[Begun 1/17/08, completed 5/25/08, 1:50am]
November 9, 2007
A hundred or more years ago, a small town in Michigan was a bright beacon attracting black professionals, intellectuals and artists. They lived in grand houses (many still standing, but much faded), had white servants, and nurtured a lively, creative excitement in this corner of Michigan.
Times changed, populations shifted, and poverty arrived. The town remained predominately black but was no longer a cultural mecca. The upper class blacks had mostly moved on. It was now just one more small, struggling, rural Michigan town, regardless of race.
Eventually, a nuclear power plant was built on the town's vulnerable shores of Lake Michigan. This became a major employer. There are rumors about mismanagement and corruption at this now-aging plant, but such rumors, probably well-founded, doubtless abound at all nuclear installations. Our nuclear scientists may be brilliant, but human error and greed too often trump science.
Today, the town's schools keep their buses at the ready, just in case. The drivers' instructions are to head due south with their students. Why? Well, it seems that prevailing winds will blow any fallout towards the north/northeast -- towards an expensive resort town, in other words. I doubt the wealthy of that town were aware of such wind patterns when decisions were being made by local politicians. Residents probably assumed the small, impoverished black town would be "ground zero." Their own lifestyle, safely up the coast, would not be impacted. But such reasoning left out the winds.
Nevertheless, the idea of children in caravans of yellow school buses threading their way south in the chaotic wake of a nuclear emergency does not sound like a convincingly safe plan. It is disgusting that powerful tycoons, backed by the wealthy politicians of this state, placed a nuclear plant only a few miles from a town too poor to fight the decision.
Yet because of its once-glorious history, I was looking forward to getting an assignment in this town. I am a romantic -- I felt that some of the long-ago magic of this place might still remain. I kept checking online postings for a week until I finally saw an opening for November 9th in that town's middle school. I clicked on it instantly.
Daylight Savings Time had ended by then so arriving in darkness was a thing of the past. I parked in the back where I saw others parking. The back doors were locked but a teacher with a key kindly let me in. As I walked through the halls to the office, other teachers, mostly black, greeted me warmly. There was an immediate sense of camaraderie. The children seemed more rested and livelier too. The sullen, mean-spirited heaviness I had felt up the coast in the more affluent school the preceding week was absent here. My spirits rose.
I checked in with a black woman who had a pair of sparkling red shoes on a shelf over her computer. "Dorothy's red shoes," I laughed, pointing. I'm an Oz fan from way back and own all of L. Frank Baum's series.
"No," the woman replied, "Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr and the Red Shoes." That really tickled me -- the three blonde Swedish brothers, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr, from Maj Lindman's late 1930's books, were a familiar feature of my own childhood, although I didn't remember any tales about red shoes. Yet, that this woman would be familiar with my own childhood favorites was a delight. Most people have never heard of them and yet she had. (At Christmas time, five and a half weeks later, when I would sub here again in band, I would discover that she and I had both played first chair violin in our respective junior high schools, and she had gone on to play first chair viola in highschool, which created yet another bond between us.)
I really like this place, I thought to myself -- some of the magic is still shimmering here. (Update, 25 May 2008: despite problems since my first assignment there, this remains one of my favorite schools.)
I was subbing that day for a teacher in 8th grade Social Studies. The instructions were clear, both for the first period of U.S. History, and the 2nd, 3rd, and 5th periods of World History/Geography. What I remember, looking back, are not the assignments but the kids. It was a Friday and many of the youngsters wore Junior ROTC uniforms for a major assembly scheduled for noontime. They looked so smart and proud in their uniforms, the girls in their black patent leather shoes peaking out below their trousers, the boys all looking gallant, somber, and old beyond their years.
All of them broke my heart though. They were 8th graders -- why were they being recruited so early? Well, of course, because enlistments are down and the government will take whatever is available. But 8th graders from this impoverished little town with its lethal nuclear reactor? Did Washington have no shame?
Many students, of course, had no involvement with ROTC. Those kids were noisy and unfocused as they worked on their assignments that morning. One sweet, somewhat overweight, and very bright young woman in her ROTC uniform helped the others, for which I was grateful. She too seemed old beyond her years and I was glad she was overweight -- that might protect her from active duty later on. At least I hoped so.
