girl giggled and stepped backward with the sudden force of her laughter. Clearly, not much changes between fifth grade and high school.
As it started to get dark, I told Bandit to say "see you later" to the two girls and walked off as they skipped back home.
On the last stretch to my house, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Two older boys holding bikes stared at me as another ran up the path to join them.
I don't know why, but suddenly I knew these were the boys who throw rocks at my house. It was a gut feeling; perhaps I saw their faces once as they ran away and stored them in my memory until that moment.
I think they knew who I was somehow too. Their faces were masks of stern recognition. I raised my hand and saw their knuckles whiten on the handles of their bikes. I waved with my raised hand and softly said, "Hi."
The smaller one instinctively began to wave back, then glanced at his older friend to see what he would do. Slowly, they both waved hello.
Their features relaxed and I realized in that moment that they had been scared. I felt my grip on Bandit's leash and realized that I had been scared too.
I walked off into the dusk feeling very strange. I still feel very strange.
I'm still collecting the thoughts as they swirl around in my skull, but the best I can collect them is in this: Everyone is scared. People who act tough, people who are tough, people who walk around carrying guns.
Everyone is scared and the only truly good and truly bad things happen in this world when we start pretending we're not scared when we are.
In that moment with those boys, we were both terrified. They could have torn off on their bikes without making eye contact with me. I could have pretended not to see them, or worse, turned around and gone the other way.
Instead we shared a profound moment, steeped in our own fear.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
cherry pick
I'm constantly reminded of things I have that my students do not.
As
I type this, I am on an airplane headed back to Richmond from a
wonderful, life-giving weekend in Seattle. I took pictures in the sky
because I know my students would be interested in what the world looks
like outside a plane window.
Many
of my students have never been outside Richmond. The few who have
usually go somewhere to visit family or, on occasion, shop outside the
city for their birthday or Christmas.
On
a field trip last year to local community colleges, a high school
senior in the back of my car shrieked in terror at the sight of cows
grazing on a hill by the freeway.
"What are those animals doing on that hill?!"
I
calmed her and assured her that the cows were fine on the hill and that
they were just eating. I used the same explanatory tone as I would for a
three year old venturing outside the city for the first time in her
conscious life. This student was nineteen.
By
the time I was nineteen, I had visited Mexico, England, France, and
Italy. I had gone skydiving and drove my own car. I had pitched more
than one fit on the premise that my $20 per week allowance was too low.
To
be fair to myself, I was a teenager living in a relatively affluent
community. According to my parents, I was pretty polite as far as
teenagers go.
My
kids, on the other hand, live in a very different bubble. In this
bubble, everything is completely different than anything I have ever
experienced.
I truly believe it is dramatically different than anything most of America has experienced.
After
I moved to Richmond, I was surprised to feel culture shock. Obviously
it would be different than the cities where I have lived and attended
college, but I didn't know how different. It is not unusual to drive by
the bloated corpses of household pets in the street on my way to work. I
drove by a long deceased pit bull for half a week before I started
alternating my route, unable to handle the sight.
The
streets are in disrepair and are littered with debris. After a windy
night, it looks like a hurricane has passed through a dumpster outside a
Taco Bell -- food wrappers, small toys, and candy wrappers are
everywhere. Before work each morning, I pick up the debris that has
found its way into my yard over the course of the night. The list of
bizarre material I find has become sort of a Ripley's Believe It Or Not
catalogue in my mind.
The list includes:
- A box of empty otter pops
- A rubber porkchop
- A loaf of bread
- A rooster (living)
- A raccoon (dead)
- Various matchbox cars
- An "Ask Abby" article clipped from a 1980 San Francisco Chronicle
- Various beer bottles buried n my garden
And much more.
At
first, I was shocked by the litter and debris. I was reminded of a
third world country nestled in the San Francisco Bay. My displeasure
with my surroundings came to a head one evening as I was driving some of
the senior boys home from one of heir asketball games. We had stopped
at Jack N The Box for dinner, and, at a stop sign, Armani decided it
would be the perfect occasion to discard his trash outside the car. I
heard a liquidy plunk as a half-full orange soda began its slow course
down the gutter. The other boys in the car threw out their empty burger
wrappers after Armani’s drink.
