Zach
Let's get this straight right now. Moving to Cleveland was definitely not my first choice. Driving to work in snow deeper than most creeks where I'm from was not my dream. Heck, in my entire twenty-two years in North Carolina, I could count on one hand the amount of times I had even seen snow. Yet here I am, living in Cleveland, Ohio, a twenty-three year old teacher.
Growing up, I always had a plan for my life. I was going to do well in school, get good grades, go to a good college, graduate, and then start my life. What I did not plan for was amassing over twenty thousand dollars of debt in college loans. So when I graduated, and I got a job offer in Cleveland to teach Seventh grade language arts in exchange for forgiving my student loans; I reluctantly accepted. I know what you're thinking; moving to a city further north than you have ever been, away from your entire family and everyone you know sounds wonderful, but being able to forego paying back all of that money, makes a huge difference.
Being in Cleveland is quite a culture shock when you come from a rural town in the south. I never saw many different races growing up. We had the white folks, and the African American folks. Here they have almost every ethnicity under the sun. Families from China, Vietnam, Mexico, El Salvador; you name it; there is at least one person from there. The dynamic of race interaction is always a tricky issue when this many people are together, but seeing it in my classroom was an entirely different monster. Teaching in a middle school where I am the minority is definitely an eye opener. I have many students who for them, just making it to school is a miracle. With all of the gang violence, and drug issues in the neighborhoods, having consistent attendance is like winning the lottery. I cannot tell you how many arguments and fights I had to break up in that first month. No matter what I tried to do, or how I tried to reach my students, I just could not get them to reach a common ground. It was something that kept me up nights that I often racked my brain over.
One particular night, I was talking to my friend Wendell, the janitor at my school. Both of us being white, we kind of naturally struck up a friendship. Moving to a place where you do not know any people, and you become a minority, you naturally gravitate to someone who shares a commonality. Wendell and I shared skin color, a love of poker, and fishing. So we had grown quite close over that first month, hanging out in the afternoons and what not.
That night, while Wendell and I talked, I mentioned the trouble I was having with my students, and being unable to do anything meaningful to help them. That is when Wendell mentioned to me, the lot on Gibb Street next to his apartment. He told me how the neighborhood was beginning to come together and that slowly but surely, progress was being made. I thought to myself, “if this is working with adults, teenagers, and children alike, then surely it can help open my students eyes.”
So I went home that night and thought about how I could convince my principal to let me take my students there after school. I had been around farms growing up, but did not really know that much about planting things. But I figured, as little as I knew, my principal probably knew less; so I could go into his office and just sound like I knew what I was talking about and hopefully it would work. Well the next day that is exactly what I did. I went on and on about everything that students can learn about planting seeds, and caring for something and watching it grow. I lied about how much time I had spent in the fields as a child watering row after row of tomatoes. Finally after about an hour and a half, I convinced my principal to let me start a gardening club.
The following day, I took as many of my students as I could convince to stay, down to the lot on Gibb Street. I had no idea what to expect, but I had as many shovels as I could get my hands on, a couple buckets to carry water, and 10 packs of tomato seeds. When we first got there, I was met with the typical teenage response. “What!” yelled Isnardo as we walked through the lot. “You have got to be kidding me Mr. H. You expect us to help you with this crap?” said Crystal sarcastically. I could tell that this was already one of my better ideas. “Just trust me guys.” I kept saying, more for my own comfort than theirs. “Just trust me, you will enjoy it,” or at least I hoped. As we found our spot in the corner of the lot, next to this man, who had planted enough lettuce to feed an army of rabbits, I thought about what I wanted to accomplish with this little stunt. “You better know what you’re doing,” I whispered to myself, but to my surprise the students took to the gardening quite well. Besides its not everyday these guys get a chance to be out in the open with their friends in a safe environment. The first few days were rather quiet and most of them just kept to themselves working, but it seemed like the more work they did together, the more their walls seemed to lower. By the end of that fifth day, they were chatting as if they had been friends for years, and I thought to myself, “You know what Zach? This might work out after all.”