THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS

I started school in 1972 at 5 years-old, going into kindergarten.  The place was Einstein Elementary School in Chicago; located near the housing project where my family lived.  It was ok I thought.  I didn't like being away from my mother and grandma at all, but having story time and nap time wasn't a bad way to spend the morning.  That all soon changed when the school determined that I was too advanced or gifted for my current grade level.  I was abruptly taken out of my kindergarten comfort zone and sent to first grade, after less than two weeks in school.  Most might look at this as an educational achievement and/or opportunity; however, it was anything but!

I was a bundle of nerves as this new chapter in my life began!  I was starting first grade behind, seeing that the academic quarter had already begun.  New class, new classwork, new classmates, and most importantly as it turned out, New Teacher!  Her name was Ms. Nelson.  She was an older African-American woman who wore pointy glasses.  When I entered her class she made sure to give me a special welcome!  When my mother would drop me at school I cried at first -- like many young children do.  Ms. Nelson jumped on this!  She'd wait for my mother to leave, then stand me up in the corner -- in front of the class -- so that the other kids could laugh at me while I cried.  She'd instigate with little comments like "Look at the cry baby," or "Look at the little White boy cry." This last statement requires clarification.  The housing project I lived in was an African-American low income housing project on 38th & Cottage Grove, set next to the Ida B. Wells housing project.  My teacher and all of my classmates were Black.  I stuck out because, although I too am African-American, to many I don't "look" it.  My mother is a dark-skinned African-American, and my father -- who I never met -- was Cuban and French.  As a result I came into the world with very light skin and curly hair.  In Ms. Nelson's eyes, my light skin was her license to target me.

I had a good grasp of reading at the time, but I was lost at math.  I had no clue!   My mom and grandma had told me to ask the teacher questions if I didn't understand something.  I'd ask Ms. Nelson questions and she either wouldn't answer, or she'd call me out in front of the class to make me seem dumb -- once again to be ridiculed by my classmates.  One day I walked up to her desk to get help with a math problem.  She told me to go ask one of my classmates.  The student she sent me to was her pet, a chubby dark-skinned boy.  When I got over to him he shouted "Ms. Nelson, he's looking over my shoulder!" Even though she'd just sent me over to him, she called me back in front of the class for it, and made me stand in the corner once again.  Another day, while at recess, her favorite chubby student had his friend hold my arms behind my back while he punched me in the stomach.  Ms. Nelson walked over.  With her being a "teacher" I expected her to stop it...WRONG!!!  Ms. Nelson smiled as she told her pet to hit me again!  This went on for a couple of more punches, until I got myself free.  On another fine morning Ms. Nelson decided to make the lesson about me!  She stood me up in front of the class and proceded to lecture about how I wasn't really Black like the rest of my classmates.  She went on about how she'd taught my uncle Curtis years before; and how he was dark-skinned, good, and a real Black person like the rest of the class.  She told them that I was White.  I was so stressed by being in that situation that I was completely uncomfortable, ostracized, and learning almost nothing.  I started to get sick and miss school due to the stress.  I told my mother and grandmother everytime Ms. Nelson did something, and my mother would go on the warpath.  She'd argue with the principal and whoever else she could to get the abuse to stop.  Eventually I'd come into class and Ms. Nelson would say "Don't say anything to the little White boy or he'll tell his momma!" I thought that things couldn't get any worse...but they did.

One day we went to the lunchroom to eat.  The dish that day was roast "beef" of some sort.  Mine was pretty much a big clump of fat, which I wasn't going to eat.  After finishing the rest of my lunch I took my tray up to the lunch lady who was dumping them.  She looked at my tray and saw the fat meat.  "Oh!  You think you too good to eat this huh" she screamed.  She instantly grabbed my fork, stuck it into the fat clump, and shoved  it down my throat!  Worse thing is, the fat got stuck and I couldn't swallow it!  I did the best I could to hold it together, but when I got back to my table I started gagging.  Ms. Nelson looked at me and screamed "You better not!" Just then I let loose a torrent of projectile vomit right in her direction!  She and the rest of my classmates scattered while I was sent to the office to wait for my grandmother to pick me up.  I was a severe asthmatic when I was young, and right after that incident I had an asthma attack.  Eventually, after recovering and coming back to school,  I'd finally gotten lucky -- Ms. Nelson was out sick!  Thinking that I was going to finally have a good day I lined up to go to lunch with the rest of my class.  A classmate decided it was ok to hit me.  He did and I hit him back -- hard!  The substitute teacher, a young White woman, saw what happened, pulled us both out of line, and squeezed our throats as punishment.  I couldn't breathe and consequently had another asthma attack.  That was the last straw!  My mother took me out of Einstein and we moved out of the projects.  I ended up at a private school where I met Curtis Mayfield's children.  The abuse at school was over -- for a while anyway...

Years later I was living in Harvey, Illinois which is a suburb of Chicago.  I was in junior high during the late 70's, attending Lowell-Longfellow Elementary School.  One afternoon Me, my friend Keith, and my other friend Paul were talking in music class.  The teacher, Ms. Lee, caught us and we were sent to stand in the hallway.  After a few minutes in the hall, another teacher named Mr. Dabney came out of his class and called us inside.  He taught what was termed the "Learning Disabled" class.  When we walked in he had the three of us stand in front of his class and face the chalkboard.  His class went wild as he pulled a thick taped wooden stick out of his desk.  He walked over and began to beat us on our butts and legs!  We tried to block the blows with our arms, and those arms got beaten too!  His class was thoroughly entertained as he proceeded to hit us, one by one!  I don't know how many blows we got, but it was a lot!  When he was done he sent us back outside.  The three of us fumed for the rest of the day, just waiting until we could get home and tell our parents.  As light as my skin was I bruised up quick!  Big purple and blackish-blue bruises all up and down my arms and legs!  When I showed my ma, and told her what happened, she snapped!  Of course I was wrong for talking in class, but I didn't deserve to be beaten black and blue because of it.  She got the police involved, snapped on the Principal Mr. Bluford in meetings, and even challenged Ms. Lee to fight outside!  As for Mr. Dabney, he got in trouble and shed some tears, but he kept his job. 

All of that happened during the 1970's -- Ms. Nelson, the substitute teacher/squeezer, and Mr. Dabney.  Even then, teacher and school administrators weren't allowed to hit kids without parental permission -- but some did it anyway.  I wonder how many children were damaged by those teachers and teachers across the world like them.  A student, particularly a young student, needs to feel safe at a place of learning.  How much learning can occur in an environment of hate and abuse!  I learned a lot in school, much of it being very valuable.  However, the school of hard knocks also gave me many lessons in intra-racial prejudice and child abuse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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