Having
gone to college in Santa Cruz, I was obviously floored. I’m not too
terribly involved in the environment, nor have I been, but I certainly
cringe whenever I see a cigarette butt fly out of a car window. The
sight of half a dozen fast food wrappers leaving my car was too much to
bear.
“What are you doing? Go get those and wait for a trash can. You can’t just throw things outside the car.”
“Why not?”
I sputtered for a minute, never having gotten this far in my environmental logic chain.
“Be--because it’s bad for the environment.”
“The environment? Ms. Layfield, with all due respect, do you see any trees out here?”
I
looked up. I saw two pairs of tennis shoes tossed over a telephone
line. I saw a couch with sagging cushions slumped against a mailbox.
There was a flocked and tinseled Christmas tree long forgotten between
two houses, like some kind of shirked responsibility embodied.
What I should have said was, “Haven’t you heard of the broken window theory?”
What I should have said was, “Don’t you have pride in your city?”
What I should have said was, “This is how Richmond gets to look like this.”
What
I did was this: I closed the car door, dropped the rest of the boys
off, then, when I was alone, came back to collect the trash. I don’t
know why I came back for it; it seems ridiculous to cherry pick the Jack
in the Box trash from the rest of the garbage in the gutter.
I did it anyway.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
apocalypse when?
I don't think I had ever seen it rain so hard in Richmond. The window leaked a little after it was fixed, but that night rivulets of rain water were pooling on the sill before sliding down the duct tape and trashbag surface I had rigged and into the giant plastic storage container below.
I looked at my handiwork and felt an odd mixture of pride blended with shame. On one hand, my rain catcher worked really well. On the other hand, this is what crazy people do. I could imagine someone walking through my door, seeing the enormous hodgepodge of duct tape and plastic, and inquiring as to the number of cats I have stashed in my house.
When people use the term "War", as in "the education War" or "the War in urban cities", I immediately roll the eyes in the back of my head (all teachers have them). Certainly, with the exception of perhaps one or two neighborhoods in the United States, teaching and living in the same neighborhoods as the populations we serve cannot be likened to war. Indeed, even if it were a bullet that smashed my window a few months earlier, I would still be hesitant to make the comparison. I will say, though, that the psychological side effects of this life and this work have been staggering.
Sometimes, I involuntarily remember a scene from Apocalypse Now. You know the one I'm talking about. Martin Sheen's character is stuck in a hotel room in Saigon and alternates between hallucination, drunken fury, and mirror-smashing feats of strength and insanity.
If there were a hidden camera in my house, viewers would be treated to a similar display of crazy. Though I will admit, significantly less alcohol, hallucinations, and bad-luck-inducing mirror breakings are involved. (Side note: Really? Breaking a mirror? You think you need seven years of bad luck in Vietnam?)
The most common example of this is the psychotic rigging I create around the house in order to exert some control over my surroundings. I spent a good hour outside a few weeks ago lugging around a board with the intent to somehow attach it to the front of my window. Ideally, this would magically make the scoundrels think that rock throwing is futile and they should go volunteer at a soup kitchen somewhere. In reality, I couldn't even get the board to stay in front of the window. This would involve me exposing my ankles to the Realm of the Spiders, which is what I'm sure the area of wall near the ground would be called by anyone else too. There are literally hundreds of spiders down there. My list of enemies grows.
In the picture above, you'll notice a few things. First, the board is still there as a constant reminder of my failure to effectively balance it on the table you see under the window. Second, the chair and rake combination should be familiar to anyone who has ever yelled, "get off my lawn" at a group of kids. Finally, the "beware of dog" sign is there in case a crazy-eyed 24 year old holding a rake doesn't scare everyone off.
No matter how staunchly I rig my house against rain and vandalism, however, the inevitable darkness of night removes any confidence I had during the day. If I listen to music, it's barely audible so I can hear if another attack is taking place. If I'm in the living room, I take periodic peeks outside my door just in case. After my car window was smashed in with a rock, I parked it down the street from my house and sprinted from my car to my front door.
