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."
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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)