Eddie Briscoe was a 2nd grader in 1988, a little black boy at Sanford Ladd Elementary School in Kansas City, Missouri. I was his gym teacher. That job was a port in the storm, not the job I wanted but at the time I was glad to have it. He was his teacher’s pet, first in line when they came downstairs to the gym. I met them at the landing, Eddie on the first step. School rules required the class to stand in line quietly, no talking, eyes on the teacher. She announced that she was turning them over to me but that her rules were still to be observed. In that short pause, standing next to Eddie, he would reach up and touch me on the forearm with his index finger like E.T. in the movie, softly stroking the fine, blond hair.
Eddie was always well dressed, clean and well mannered. Students at Ladd came from every kind of home environment, from the best to the worst. With no way of knowing, I presumed that he had a stable, nurturing place to go home to. On our little transitions to and from the stairway landing we often exchanged little bits of cordial banter. He was my favorite as well, the only name and face I remember from a year and a half at Sanford Ladd. Give or take a year, he would be 39 now.
One day I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. His face lit up with a big-eyed, toothy grin; whatever his hesitation it wasn’t that he didn’t know. “A pimp. . .” he replied, and his grin expanded even more. I wasn’t ready for that but I followed up, “Why is that?” Again, he had to decide if he should take me into his confidence; “Man . . . they drive Cadillacs and have all the women.” I got more than I asked for. Eddie Briscoe was his teacher’s pet, proper in every way but he was also a child of the black culture and they grow up fast. We are the products of our environment, are we not? My presumption about his out of school experience was just a wishful parallel to my white experience.
I have no idea where he is now or the course his life has taken. Certainly his adult role models were nothing like mine when I was 7 years old. Likewise, I was not born into the ‘School to Prison’ pipeline where children, black boys in particular are systematically funneled into the legal system as perpetrators rather than officers/administrators. But I know how it works now and my White badge of privilege is as much a burden as it is a franchise. I will not expand on that cultural breach now but I can not pass a police car or pick up merchandise in a store without being reminded. The cards are stacked in my favor. Any time the odds favor you, they are by definition against someone else. The playing field has never, not ever been level; not even close.
In 1995 I taught science at Northdale Academy, the alternative high school for East Baton Rouge Parish in Louisiana. Mostly African American, our 220 students were all in legal jeopardy with social workers or parole officers assigned and court hearings coming up on the calendar. I went there believing my previous experience with urban, street savvy kids would serve me well. Not only was I wrong about that, I was from the North. My chances of surviving that endeavor were slim and none.
My students liked me, that was clear all along. But communicating required an interpreter. I neither talked the talk nor walked the walk. I was too white, from another planet. We spent too much time wrestling for control or them trying to teach me attitude and posture, how to appear strong, a sophisticated feat of intimidation without challenging another’s integrity. But I had no direct experience with street culture. What was second nature to them was absolutely foreign to me. At midyear I resigned. The kids were angry, they thought I had given up on them. “Your job was safe" they said, ". . . you weren’t going to lose it.” I tried to explain, “It’s not about a pay check, it’s about being good at what you do.” I had failed with them, again and again. Their academic progress was at a standstill. The question was, how long do you keep failing before you let it go and move on? They didn’t like it but they were big enough to accept my values, even if they were not shared. On the street in Baton Rouge, if you're not going to be fired, keep dancing the dance, take the money and don't worry.
We made peace on their terms. They affirmed, “You are a good guy, we respect you.” They were sorry we didn’t connect sooner. I encouraged them, “. . . don’t give up on yourself.” It takes being in the right place at the right time and I had missed out on one or the other. That was my parting message. A month later I was teaching Physical Science in a suburban, white, Dutch Reform community in West Michigan. My students all showed the respect and cooperation that their parents required of them. It was a job I could do and I got the job done.We made good fit and I stayed there until I retired, six years later.