All this had led me to one conclusion: in my head, rocks are being thrown at my window every single night. They might as well be; any bump I hear outside unleashes a flood of adrenaline that makes my heart pound against my ribcage. This happens even when I'm not home. Over Winter Break, in the safety of my parents' house, any unidentified noise in the middle of the night left my palms sweating and my mouth dry. My knees were constantly bruised from being banged against the wall next to my bed during a mid-sleep hypnic jerk. I returned to Richmond better rested, but still on edge.
The culmination of this neurosis led to a very dark night alone in my house. I was straightening my hair in the bathroom on a Friday night, about to go watch my boyfriend play music with his classical guitar orchestra in Davis. The outfit I was planning to wear was hanging on the door; I was wearing makeup for the first time in weeks.
Then I heard the rocks.
They started out as quiet tappings as the rocks hit the stucco next to the window. Then, as their aim improved, it seemed like the whole living room shook with the impact. I sprinted out the front door, screaming as loud as I could.
"HEY! KNOCK IT OFF! STOP IT!"
My voice grew raspy with the impending flood of tears, but still I yelled. It was the only thing I felt I could do.
I checked the window. It was scuffed, but miraculously in one piece. A brief search on the ground next to the window revealed their weapon of choice.
I pulled a chair outside, held my golf club awkwardly as I extracted my phone from my pocket, and called the non-emergency line for the Richmond Police. I explained that someone was throwing rocks at my window, and the dispatcher said she'd send someone by. I settled myself down in my chair, clutched my weapon, and waited.
Against my better judgement, I called my parents while I waited once more. They were still worried from the last incident, and I hesitated to worry them again. My dad answered. They were out in downtown Ventura about to sit down to dinner. In an unsteady, rambling way, I described what had just happened and assured them that I was okay. As I said the words "I'm okay", though, something strange occurred. My voice was already shaking with the frigid temperature outside, the freezing cold golf club I held with no intention of putting it to use, and now the onslaught of tears. I imagined my parents sitting in our favorite restaurant downtown. I imagined it was warm and smelled like curry. The lights outside the restaurant twinkle and the hum of human voices waft through the air.
I collapsed into silent, wracking sobs. I felt so stupid for not being there with my family who loves me. I felt so stupid for being so afraid of rocks. I felt stupid for sitting on my porch with a golf club like I was actually going to do anything with it. I felt stupid for calling the police. I realized in that moment that the police were never going to come. I was right.
I don't remember what the rest of the conversation was with my parents, but I do remember that later that night, blinded with non-waterproof mascara and rage, I nailed a quilt to the inside of my window. I'm not totally sure what my logic was behind that move, but I think it was as follows: I can't stop them from throwing rocks and bricks at my window, but I sure as hell wasn't going to sit there as glass exploded all over my living room again.
At the time, I thought what I was doing by nailing a quilt to the wall was protecting myself and my dog against shattered glass. In retrospect, what I was doing was something much more dramatic. I was creating a bunker.
As I blocked out the last bit of natural light that shone into my house, I also set the tone for the next month or so that the quilt remained on my window. Unless the lights in my house were on, I would sit in pitch darkness in my living room, even if it were sunny outside.
The quilt finally came down about a week ago. I wanted to celebrate what I thought marked the end of the attacks on my house. Even after I realized that the attacks were far from over, however, I didn't put the quilt back up.
I didn't move here to build more walls. I moved here to tear them down.
I looked at my handiwork and felt an odd mixture of pride blended with shame. On one hand, my rain catcher worked really well. On the other hand, this is what crazy people do. I could imagine someone walking through my door, seeing the enormous hodgepodge of duct tape and plastic, and inquiring as to the number of cats I have stashed in my house.
When people use the term "War", as in "the education War" or "the War in urban cities", I immediately roll the eyes in the back of my head (all teachers have them). Certainly, with the exception of perhaps one or two neighborhoods in the United States, teaching and living in the same neighborhoods as the populations we serve cannot be likened to war. Indeed, even if it were a bullet that smashed my window a few months earlier, I would still be hesitant to make the comparison. I will say, though, that the psychological side effects of this life and this work have been staggering.
