Everyday, right after lunch, Ms. Barbour’s third graders have independent reading time. For twenty minutes, students get to quietly read alone from any book of their choice. My first day in class was no different. I figured this was a good opportunity to begin building relationships with my new students and make a solid first impression, so I walked the classroom looking for someone I could read along with. I noticed one little boy pull out Dr. Seuss’ One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish – an absolute classic. I walked up to the boy’s desk, introduced myself, and asked if I could read with him. Without a word, he nodded yes, and kept a cautious eye on me as I pulled up a chair. Once I sat down, he told me his name: James.
I listened to James slowly make his way through the first two pages of his book, struggling to carefully sound out each word. When he finished, I asked if he wanted to see something cool. I started making a beat on his desk. Pound. Snap. Pound-pound. Snap. I then rapped the words: “This-one-has-a-lit-tle-star-This-one-has-a-lit-tle-car.” By the time I finished the second line, James was already out of his seat, dancing next to me, and begging to rap the rest of the book on his own. Accompanying my beat, he recited the next thirty pages. In. Perfect. Rhythm.
For the next few months, whenever Ms. Barbour announced independent reading time, James would quickly pop up right in front of me with a big cheesy smile and a different Dr. Seuss book. This was his way of letting me know it was time to make some music.
James’ enthusiasm wasn’t just reserved for independent reading, it extended well beyond to all facets of the class. No matter the question, James always raised his hand first. If we needed a volunteer to write something on the board, James was our most eager candidate. And every single week, when it was time for my small group of students to meet for additional individualized tutoring, James took it upon himself to round up his fellow classmates so we could get to the library ASAP and get to work. More than any other child in his class, at least outwardly, he displayed a true craving to learn.
And, impressively, at as young as eight years old, James already successfully carved out a vital social role for himself in our classroom: class clown. James once challenged a female classmate to a dance battle in Math. The battle that ensued proceeded to pause instruction for upwards of thirty minutes. I sadly wasn’t there to witness the event, but multiple credible sources tell me it was captivating and well worth the distraction. My personal all-time favorite stunt he pulled was the day he called me over to the playground during recess. James surprised me with a special performance of a symphony of back-flips that he had organized among a few of his more agile classmates. Five students, two lines, executing perfect stand-alone back-flips, over and over, without rest, in unison. James clearly showed the makings of a future homecoming king or student body president.
One day in September, James wasn’t acting like his usual self. He called out answers before other students could get a chance to raise their hands, talked back to the adults in the room, and got into arguments with some of his classmates.
I quietly told James that I needed to see him in the hall, looking to address his behavior.
“What’s going on, buddy? You’re usually a leader,” I said, trying to encourage him.
He leaned against the wall right outside our classroom door and put his head down. No response.
“What’s up? Is something the matter? You’re not in trouble,” I told him. “I just want to help you get back on track.”
“I’m tired,” he grunted, head down.
“Okay, that’s a start,” I said. “Why are you tired? Did you stay up all night playing video games or something?”
“No,” head still down.
“Okay, well I know it’s hard to focus when you’re tired and grumpy, but let’s get some water, get back in there, and do our best. I know you can do it.”
I hoped, naively, that might somehow do the trick. But James didn’t move, and his head stayed down.
“I fell asleep in the closet,” he said, tears beginning to roll down his cheek.
I waited, confused.
“My mom woke me up in the middle of the night and made me get in the closet.”
I remained silent.
“That’s where I fell asleep.”
I quietly told James that I needed to see him in the hall, looking to address his behavior.
“What’s going on, buddy? You’re usually a leader,” I said, trying to encourage him.
He leaned against the wall right outside our classroom door and put his head down. No response.
“What’s up? Is something the matter? You’re not in trouble,” I told him. “I just want to help you get back on track.”
“I’m tired,” he grunted, head down.
“Okay, that’s a start,” I said. “Why are you tired? Did you stay up all night playing video games or something?”
“No,” head still down.
“Okay, well I know it’s hard to focus when you’re tired and grumpy, but let’s get some water, get back in there, and do our best. I know you can do it.”
I hoped, naively, that might somehow do the trick. But James didn’t move, and his head stayed down.
“I fell asleep in the closet,” he said, tears beginning to roll down his cheek.
I waited, confused.
“My mom woke me up in the middle of the night and made me get in the closet.”
I remained silent.
“That’s where I fell asleep.”
Later that afternoon, I was outside helping monitor Hendley’s after school program. It was a typical warm and sunny fall day. Kids spread out across all corners of the blacktop and playground. Some played football and tag. Some danced or practiced cheerleading. Some just hung out and soaked in the sunshine.