In those six years I exploited White privilege, we all did. Success was the norm, struggle was just a word in a book somewhere. My Northdale students had been unforgiving with their brand of ‘Street Justice’. Every violation required a swift, appropriate consequence. Our campus was officially designated as a neutral ground. There would be no violence, of any kind there. If someone had an ass-kicking coming there would be a negotiation as to when and where. Nobody looks the other way and lets it go. That kind of ruthless justice did not exist in suburban Michigan where rules were guide lines and consequence depended on who you were. My white, Dutch Reform students wouldn’t last an hour on Choctaw Drive in North Baton Rouge.
Eddie was always well dressed, clean and well mannered. Students at Ladd came from every kind of home environment, from the best to the worst. With no way of knowing, I presumed that he had a stable, nurturing place to go home to. On our little transitions to and from the stairway landing we often exchanged little bits of cordial banter. He was my favorite as well, the only name and face I remember from a year and a half at Sanford Ladd. Give or take a year, he would be 39 now.
One day I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. His face lit up with a big-eyed, toothy grin; whatever his hesitation it wasn’t that he didn’t know. “A pimp. . .” he replied, and his grin expanded even more. I wasn’t ready for that but I followed up, “Why is that?” Again, he had to decide if he should take me into his confidence; “Man . . . they drive Cadillacs and have all the women.” I got more than I asked for. Eddie Briscoe was his teacher’s pet, proper in every way but he was also a child of the black culture and they grow up fast. We are the products of our environment, are we not? My presumption about his out of school experience was just a wishful parallel to my white experience.
I have no idea where he is now or the course his life has taken. Certainly his adult role models were nothing like mine when I was 7 years old. Likewise, I was not born into the ‘School to Prison’ pipeline where children, black boys in particular are systematically funneled into the legal system as perpetrators rather than officers/administrators. But I know how it works now and my White badge of privilege is as much a burden as it is a franchise. I will not expand on that cultural breach now but I can not pass a police car or pick up merchandise in a store without being reminded. The cards are stacked in my favor. Any time the odds favor you, they are by definition against someone else. The playing field has never, not ever been level; not even close.
In 1995 I taught science at Northdale Academy, the alternative high school for East Baton Rouge Parish in Louisiana. Mostly African American, our 220 students were all in legal jeopardy with social workers or parole officers assigned and court hearings coming up on the calendar. I went there believing my previous experience with urban, street savvy kids would serve me well. Not only was I wrong about that, I was from the North. My chances of surviving that endeavor were slim and none.
My students liked me, that was clear all along. But communicating required an interpreter. I neither talked the talk nor walked the walk. I was too white, from another planet. We spent too much time wrestling for control or them trying to teach me attitude and posture, how to appear strong, a sophisticated feat of intimidation without challenging another’s integrity. But I had no direct experience with street culture. What was second nature to them was absolutely foreign to me. At midyear I resigned. The kids were angry, they thought I had given up on them. “Your job was safe" they said, ". . . you weren’t going to lose it.” I tried to explain, “It’s not about a pay check, it’s about being good at what you do.” I had failed with them, again and again. Their academic progress was at a standstill. The question was, how long do you keep failing before you let it go and move on? They didn’t like it but they were big enough to accept my values, even if they were not shared. On the street in Baton Rouge, if you're not going to be fired, keep dancing the dance, take the money and don't worry.
We made peace on their terms. They affirmed, “You are a good guy, we respect you.” They were sorry we didn’t connect sooner. I encouraged them, “. . . don’t give up on yourself.” It takes being in the right place at the right time and I had missed out on one or the other. That was my parting message. A month later I was teaching Physical Science in a suburban, white, Dutch Reform community in West Michigan. My students all showed the respect and cooperation that their parents required of them. It was a job I could do and I got the job done.We made good fit and I stayed there until I retired, six years later.
In those six years I exploited White privilege, we all did. Success was the norm, struggle was just a word in a book somewhere. My Northdale students had been unforgiving with their brand of ‘Street Justice’. Every violation required a swift, appropriate consequence. Our campus was officially designated as a neutral ground. There would be no violence, of any kind there. If someone had an ass-kicking coming there would be a negotiation as to when and where. Nobody looks the other way and lets it go. That kind of ruthless justice did not exist in suburban Michigan where rules were guide lines and consequence depended on who you were. My white, Dutch Reform students wouldn’t last an hour on Choctaw Drive in North Baton Rouge.
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