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 Hate is easy, love takes courage. -Author unknown
Several years ago, I spent one day per week working in a small, new “alternative” high school designed for high-risk, adjudicated youth. In other words, this educational setting was for kids who had been expelled from regular public schools and arrested for serious crimes. To avoid incarceration, students had to attend classes regularly, make satisfactory academic progress, participate in a skills-training program and keep theft noses squeaky clean.
The school administrators, faculty and other staff had numerous meetings to prepare for the first class entering in the fall. Kathy, the new art teacher, and I occasionally participated in order to learn how the school would operate, but we mostly wanted to know more about the troubled teens who so desperately needed the help, understanding and encouragement of a dedicated staff.
Initially, we were horrified that the kids would be searched daily, that there would be armed guards on site and that there was an incredibly strict zero-tolerance policy. Veteran teachers cautioned us about being too naive and “touchy-feely.” We soon learned that these students all belonged to warring gangs. To eliminate flaunting of this rivalry through gang-related clothing, accessories and visible tattoos, male and female students were required to wear the exact same boring uniform. Kathy and I agreed that this environment wasn’t as harsh as some of the “boot camp” schools we had heard about, but it still seemed sad to us that these teens had forfeited the chance to express their individuality and needed to be monitored every minute like criminals, not kids. My assignment every Monday was to teach social-skills classes and girls’ physical education, provide individual counseling, conduct psychological testing and assess students for previously undiagnosed learning disabilities.
Kathy had four art classes and lunch duty. Far from prepared for the year ahead, we faced our first day with mixed feelings. Part of us was scared, part was excited, and part was hopeful that we could somehow make a difference in the lives of these kids. For some, it might be their “last chance” to avoid entering the adult judicial system. With the support of a more experienced staff, Kathy and I felt a little reassured that we could get all the help and advice that we needed.
In my social-skills classes, I asked everyone to complete questionnaires that measured sellesteem and self-efficacy (the perception that they had control over their lives). As tough as these teens tried to appear, few truly felt good about themselves. Most felt hopelessly trapped in their circumstances, with no expectations that anything would ever get better. Meeting with these students one-on-one, I easily understood why they joined a gang for support and protection. They believed their life scripts were set in stone. How could I possibly convince them that they could make choices, write new chapters for their future? During the first two P.E. classes, an armed guard stood in the gym. The girls obviously felt inhibited around him. I wanted to earn their respect and trust, so I obtained permission for the guard to sit outside the gym door, readily available if problems arose that I couldn’t handle. Still young enough to sit cross-legged on the floor without getting stuck in that position, I donned matching gym clothes and joined everyone in a big circle on the floor. Girls from rival gangs glared at one another.
“So,” I said, breaking the awkward silence, “y’all don’t seem crazy about playing basketball or doing calisthenics, but we do have to get some exercise. Any suggestions?” I eagerly scanned a couple dozen faces, finally making eye contact with an angry girl known as “Big Bertha.” She oozed hatred toward me. Don’t let her intimidate you, I reminded myself, feeling my heart beating furiously. I maintained the gaze and asked calmly, “Your thoughts?” “I think you should watch your back, lady,” she hissed.
“Tag! Good idea!” I responded with a thumbs-up. Everyone, even Bertha, laughed. “O-o-o-r-r-r. . . ,” I said mysteriously, “we could dance our butts off! Heaven knows, I’ve put on a little extra down there!” The girls laughed again, but then vehemently protested when they realized I was serious. I sadly learned that none of them had ever been to a school dance; none of them even danced around the house! Dancing was associated with frivolity, and life was far too serious to dance. The next week, I brought in a radio to ensure that we had popular music. Even when I
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