Cheesecake Apology

This may be one of those "you had to be there" times, but I'll try to convey the spirit of the occasion. For those of you who have been following along, you may remember in "Recovery from Failure" I mentioned 4 students who went from F's to A's. I promised to take these 4 students out to dinner. It just so happened that there were two girls who were good friends and two boys who were also friends. Based on the original offer, I let them decide where we would eat, emphasizing "the sky's the limit." After extensive, prolonged, belabored discussion, the quartet announced that they would like to go to Olive Garden. Only one of them had apparently been there before, and he had done a sell-job to the other three. So, Olive Garden it was.

Perhaps I should describe the players involved a bit more to help paint the scene. Natasha was the actual "winner" whose grade had shown the most improvement. She was a petite girl with a spitfire personality and a quick wit. Next was Sheree, a quiet girl with a heart of gold. Third, Roosevelt, who has already featured in an entry, tall, dark, handsome, and wickedly funny. Finally, the surprise entry in the group, came Bobby. I don't think Bobby had ever tried to succeed in any academic endeavor before this competition. I will maintain that this experience turned his whole educational career around. Anyway, I learned on this evening that Bobby has a drive and a commitment to a "schtick" that rivals any working comic today.

So, after school, the 5 of us piled into my Honda Civic to go to Olive Garden, which was on the other side of town. The smack-talking and joking started right away. Bobby was in back with the girls, and he and Natasha were relentless in their teasing of one another. It was clear there was a beyond-friendship interest by the time we reached the restaurant.

Fortunately for the other paying patrons, the hostess seated us in a out-of-the-way corner table where we would be least likely to bother others with our silliness. And, we were silly. The kids had not been to many restaurants, and so they were very curious about everything on the menu. That meant lots of questions and funny pronunciations and, well, explanations. They weren't very experimental in what they were willing to order, so we had quite a time coming up with things for them to eat.

However, when the salad showed up, I thought they were going to kick us out. I really thought that dumb pepper was going to fly across the room. And, God help the olives. The kids went after that salad bowl with a fine tooth comb before anyone could take a bite! We were laughing so hard at the injustice of putting "foreign" food into such a basic staple. Bobby had us rolling in our chairs.

Eventually, somehow we got through the majority of the meal. We decided to all order dessert and share. Allow me to be abundantly clear. Bobby ordered the cheesecake. It was supposed to be Bobby's cheesecake. The server placed the cheesecake in front of Bobby. You know how much something can mean when it's special? That's how Bobby felt about that cheesecake. Well, a couple of cute girls walked in, and Roosevelt tried to get Bobby to check them out in a subtle way. However, Natasha caught the peek and didn't like it. So, she took her fork and took a bite (the TIP no less!) of that cheesecake! I thought we were going to lose Bobby. I really did.

Bobby turned back around, took one glance at his maimed cheesecake, and stared at a rather guilty-looking Natasha, who had a bit of cheesecake on her lip. He said, "You'd better apologize." Natasha said, "I'm sorry, Bobby." He said (and I'll never forget it), "Not to me. You'd better start apologizing to the cheesecake." Well, honestly, I don't think Natasha quite knew what to do. Bobby had a straight face. The rest of us were lost in peals of giggles, but Bobby was in apparent earnest. Now, she liked this boy and she had offended him. Now, here he was demanding that she apologize to the CHEESEcake. Believe it or not, she did!

I suppose she didn't feel like she had a choice. Either apologize or never have a chance with Bobby. At any rate, our giggles turned into full-fledged belly laughs the likes of which legends are made. When I reconnected with Roosevelt recently, one of the first things he said to me was "Remember when Bobby made Natasha apologize to that cheesecake?" I sure do. What a simple way to impact students' lives...with a good, old-fashioned laughfest.

In the Process

Melissa was one of those students who could not show up for class for a couple weeks, then show up for a day, and show me she knew everything the class had learned in the interim. School did not impress her; it bored her to tears. So, she didn't come very often. However, when she did deign to grace my room with her presence, she was smart, witty, funny, and thoroughly engaging. I got a kick out of her ability to see through my leading questions and get at the heart of my lesson way before anyone else did (although, truth be told, it was also kind of annoying).

One day in the dead of winter Melissa showed up for a random day of class, and the students were taking a test. Considering she had missed the entire unit, I told her she didn't have to take the test and that I'd give her some make-up work to do. She offered to take the test in lieu of the make-up stuff, so I let her. About halfway through the test, she stood up, walked up to the trash can, quietly retched once or twice, grabbed a tissue off my desk, and calmly returned to her seat. The students all looked at her, then looked at me, then backed at her. I asked if she needed to be excused, and she said no.

A few minutes later, she got up, grabbed the trash can and took it back to her desk, which was in a remote corner of the room. Every couple of minutes, I would see her body convulse but nothing would come out, so I let her continue. So went the rest of the period. At the end of class, I asked her if she was okay, and she replied in the affirmative and headed off to lunch.

At lunch, she walked up to me and said (and this is exactly what she said), "Ms. Hoskins, I would be in the process of getting pregnant."

I grinned and said, "Good Lord, I hope not." She stared blankly at me. I don't think this was quite the response she wanted or expected. So I continued, "Darlin', 'in the process of getting pregnant' would mean you're having sex right now. I suspect you're already pregnant."