The ROTC assembly took place in the gym around noon and all those in uniforms were excused early so that they could get organized. Then the other students were released to attend the assembly. I planned to attend as a sign of support to the youngsters. I got to the gym after nearly everyone else was inside. The youngsters in their uniforms were lining up inside and marching in formations. Crisply uniformed old guys (well, my age, actually) in their 50's or 60's were calling the shots. I kept watching and started feeling sick. I wasn't in college in the 60's and so was never part of the ROTC college scene during the Vietnam years, but I certainly heard enough about it on the evening news in New York City's Lower East Side, where I lived then. These kids, proud and *too* mature in their fine uniforms, parading about the gym with such hope, unnerved me. I couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the patriotic BS they were being fed nor the danger in which their young lives were being placed by this country's current administration.
I left. I walked the halls and finally came across the library -- a large room, functional, but lacking in charm. I puttered about, looking at books. A single librarian was there -- no students -- only her and me. She looked about five-ten years younger than me but she'd certainly remember the Vietnam years. "I'm subbing today," I explained, approaching her desk. "I meant to attend the ROTC assembly, but I just couldn't. It brought back too many bad memories. I can't stand what's happening to these kids."
She was sympathetic and said that she too had problems with it. But she also said that the ROTC program had helped a lot of these kids to grow up, to get grounded and focused, to take responsibility for their own lives. She said that very few would ever actually enlist when they came of age, which made me feel much better about it all. She saw the program as a way to help kids mature who would otherwise flounder and waste their opportunity to get a good education. I was impressed -- it gave me an entirely new slant on ROTC. I hope what she said is true.
The afternoon sessions soon arrived and some of the youngsters I had had in the first hour for U.S. History were now back for World History/Geography. Since I had already interacted with them in the morning, I felt free to kid around with them more. They were really charmers. The topic was the Middle East, something I happen to know a lot about, so I tried to share what I knew, with mixed results. Subs aren't expected to "teach." They're just subs.
One young lady, after I reached across her book to point to a map, said sharply, "You're in mah purrh-sonel space!" I was startled -- was this a new "no-no" in today's world? Were teachers no longer allowed to reach across a student to demonstrate a point?
"No," I replied quietly, "I'm just trying to show you where the answer to the question is." And I walked away, hiding my confusion.
Another young lady was sitting on a desk in front of a young man, flirting with him, entwining their limbs. There was an easy familiarity between them, a fondness, but without any overt sexual overtones. They were more like dancers, not sexual partners. I weighed my reactions. The young "me" watching from Sister Euphemia's Latin class back in the late 50's was horrified. Obviously, Sister Euphemia would *never* have permitted such physical expression. But this is a new age, I told the young "me," these kids have grown up much faster than we did, they face drugs and wars we never heard of.
"I like your swag," a boy said unexpectedly. He sat up the row beyond the dancers and off to my right. I had to check to be sure he was addressing me. He was.
My swag? I was puzzled. It sounded like a compliment but I didn't understand it. "My swag?" I said. "In my day," I continued, "'swag' meant something you stole -- it was your booty -- and then you stashed it away in a safe place so no one else could take it from you. What does it mean to you?"
The shy child looked completely confused and mortified.
The young lady sitting on the desk, still entwining herself with the fellow on the other side of that desk, spoke up. "He means your SWAG -- you know, the way your hair is, the purple scarf, the purple top, your boots -- you know, your SWAG."
Then I understood. It was an idiom probably taken from "swagger." In other words, in my well-coordinated purple tones and done up hair, a certain "swagger" -- or confidence -- was expresed that he liked. I thanked him. I later realized the term could also come from a "swag" -- i.e, the flow of draperies as a window-treatment.
Regardless, I've often thought of that moment, especially when I feel demoralized and drained by what is too frequently a thankless task. To most of these kids, a sub is a subhuman species. I'm not good with faces and wouldn't recognize that shy youngster again, but I owe him nevertheless. He liked "my swag" (smile). There's solace in that on days when I feel like no more than a faceless cog. Because of him, I continue to walk with confidence.
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