Remembering Bernard J., Jazzmine W., and Shyhiem D,…a series (Part One, Bernard)

Our students can teach us educators some valueable lessons along the way…

Over the course of my education career, I like many other teachers have experienced many highs and lows that are part of this beautiful struggle. One of the things that make teaching so interesting and so distinct as a career, is that it lacks mundanity; each day is different than the one that preceded it. Though teachers often teach the same subject for years, and have the same class roster for usually the length of an entire school year, most staff members would agree that Monday can look and feel quite different than Tuesday, and Tuesday can often look and feel very different than Friday. To be a teacher, especially within the urban context, is to be constantly contending with Forest Gump’s proverbial “box of chocolates” where “you never know what you’re gonna get.” That reality demands a certain kind of educator: one that is knowledgeable about their subject matter and at the same time flexible; one that exhibits confidence in their mastery of their content, but contextual fluidity to relate their pre-planned topic to the most recent developments that occurred in the news or within their neighborhoods.

Most importantly, along with the daily fluctuations that come with being an urban educator, they must possess the abilities to care, and “forgive and forget” – this is not the career for those who hold grudges. Urban educators must remember to not take ourselves too seriously. And urban educators must learn and welcome opportunities to laugh with their students – some kids are class clowns, but they certainly can be funny…and so, laugh when something is funny.

Throughout my fourteen years in Camden’s high school classrooms, three students have made me become a better educator (and family man and human) than I ever would have been without the experience of teaching them. I learned a lot about the profession and myself by teaching young people, but especially the ones that initially seemed so challenging. Therefore, in remembering Bernard J., Jazzmine W., and Shyhiem D., I want to thank them for pushing me to be better (by driving me to my wits’ end some days). Parenthetically, I am using my former students’ real name in hopes that wherever they are, should they see this, they’ll recognize their teacher still thinks about them and wishes them well.

Early in my teaching career, I taught Bernard J. at Woodrow Wilson High School when he was in 11^th Grade. I was teaching US History II and Bernard was one of my scholars. I knew only Bernard by name prior to that year because I taught his older sister, Tomeka J., some years before. (Teaching siblings goes a long way in urban education. Students talk about their teachers when schedules come out, so they often know about you and your tendencies before you even meet them.) I developed the habit of calling my students either “Brother_____” or “Sister _______” depending on their gender to sort of establish a family or even church-like kind of feel. As such I’d call him, “Brother J_____” when calling on him to answer a question, or if he lingered in the hallway before my class, I shout out, “Brother J______, let’s move!” where then other students would look at him a say, “Yeah Brother J______ get to class.” I liked Bernard, and I was sure he knew it.

What I hadn’t known about Bernard was that though showing up, participating, doing his work, and earning good grades in my class, he wasn’t replicating that same effort in most of his other classes. (SIDENOTE: during my time at Woodrow Wilson, I was also coaching basketball and in urban high schools, coaching sports comes with its own set of informal powers – one such power was playing that of academic or disciplinary interventionist. For instance, if another teacher were having problems with one of my players, even before sending them to the office for wrongdoing, they’d call me and were confident I’d take appropriate corrective action. Through dealing with Bernard, I learned that power of intervention extended beyond just my players, but also to my students as well.)

One day Bernard apparently cursed a teacher out and was subsequently kicked out of class. Rather than going to the office, Bernard simply walked into my classroom and sat down during one of my lessons. I said, “Brother J______, what the hell are you doing?” He said, “I got kicked outta class.” I said, “Well, since you’re in here, you’re gonna take these notes right along with the rest of us.” He said, “I already took them already in your class.” Then I said, “Know what, your gonna do that teacher’s work. You’re not gonna sit here and just take up space for 45 minutes. Sit tight.” After that, I went to the teacher who removed him from class, and got his work, and returned to my class with it where he sat quietly and completed his assignment. I asked, “Brother why you didn’t just do the work there?” He responded, “Cuz I don’t like her and she don’t like me. She always kicks me out.”

To be sure, Bernard got in trouble from time to time in school. He cursed, he fought and as such, got suspended often. What I noticed about Bernard early in the school year was that he rarely smiled unless he was personally engaged in a joke with his friend Tyler J_____, or a lighthearted comment made by another student. I remembered his older sister portrayed the role of being flat-out mean as an 8^th grader. The first day I met her I remember saying, “Good morning Tomeka”, and she responded with “Shut up.” I was like, “Huh?” with a smile on my face simply because I thought that was a funny response, and before long that was our daily routine. “Good Morning Tomeka”, “Shut up” and we’d both laugh and move on with our morning. Bernard on the other hand was different. He was not the joking type generally, and what he said, he meant.

Later in the year, Bernard got in trouble with another teacher, and a security officer walked him into my class again. I said, “what happened?” and the officer responded, “He got in trouble in class and the Office told me to bring him to you.” “Got it. Well Brother, you know the routine.” After class the security officer came into my class and said, “For some reason, you’re the only teacher he listens to. A lot of people don’t know this about him and his sister: when they were kids, they lost both their parents in a car accident. That’s probably why they’re so angry. On top of that, for some reason Bernard refuses to go to counseling, even the counseling we have here.”

My reaction to that was simply shock. It forced me to perceive Bernard’s behavior in a way I hadn’t before. It began to make sense why he rarely smiled, and why his sister in 8^th grade, seemingly took pride in conveying such a mean disposition. I wondered then, how many of Bernard’s teachers knew this about him? Why didn’t he share this information with me on his own? Did I set up a space where he felt comfortable sharing such a pivotal moment? And, if not, what was I missing and why hadn’t I? As someone who is still fortunate to have both my parents alive and kicking, I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to lose both in the same tragedy. That was Bernard’s reality since childhood… 

Our relationship was good throughout the school year both before and after I was informed about the death of his parents, but that instance taught me something as a young teacher: Because I don’t know what my students are going through or contending with outside of my classroom, and thus, I should never make assumptions or value judgements about why some students respond in ways that may seem inappropriate from time to time. Students are human beings first, with thoughts, feelings, and emotions just like the rest of us. They grapple with the same issues and difficulties as adults, but often lack the capacity to remove themselves from, or correct, the difficult circumstances they’re in.

Additionally, it also taught me that I should put as much energy in of getting to know my students as human beings and developing a relationship with them as I do in delivering content. Antrop-Gonzalez calls it authentic caring versus aesthetic caring and identifies this distinction in what differentiates good urban educators from those who struggle within this context. Urban students specifically, want to know you care about them as people, before they care about your subject. Certainly, behavioral and academic correction can be an expression of care, but students have to know caring is the place where the correction originates. And in this, I owe Bernard a debt of gratitude for opening my eyes to that reality early into my teaching journey.