Sometimes, I involuntarily remember a scene from Apocalypse Now. You know the one I'm talking about. Martin Sheen's character is stuck in a hotel room in Saigon and alternates between hallucination, drunken fury, and mirror-smashing feats of strength and insanity.
If there were a hidden camera in my house, viewers would be treated to a similar display of crazy. Though I will admit, significantly less alcohol, hallucinations, and bad-luck-inducing mirror breakings are involved. (Side note: Really? Breaking a mirror? You think you need seven years of bad luck in Vietnam?)
The most common example of this is the psychotic rigging I create around the house in order to exert some control over my surroundings. I spent a good hour outside a few weeks ago lugging around a board with the intent to somehow attach it to the front of my window. Ideally, this would magically make the scoundrels think that rock throwing is futile and they should go volunteer at a soup kitchen somewhere. In reality, I couldn't even get the board to stay in front of the window. This would involve me exposing my ankles to the Realm of the Spiders, which is what I'm sure the area of wall near the ground would be called by anyone else too. There are literally hundreds of spiders down there. My list of enemies grows.
 | |
No matter how staunchly I rig my house against rain and vandalism, however, the inevitable darkness of night removes any confidence I had during the day. If I listen to music, it's barely audible so I can hear if another attack is taking place. If I'm in the living room, I take periodic peeks outside my door just in case. After my car window was smashed in with a rock, I parked it down the street from my house and sprinted from my car to my front door.
All this had led me to one conclusion: in my head, rocks are being thrown at my window every single night. They might as well be; any bump I hear outside unleashes a flood of adrenaline that makes my heart pound against my ribcage. This happens even when I'm not home. Over Winter Break, in the safety of my parents' house, any unidentified noise in the middle of the night left my palms sweating and my mouth dry. My knees were constantly bruised from being banged against the wall next to my bed during a mid-sleep hypnic jerk. I returned to Richmond better rested, but still on edge.
The culmination of this neurosis led to a very dark night alone in my house. I was straightening my hair in the bathroom on a Friday night, about to go watch my boyfriend play music with his classical guitar orchestra in Davis. The outfit I was planning to wear was hanging on the door; I was wearing makeup for the first time in weeks.
Then I heard the rocks.
They started out as quiet tappings as the rocks hit the stucco next to the window. Then, as their aim improved, it seemed like the whole living room shook with the impact. I sprinted out the front door, screaming as loud as I could.
"HEY! KNOCK IT OFF! STOP IT!"
My voice grew raspy with the impending flood of tears, but still I yelled. It was the only thing I felt I could do.
I checked the window. It was scuffed, but miraculously in one piece. A brief search on the ground next to the window revealed their weapon of choice.
 |
| Not a small rock. |
I pulled a chair outside, held my golf club awkwardly as I extracted my phone from my pocket, and called the non-emergency line for the Richmond Police. I explained that someone was throwing rocks at my window, and the dispatcher said she'd send someone by. I settled myself down in my chair, clutched my weapon, and waited.
Against my better judgement, I called my parents while I waited once more. They were still worried from the last incident, and I hesitated to worry them again. My dad answered. They were out in downtown Ventura about to sit down to dinner. In an unsteady, rambling way, I described what had just happened and assured them that I was okay. As I said the words "I'm okay", though, something strange occurred. My voice was already shaking with the frigid temperature outside, the freezing cold golf club I held with no intention of putting it to use, and now the onslaught of tears. I imagined my parents sitting in our favorite restaurant downtown. I imagined it was warm and smelled like curry. The lights outside the restaurant twinkle and the hum of human voices waft through the air.
I collapsed into silent, wracking sobs. I felt so stupid for not being there with my family who loves me. I felt so stupid for being so afraid of rocks. I felt stupid for sitting on my porch with a golf club like I was actually going to do anything with it. I felt stupid for calling the police. I realized in that moment that the police were never going to come. I was right.
