Monday Bloody Monday

Wind slapping tight lipped
Teeth clenched squealing soles
Heaving bags sucking cigarettes

All gates locked but one

Sparkling badges narrowed eyes
One two three four five six to the right
You to the left
Through the metal frame

Probing patting hands
Take off your shirt

Can he make me do that?

The tally:
One knife three drugs one gun (loaded)
One crossbow (the newspaper dubbed him
"Robin Hood," which got lots of laughs)

Oh well

Another Monday
At school.

Post Script: Staff Meeting

Principal: (lip quivering) "Not too bad."
Teacher: (wry smile) "One day I'll bring a gun myself
And mow them all down."

No Hats

The following sign graces the halls, classrooms and offices at Abraham Lincoln High School:

No Drink
No Food
No Radios
No Basketballs
No Head Sets
No Footballs
No Hats

An excerpt from one of the Principal's Memoranda on Discipline describes the rationale for prohibiting each item on the above list. she seemed to have particular difficulty defending the "No Hats" decree: "The rule preventing the wearing of hats by students in school hallways and classrooms has been implemented as a means of teaching students respect for the institution. In outlawing hats, the school abides by commonly accepted guidelines for proposed in-school behavior." Students can wear hats only in the lunchroom. That is, while they eat.

Outlet School

TJ is a confident, sometimes arrogant, occasionally defiant young black man. He works after school and on weekends, and wears GAP clothes he has paid for himself proudly. He's an excellent student, having earned a trip to Washington DC for a black youth council conference and a summer studying at Penn State University. He expects a scholarship letter from Penn State any day.

TJ is a member of Lincoln High School's Environmental Technology Academy, and is a regular in the office. He's a teacher favorite, despite maintaining a slight edge (he calls it "attitude"). He is no kiss-ass. I like TJ. He's an articulate kid, and shrewd. He has a talent for roasting teachers in such a way that they can't help but laugh.

TJ had just complimented me on a new pair of shoes I was wearing. I suggested that he make a trip to Franklin Mills, an outlet mall nearby. TJ winced. "I can't stand outlet malls," he said, shaking his head. "Everything you get at an outlet store is like 'irregular' or damaged or something."

A rotund science teacher in a white lab coat, Mr. Bartlett, overhearing our conversation, chimed in. "That's just like Lincoln. All of our students are 'irregulars.' Except they're damaged in the brain, not in the body."

A second science teacher, Mr. Kennedy, joined the fun. "We're an Outlet School!" he howled. The office erupted. TJ looked my way and laughed, a little.

The Feeling

I spend nearly two hours each day on the #32 bus, which generally is packed with high school students. Ordinarily, I leave work late enough to miss the crush of students leaving school for the day. On this particular day, however, I was leaving early, and found myself on a bus filled to capacity. The students were collected in the back of the bus, as is their custom, and were creating a ruckus, also customary.

All the seats were occupied, so I stood near the front of the bus. Seconds after I had boarded, a strange thing happened: our driver emerged from his isolated capsule and brushed past me, approaching the loud pack in the rear of the bus. While I don't profess to understand sign language, his gesticulation was easily readable as he commanded the students to quiet down. His confident tone soon evaded him, and he seemed to implore the students to lower their voices and sit in their seats. In the front of the bus, we onlookers could hear only snippets of his pleas. "I'm black too," I heard him say.

The driver returned to his seat unsatisfied. I had seen this before. Rather than the usual response - a few muttered expletives, a grudging turn of the ignition - this driver did something unusual. That is, he didn't do anything at all.

We sat there, the driver and the passengers (we looking confused, he looking resigned), for several minutes. The students, either ignoring or oblivious to the situation, hooted and howled as before. After ten minutes had passed, one girl made her way to the front of the bus. "When we moving?" she asked.

"Excuse me, are you talking to me?" was the driver's response. The girl clicked her tongue in contempt. "I've gotta go to work," she said aloud. With that she got off the bus.

Driver 1, students 0.

Five minutes later, a #32 bus like ours whizzed by. The students let out a collective groan. Three boys shuffled to the front door. "Yo, when we gonna move?" one asked.
"Are you asking me a question?" the driven asked as a response.
'The boy changed his tack. "When will we be moving, sir?" he gushed.
The driver paused, staring straight ahead. "When I get the feeling."
The three boys got off the bus.

Ten minutes later, a third #32 bus passed. A large group of students hurried off our bus and chased it, leaving only a handful of students left. One of these sauntered up the front of the bus. "Hey, man, when you gonna get the feeling?" "When I get the feeling."
The boy smiled. "Alright," he said, returning to his seat.
After a total of 45 minutes, the driver turned the key in the ignition, popped the bus into gear, and we began to move. A boy in the back of the bus announced to his friend, and any other listeners, "That motherfucker just got the feeling."

As we sped along our route, we passed a group of students who had abandoned our bus and were waiting for another. The driver did not even slow down. Seconds later, a large rock crashed into one of the side windows, leaving a fist-sized hole and a web of cracks, and startling the few passengers on the bus. One of the students had just gotten the feeling.

Honor Roll, Detention and Free Stuff

During this particular week, a long piece of paper designed to look like a scroll was disseminated throughout the school. The Honor Roll, listing all students achieving "Honor" and "Distinction" (even better than Honor), soon could be found posted in hallways and classrooms. In addition, copies of the Honor Roll were available to students, for their own inspection.

For students in Lincoln High School's special Academy Program, membership in the Honor Roll meant several things: congratulatory comments from teachers, praise from parents, a sense of personal pride and accomplishment, and free stuff. This time around, Honor Roll students were receiving key chains and faux leather clipboards emblazoned with the Academy logo.

The free stuff arrived today; Honor Roll students immediately began filing into the office, demanding their loot.

Sean O'Hara, a ninth grader for his second year, slumped into his chair. He was serving the second of four detentions awarded to him this week. He was a regular in the Academy office, much like the Honor Roll students. As Sean settled down to work on some math homework, three Honor Roll students slipped into the office. "Where's our notebooks?" they demanded.

The Academy Coordinator, sitting at the table with Sean, motioned toward a piece of looseleaf paper. "Sign this," he offhandedly instructed the students. Sean, barely looking up, reached out for the paper and began to sign it.

The Coordinator, seeing this, pulled the paper from Sean's hands. "Not you. This is a list for them" He pointed to the Honor Roll students, who signed their names and collected their prizes. The Coordinator chuckled. "You're not an Honor Student, Mr. O'Hara."

Sean went back to his math homework. He would spend the following two afternoons in the Academy office serving detentions. He would receive no free stuff.