We went to my room and talked. Eventually, I talked Melissa into telling her mother that she was pregnant. However, it took some convincing. She was scared. I'd met her mother, and I would've been scared too. I reminded her that her momma loves her and that she'd need her mom's help to raise the baby. The father was a stable young man (also a student of mine) who held down a full-time job while in high school and who was madly in love with Melissa, but the two of them were going to need help. I offered to go with her to tell her mom; I even offered to ask her mom to come to school so Melissa could tell her on neutral ground. After lots of talk, we planned out a conversation attack and practiced a few times. Melissa talked to her mom on her own and was surprised at her mother's supportive response.

Melissa and her boyfriend had a healthy son, whom they named Michael, after his father. Melissa took a GED class and got her diploma and started college at 16. She continued to bring her baby boy around to see me, and we'd chat about books and babies and life. When Michael was about 2, Melissa told me she was pregnant again (she and Michael were still together). I told her she could keep this one, but if she got pregnant again, I might have to raise the baby for her.

About 8 months later, she brought her children to see me. Her baby girl was absolutely beautiful: big brown eyes, long curly lashes, smooth baby skin, adorable bows in her hair. She reached out to me when she saw me like she knew me, so I picked her up right away. With a huge grin on her face, Melissa said, "Alexandra, I'd like you to meet Alexandra. Sweetie, this is the nice lady I've told you so much about. Without her, I probably wouldn't have, well, anything, including you or your brother or my education. So, say hello!"

I may not have children of my own, but I know this: Lives are different because I have wandered through them. Melissa taught me that being "in the process" means accepting that people feel my influence, whether I'm aware of it or not. In this case, I'm proud of my namesake baby and of her mother. May they both live long and prosper.

You People

"Why do you people put your windows up when you drive through our neighborhood?" "Why do you people turn the other way when you see one of us trying to cross the street?" "Why do you people grab your handbag when you see a group of us walking in the mall?" My juniors began hurling these questions at me once we got to know each other well enough for the tough questions to be asked. Well, that's not quite accurate. I had us read To Kill a Mockingbird, which kind of opens the door for frank discussion. I think I was prepared (mentally if not emotionally) for the introduction of a dialogue about race relations. Actually, I think I was looking forward to it. However, what I was not prepared for was the poorly veiled anger and resentment of my students. As the lone representative of the white race in the classroom, I was called upon to try to account for an entire history of prejudiced behavior.

It wasn't the whole class who raised the questions. It was one student in particular. She was a ringleader and vocally articulate student, perhaps one of the most intelligent girls I ever taught. Gina (name has been changed) was quick to point out stereotypical or hypocritical behavior in others, especially me. She and I had lively discussions and encounters that bordered on arguments but never quite escalated to that level. Frankly, I enjoyed our banter because I think she needed to be challenged in a healthy way, and her questioning usually helped the rest of the students gain a better understanding.

When we started reading Mockingbird, I tried to prepare myself for the types of discussions that would arise. I tried to steer conversations into safe waters where I would be comfortable with the level of intensity. However, Gina started throwing the "you people" questions at me in rapid-fire succession. Now, she would have never, and I do mean never, have tolerated my usage of the words "you people" directed at the class. Not that I knew this at the beginning of the year. I was totally unaware of the near equivalency of "you people" to "the N word." I didn't know the connotative impact of such a small pairing of words: you + people = hatin' words. During the course of the year, though, I had come to understand their significant meaning.

So, when Gina started throwing those words at me, I was offended. I mean, genuinely, personally, core-of-my-soul offended. How dare SHE call ME a "you people"? Hadn't I proven myself to be the exception rather than the rule when it came to representing my race? Hadn't I labored all school year to build bridges of understanding rather than prolong the myths of perceived differences? Who was this girl to use those words with me?

I'll tell you who she was. She was a girl who was learning and growing. She'd finally found someone with whom she was comfortable enough to ask the questions that had plagued her for a very long time. When she asked the questions, she was unveiling her own prejudices that were surfacing themselves right before our very eyes. So, I had a choice. Do I react as the offended white woman, which I was, and escalate the situation? I don't think the students, who stiffened at Gina's words, would have blamed me if I had. Or, do I try to reach out to this young woman and help her to learn a better way to approach this opportunity? As usual, I chose the latter approach.

This is what I said: "Gina, I don't know any 'you people.' I only know me. So, I'll speak for myself. I usually roll down my window in your neighborhood 'cause I'm usually hollerin' at my students. I don't look away when I see someone crossing the street 'cause I'm usually trying to figure out if it's one of you. I don't clutch my handbag in the mall for two reasons: one, I don't carry a purse; two, I don't go to the mall. If you want to know why SOME white people do these things, maybe you could ask me again in a different way. I'll do my best to share my opinion with you. However, I don't ask you to speak for an entire race of people, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't ask me to either."

You could have heard a pin drop in the room. She was a social keystone in the class. Without her support, I was going to have a tough time getting any kind of cooperation from the class. However, I couldn't let her speak to me that way and think it was acceptable. I had made my choice. The next move was hers. Fortunately, Gina said, "I hear you, Ms. Hoskins. The only question I really want to know is why do you...I mean SOME...white people roll their window up when they come down Euclid by Cleveland Clinic? I mean, do they think we're going to spit in their cars or something? They'd rather be all hot and sweatin' in their cars rather than share the air with me?"

I realized that her concerns were legitimate...and deep-rooted. I wasn't going to be able to answer her questions to her satisfaction that day or possibly ever. On the other hand, she had asked the question in a more respectful way. I took that small victory, and we began a discussion that was ongoing to the day of her graduation from high school. She never used the term "you people" with me again, and I learned to be ever more sensitive to the profound role I played in being the exceptional representative of an entire race.