I don't remember what the rest of the conversation was with my parents, but I do remember that later that night, blinded with non-waterproof mascara and rage, I nailed a quilt to the inside of my window. I'm not totally sure what my logic was behind that move, but I think it was as follows: I can't stop them from throwing rocks and bricks at my window, but I sure as hell wasn't going to sit there as glass exploded all over my living room again.
At the time, I thought what I was doing by nailing a quilt to the wall was protecting myself and my dog against shattered glass. In retrospect, what I was doing was something much more dramatic. I was creating a bunker.
As I blocked out the last bit of natural light that shone into my house, I also set the tone for the next month or so that the quilt remained on my window. Unless the lights in my house were on, I would sit in pitch darkness in my living room, even if it were sunny outside.
The quilt finally came down about a week ago. I wanted to celebrate what I thought marked the end of the attacks on my house. Even after I realized that the attacks were far from over, however, I didn't put the quilt back up.
I didn't move here to build more walls. I moved here to tear them down.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
glass crash fever part II
It was sometime in October, and I was in the fetal position on the floor, shaking. Every nightmare I had ever had about not being able to dial 911 was rushing back to me. In my nightmares, the phone falls apart. The buttons fall off. The numbers aren't in the right order on the phone. In one nightmare, truly characteristic of a high school teacher, I found that I had been attempting to dial 911 on a calculator. Suffice to say, my nightmares rarely end well.
Thirty seconds earlier, I had been sitting in the living room singing along to the Beatles with a stack of student work by my feet. All at once, as if I were inside a house scheduled for demolition, my living room window imploded inwards. The unbelievably loud popping noise was intermingled with an involuntary scream.
My brain was taking in information as if it would later be used for a photo montage. Glass all over the floor. My dog scrambling away from her spot by the window. And then, my overdramatic brain started giving me images that weren't happening. Warnings. Someone bursting in through the back door, taking advantage of the distraction in the livingroom. Someone dying of a gunshot outside my house. Someone else holding a gun in search of witnesses.
I grabbed the golf club in the corner and settled into a crouching position with my back against the door. I held my phone with my shaking hands. Nope, this isn't a nightmare. I dialed 911 successfully.
I remember giving my address to the dispatcher and telling her "someone shot through my window." She told me that officers would be there as soon as possible and that I should stay on the floor. Then she hung up.
It was quiet then, except for the tinkling of what was left of my window falling to the floor. The silence made me remember the unwanted parade of images marching through my mind. Someone with a gun. Someone bursting in the back door. I called my parents while I waited for the cops.
"Hey, babydoll!" My dad's jovial voice was barely audible over the surround sound in my parents' living room. Whatever they were watching on the flat screen TV had a lot of explosions in it.
"Someone shot at my house."
"What?"
"Someone shot at my house."
"Pam, turn the TV down. Someone shot at her house."
The background grew quiet.
"What happened? Did you call the police?" My dad's voice was the special mixture of serenity and urgency was reserved for the most dire of emergencies.
"Yeah, they're coming. I'm fine. The window's just not fine."
"Are you sure it was a gun?"
"No, I have no idea. The window just imploded and I figure better assume the worst."
My dad and I ran through a number of possibilities less frightening than a bullet while we waited for the police. The seconds ticked on. Then the minutes crept by.
"Are you sure you called the police?"
"Yes. Yes I'm sure."
I saw headlights outside and told my dad that I had to go.
The police were friendly enough and informed me that it didn't look like a bullet as there was nothing embedded in the wall behind the window. After some searching, they found a large piece of brick under a pile of glass.
"It's just a brick."
"Yes, I see."
"Do you know who could have done this?"
"I have no idea."
"Do you have any enemies?"
I paused for a moment.
"I'm a high school teacher."
The police officer looked at me expectantly.
"I wouldn't be very good at my job if everyone liked me."
I would find out later that, indeed, not everyone likes me. Two bricks were thrown that night: one through my window, and one through the window of the only other white lady in the neighborhood.
-----------------
The police took some pictures of my window and radioed it in as an act of vandalism. When they left, I was alone in my apartment, barefoot, eyeing the glass that covered the floor. I was left holding a "victim's rights" card with the case number on the back.
