Frame of Reference

It was an ordinary day at school when the health teacher went into the hall outside her class to quiet some loud students. She spoke calmly, noting that the girls should get to their classes and that their talking was disturbing her class. In response, one of the girls assaulted the teacher, repeatedly striking her head against the wall lockers until the custodians were able to pull the girl away. After months of medical and psychological therapy the teacher was forced to give up her career, citing neurological damage and PTSD.

Although this story resembles a “made for TV” movie about a blighted school in a big city, it is all too true and happened to a friend of mine in a beautiful, Art Deco high school in the small city of Ogden, Utah. I had previously lived in larger metropolises; Berkely, California, and Queens, New York, and had laughed at the idea of central Ogden as a scary inner city. My quiet, tree-lined neighborhood of well-kept, Craftsman style houses, adjacent to a large elementary school seemed as far as you could get from what I understood as the mean streets of Long Island City. Living there, I was accustomed to seeing junkies lined up in front of the methadone clinic a block from my apartment. Daily, I saw a busload of youth arrive at the hulking, old school across the street. Their arrival was notable for the bars on their bus windows, and the armed guards who looked over them; these children had traveled from their cells on Riker’s Island to attend school. My commute to work usually involved passing streetwalkers, avoiding scavengers picking over the carcass of abandoned cars, and excusing myself past people smoking crack in the entryway of my destination. Utah felt like another world. In Ogden I could walk around my neighborhood at any hour, and not look over my shoulder. Our house was often unlocked, and neighbors often gathered for impromptu block parties. There, at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains, we enjoyed each other’s company, having drinks in lawn chairs as we watched our kids play together in the golden light of the sunset.

On that day my friend was beaten, the reality of the area I lived in was brought home. I realized that what I thought I knew about urban schools was mostly wrong, including what an urban school was. The signs that my community was an “inner city” were all around me, but I had missed them, looking instead for more obvious, catastrophic evidence, like stripped cars, and drug dealers hanging around street corners. Part of my expectations derived from my experiences living in New York City at the height of the crack and AIDS epidemic. However, a large part of my understanding of inner city life was formed by the stories I heard on the news and saw depicted in movies.

In movies like “Death Wish,” “Fort Apache- the Bronx,” and “New Jack City,” the message was clear; the people in the inner city were either predators or prey, perpetrators or victims. Even though my time living in New York had tempered these extreme impressions there was still plenty of evidence to keep the idea of the “dangerous inner city” alive. Daily headlines like “Headless Man In Topless Bar,” and “Two Students Shot in School on Day Mayor to Visit” reminded me that while New York was an acceptable risk for me as a young adult, I’d have to be crazy to raise a family there. Urban education in the media held little promise either. Whether it was the goofy underachievers of “Welcome Back Kotter,” the burned-out educators of “Teachers,” or the “tough love” of “Lean on Me,” learning seemed like an unlikely proposition for these kids.

My prior knowledge of urban life led me to believe that my young family would be safe in Ogden; the streets were quiet, the schools were not barred, and there were no stripped cars in sight. But appearances are deceptive. What wasn’t obvious were the statistics that could be had from city hall. The elementary schools in our area had a 100% student turnover rate, attributed to the transient immigrant population. The federal government had designated the downtown area in extreme need. According to the police department the block where my wife worked and my children attended day care was ground zero for criminal acts in the city. The gang presence also thrived in the shadows. True, there was a small amount of graffiti in town and you saw low-riders occasionally, but it didn’t seem like anything to worry about. In fact, the growth of gangs was among the fastest in the nation, and the FBI had to institute a gang prevention program to address the problem. It was clear that what I knew about urban life and education wasn’t even close to reality. If Ogden and its schools could be this bad, how much worse would it be in a “real” inner city? Of course, that’s the wrong question, and buys into the whole media image of urban life as dangerous and out of control. The real lesson is that we need to be careful about assumptions, and not take anything at face value. Even so, given what I know, the feelings I connect with the urban experience are largely shaped by contrasting my upbringing in a safe, white, middle-class suburb with the drama assigned the inner city by the media. It’s no wonder that I’ve never held a particular interest in teaching in an urban school.

My challenge is to confront my biases and fears to become the best teacher I can be for whomever I am teaching. Most fears come from a place of not knowing, of misunderstanding, and miscommunication. One of the benefits of middle age is a certain amount of perspective. For example, I know I’ve had advantages denied others simply because I’m a white man. As a young man, raised in a suburb surrounded by people who looked and lived just as I did, I had little reason to suspect I had a leg up from the start. I now carry that knowledge into the classroom and it colors the way I see myself, the way I see myself in students’ eyes. What can I do about this besides be myself and approach teaching with a measure of humility and respect? I worry that because of our differences I won’t be able to connect with students I may encounter in an urban school. I believe that everything we do begins with communication; I’ve seen again and again that getting to know one another is the first step to solving most problems. But getting to know oneself is also important. This journal is a step in that direction and will document my struggles to come to a better understanding of the urban school.

As a teacher I expect to constantly learn, from my students, from my colleagues, and from parents. I know, starting out, that whatever I think I know there’s always more. I see my role as modeling this curiosity for my students, helping them find whatever their passion is. I believe in the ideal of democratic education, of enabling students to take control of their knowledge. If our perceptions in large part define our reality, it’s the teacher’s job to make sure students perceive as much as possible and enlarge their possibilities. It is important to remember that students are also affected by the same negative stereotypes of urban education that I am. By helping kids to think critically I hope to be able to mitigate some of the power the media holds over their imaginations.

In doing this assignment I’ve realized that I have many assumptions about education in the inner city. Some are the product of a lifetime bombarded with negative media stereotypes, some are sadly based in fact; but none of my assumptions tell the whole story. As I endeavor to approach this work with an open mind I still have concerns that I’d like addressed. I worry that the gulf between my experiences and that of my students will be too broad to allow us to connect. I worry that I may let my fears overtake me at times, and I wonder if I have what it takes to withstand the special challenges that teaching in an urban setting presents. I look forward to learning more about urban education and perhaps laying my fears to rest.