As I picked up my phone to call my parents back, I glimpsed the time of the last call I had made. I was on the phone with my parents for nine minutes. It took the police nine minutes to get to my house after I told them I was being shot at. By guns. Nine minutes.
This has since been the standard for what I refer to as the "nine minute rule." If I made the decision to live in an urban neighborhood, I had to live with the consequences. Like waiting nine minutes to see the red and blue flash of lights reflected in the glass on my floor.
I could have lived anywhere. Most teachers at my school live either in Oakland or in San Francisco. In return for a three minute commute, I had to wait three times that long for the police in an emergency. I guess I knew abstractly that it was dangerous, but the particulars of the situation were lost on me. In the days after the vandalism, I felt naive. I felt like what opponents of Teach for America must imagine corps members to be. I picked up the glass off of my floor that night, but kept finding shards of it in my jackets, in my purses, stuck in anything and everything that had been in the livingroom that night. The glass was also stuck in my psyche; the days and weeks that followed were some of the darkest of my life. I wasn't safe in my house.
There were more attacks on my house after that, but the first one always sticks in my mind as the one that changed my relationship with my students. Bleary-eyed and late to school the next day, I had explained to my students what had happened the night before. One by one, they each shared with me their stories of waiting on the floor for the police. Sometimes the police would come. Sometimes they wouldn't. When the bell rang to go to their next class, they didn't get up.
One student watched my face for a few moments before he spoke.
"You want me and my boys to ride by your house tonight to make sure everything's ok?"
"Nope. Thank you."
"Damn, I can't believe you came to school today. You're pretty raw."
"Thanks."
"You gonna move?"
"No. I don't think so."
"Why?"
"Are you gonna move?"
"No."
"Okay then. Let's just promise each other that we'll get up and go to school no matter what happens the night before."
Thirty seconds earlier, I had been sitting in the living room singing along to the Beatles with a stack of student work by my feet. All at once, as if I were inside a house scheduled for demolition, my living room window imploded inwards. The unbelievably loud popping noise was intermingled with an involuntary scream.
My brain was taking in information as if it would later be used for a photo montage. Glass all over the floor. My dog scrambling away from her spot by the window. And then, my overdramatic brain started giving me images that weren't happening. Warnings. Someone bursting in through the back door, taking advantage of the distraction in the livingroom. Someone dying of a gunshot outside my house. Someone else holding a gun in search of witnesses.
I grabbed the golf club in the corner and settled into a crouching position with my back against the door. I held my phone with my shaking hands. Nope, this isn't a nightmare. I dialed 911 successfully.
I remember giving my address to the dispatcher and telling her "someone shot through my window." She told me that officers would be there as soon as possible and that I should stay on the floor. Then she hung up.
It was quiet then, except for the tinkling of what was left of my window falling to the floor. The silence made me remember the unwanted parade of images marching through my mind. Someone with a gun. Someone bursting in the back door. I called my parents while I waited for the cops.
"Hey, babydoll!" My dad's jovial voice was barely audible over the surround sound in my parents' living room. Whatever they were watching on the flat screen TV had a lot of explosions in it.
"Someone shot at my house."
"What?"
"Someone shot at my house."
"Pam, turn the TV down. Someone shot at her house."
The background grew quiet.
"What happened? Did you call the police?" My dad's voice was the special mixture of serenity and urgency was reserved for the most dire of emergencies.
"Yeah, they're coming. I'm fine. The window's just not fine."
"Are you sure it was a gun?"
"No, I have no idea. The window just imploded and I figure better assume the worst."
My dad and I ran through a number of possibilities less frightening than a bullet while we waited for the police. The seconds ticked on. Then the minutes crept by.
"Are you sure you called the police?"
"Yes. Yes I'm sure."
I saw headlights outside and told my dad that I had to go.
The police were friendly enough and informed me that it didn't look like a bullet as there was nothing embedded in the wall behind the window. After some searching, they found a large piece of brick under a pile of glass.
"It's just a brick."
"Yes, I see."
"Do you know who could have done this?"
"I have no idea."
"Do you have any enemies?"
I paused for a moment.
"I'm a high school teacher."
The police officer looked at me expectantly.
"I wouldn't be very good at my job if everyone liked me."
I would find out later that, indeed, not everyone likes me. Two bricks were thrown that night: one through my window, and one through the window of the only other white lady in the neighborhood.
-----------------
The police took some pictures of my window and radioed it in as an act of vandalism. When they left, I was alone in my apartment, barefoot, eyeing the glass that covered the floor. I was left holding a "victim's rights" card with the case number on the back.
As I picked up my phone to call my parents back, I glimpsed the time of the last call I had made. I was on the phone with my parents for nine minutes. It took the police nine minutes to get to my house after I told them I was being shot at. By guns. Nine minutes.
This has since been the standard for what I refer to as the "nine minute rule." If I made the decision to live in an urban neighborhood, I had to live with the consequences. Like waiting nine minutes to see the red and blue flash of lights reflected in the glass on my floor.
I could have lived anywhere. Most teachers at my school live either in Oakland or in San Francisco. In return for a three minute commute, I had to wait three times that long for the police in an emergency. I guess I knew abstractly that it was dangerous, but the particulars of the situation were lost on me. In the days after the vandalism, I felt naive. I felt like what opponents of Teach for America must imagine corps members to be. I picked up the glass off of my floor that night, but kept finding shards of it in my jackets, in my purses, stuck in anything and everything that had been in the livingroom that night. The glass was also stuck in my psyche; the days and weeks that followed were some of the darkest of my life. I wasn't safe in my house.
There were more attacks on my house after that, but the first one always sticks in my mind as the one that changed my relationship with my students. Bleary-eyed and late to school the next day, I had explained to my students what had happened the night before. One by one, they each shared with me their stories of waiting on the floor for the police. Sometimes the police would come. Sometimes they wouldn't. When the bell rang to go to their next class, they didn't get up.
One student watched my face for a few moments before he spoke.
"You want me and my boys to ride by your house tonight to make sure everything's ok?"
"Nope. Thank you."
"Damn, I can't believe you came to school today. You're pretty raw."
"Thanks."
"You gonna move?"
"No. I don't think so."
"Why?"
"Are you gonna move?"
"No."
"Okay then. Let's just promise each other that we'll get up and go to school no matter what happens the night before."
glass crash fever
It was halfway through first period as I burst through the doorway of the Resource Room, thanking my lucky stars that my coteacher was already there. He looked up and nodded hello from a lesson on Slaughterhouse V he was in the middle of executing. My untimely presence attracted unwanted attention from his group of 11th graders.
"Layfield, you late."
"No I'm not. How late am I?"
"Hella."
I went to check my watch and realized that I wasn't wearing one. It was left on my dining room table with the coffee I had meant to bring with me and my lunch.
"What's wrong with you?" another student chimed. "You look like you been punched in both eyes. You hungover?"
"No, and that's an inappropriate question. Pay attention to Mr. H."
I slid behind my desk and fought the urge to put my head down. If there's one thing teenagers love, it's adults doing what they get busted for doing.
Mr. H wrote passes for the students to head back to class and I watched them leave. When I closed my eyes, it felt like they were on fire. When I opened them again, Mr. H was standing next to me with a look of concern on his face.
"Are you okay?"
I reached into my bag to pull out my agenda for the day, but instead found a large shard of glass. I pulled it out of my bag and set it carefully on my desk next to my mouse.
Mr. H and I both stared at the shard of glass for a moment before I answered.
"No. I don't think I'm okay."
--------------
Four months earlier, I had made the decision to move into the same neighborhood as my students. This information had been met with raised eyebrows and polite questions from all I had spoken to about my plans. I found myself explaining that I didn't feel right as a white Teach for America corps member asking students to trust me during the school day and then heading back to my gated community over the train tracks. My explanation never turned out as eloquent and logical as I had hoped, and as a result, I'm intimately familiar with the look of an acquaintance tacitly informing me that I should seek mental help. I'm even more intimately familiar with the look of a loved one as they (not so tacitly) inform me that I should seek mental help.
It's not difficult to understand why. In 2010, Richmond, California was rated the 6th most dangerous city in the United States. Bookended by a Chevron oil refinery and the unincorporated area of North Richmond, murders, carjackings, muggings, and gang violence were the norm. I teach in an area known as the "Iron Triangle" for its less-than-fortuitous location in the convergence between three sets of railroad tracks.
Richmond has been in the news for years, but became infamous in national news after a 2009 gang rape at a Richmond High School prom became the new go-to example for the bystander effect. 20 people looked on - some filming on their phones, some cheering - as a gang rape of a 15 year old girl at prom took place over the course of 2.5 hours.
While horror stories like this are usually isolated incidents, the stories my students share with me at school are less so. I felt like I couldn't look them in the eye when I told them to wake up and get to work, because, after all, I don't know what it's like to listen to gun shots at night. I grew up in a middle-upper class gentrifying neighborhood and went to a small magnet Technology High School. One student with bags under his eyes recently told me that his house was constantly a target for gunfire, and as a result he's had to sleep on the floor. My first year of teaching, while I was living in the gated community, I had developed a very convincing "that must be hard" while waving worksheets and flash cards under their noses.
When I announced my plans to my students, I was met with disbelief and condescending smiles. This combination is a recipe for disaster and unwavering commitment for me; last time the two had been combined this well, I ended up going vegetarian. It's been five years and counting.
After I had moved in, I immediately became far too comfortable.
(Continued)
"Layfield, you late."
"No I'm not. How late am I?"
"Hella."
I went to check my watch and realized that I wasn't wearing one. It was left on my dining room table with the coffee I had meant to bring with me and my lunch.
"What's wrong with you?" another student chimed. "You look like you been punched in both eyes. You hungover?"
"No, and that's an inappropriate question. Pay attention to Mr. H."
I slid behind my desk and fought the urge to put my head down. If there's one thing teenagers love, it's adults doing what they get busted for doing.
Mr. H wrote passes for the students to head back to class and I watched them leave. When I closed my eyes, it felt like they were on fire. When I opened them again, Mr. H was standing next to me with a look of concern on his face.
"Are you okay?"
I reached into my bag to pull out my agenda for the day, but instead found a large shard of glass. I pulled it out of my bag and set it carefully on my desk next to my mouse.
Mr. H and I both stared at the shard of glass for a moment before I answered.
"No. I don't think I'm okay."
--------------
Four months earlier, I had made the decision to move into the same neighborhood as my students. This information had been met with raised eyebrows and polite questions from all I had spoken to about my plans. I found myself explaining that I didn't feel right as a white Teach for America corps member asking students to trust me during the school day and then heading back to my gated community over the train tracks. My explanation never turned out as eloquent and logical as I had hoped, and as a result, I'm intimately familiar with the look of an acquaintance tacitly informing me that I should seek mental help. I'm even more intimately familiar with the look of a loved one as they (not so tacitly) inform me that I should seek mental help.
It's not difficult to understand why. In 2010, Richmond, California was rated the 6th most dangerous city in the United States. Bookended by a Chevron oil refinery and the unincorporated area of North Richmond, murders, carjackings, muggings, and gang violence were the norm. I teach in an area known as the "Iron Triangle" for its less-than-fortuitous location in the convergence between three sets of railroad tracks.
While horror stories like this are usually isolated incidents, the stories my students share with me at school are less so. I felt like I couldn't look them in the eye when I told them to wake up and get to work, because, after all, I don't know what it's like to listen to gun shots at night. I grew up in a middle-upper class gentrifying neighborhood and went to a small magnet Technology High School. One student with bags under his eyes recently told me that his house was constantly a target for gunfire, and as a result he's had to sleep on the floor. My first year of teaching, while I was living in the gated community, I had developed a very convincing "that must be hard" while waving worksheets and flash cards under their noses.
When I announced my plans to my students, I was met with disbelief and condescending smiles. This combination is a recipe for disaster and unwavering commitment for me; last time the two had been combined this well, I ended up going vegetarian. It's been five years and counting.
After I had moved in, I immediately became far too comfortable.
(Continued)
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