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang.
Students and staff sprinted for the school’s entrance. Dozens of bodies fled from the flurry of gunshots that came from what sounded like just across the street. Unsure of what was happening, along with some of my City Year teammates, I quickly made sure nobody was left outside and that we were the last ones through the door.
I was shaken by the time I got inside. That was the first time I had actually ever heard gunshots. My focus was on the kids though, and I noticed how calm they appeared for the most part. Children as young as five and six looked no less happy-go-lucky than a few minutes prior. Many were already back to playing and laughing. I questioned whether their reactions to the incident were comforting or worrisome.
Was this some sort of coping mechanism? A way to hide their fear? Or, were my students that used to this sort of thing? Later, I would learn that it was a little bit of both.
As the school year progressed and school lock-downs caused by neighborhood shootings became more frequent, some students admitted to being terrified and routinely hid under desks. In one twisted scenario after a particularly long lock-down that forced the administration to cancel a school dance, my entire third-grade class chanted “we’re-not-gonna-die-today." They enthusiastically cheered for their own survival rather than mourn the loss of their dance (and another piece of their childhood innocence). Older students claimed to be “experts” on the sound of gunshots and prided themselves on helping the less experienced adults like me identify questionably loud noises in the neighborhood during afterschool kick ball games. “Don’t worry, Mr. Jesse,” one fourth grader liked to tell me. “I’ll let you know if we need to go inside.”
On the day of that first shooting in September, shots were fired around 5:40 PM. By six o’clock, students were released and many walked themselves home, alone.
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang.
Students and staff sprinted for the school’s entrance. Dozens of bodies fled from the flurry of gunshots that came from what sounded like just across the street. Unsure of what was happening, along with some of my City Year teammates, I quickly made sure nobody was left outside and that we were the last ones through the door.
I was shaken by the time I got inside. That was the first time I had actually ever heard gunshots. My focus was on the kids though, and I noticed how calm they appeared for the most part. Children as young as five and six looked no less happy-go-lucky than a few minutes prior. Many were already back to playing and laughing. I questioned whether their reactions to the incident were comforting or worrisome.
Was this some sort of coping mechanism? A way to hide their fear? Or, were my students that used to this sort of thing? Later, I would learn that it was a little bit of both.
As the school year progressed and school lock-downs caused by neighborhood shootings became more frequent, some students admitted to being terrified and routinely hid under desks. In one twisted scenario after a particularly long lock-down that forced the administration to cancel a school dance, my entire third-grade class chanted “we’re-not-gonna-die-today." They enthusiastically cheered for their own survival rather than mourn the loss of their dance (and another piece of their childhood innocence). Older students claimed to be “experts” on the sound of gunshots and prided themselves on helping the less experienced adults like me identify questionably loud noises in the neighborhood during afterschool kick ball games. “Don’t worry, Mr. Jesse,” one fourth grader liked to tell me. “I’ll let you know if we need to go inside.”
On the day of that first shooting in September, shots were fired around 5:40 PM. By six o’clock, students were released and many walked themselves home, alone.
I broke down when I got home that night. I didn’t see it coming. But as soon as I stepped out of my car a wave of tears hit me.
I called my older sister, a university dean who works with vulnerable students, to help me process what I had just experienced. I told her that, more than anything, I felt angry.
Angry that my students were robbed of their fun afternoon, and that some of those same students then had to walk home alone in such dangerous conditions. Angry that someday, pushed by circumstance, some of my students might very well grow up to participate in and be victims to this same cycle of violence.
I was angry that James had to spend the night in a closet.
And what really pissed me off the most was that I had the privilege of leaving, every single day, but my students could not.
My sister identified that I was struggling with a sense of powerlessness. I didn’t think I was doing enough for my students and I wasn’t sure if I could ever really do enough. Tutoring, playing games, dancing, making them laugh – none of it would stop the bullets.
I called my older sister, a university dean who works with vulnerable students, to help me process what I had just experienced. I told her that, more than anything, I felt angry.
Angry that my students were robbed of their fun afternoon, and that some of those same students then had to walk home alone in such dangerous conditions. Angry that someday, pushed by circumstance, some of my students might very well grow up to participate in and be victims to this same cycle of violence.
I was angry that James had to spend the night in a closet.
And what really pissed me off the most was that I had the privilege of leaving, every single day, but my students could not.
My sister identified that I was struggling with a sense of powerlessness. I didn’t think I was doing enough for my students and I wasn’t sure if I could ever really do enough. Tutoring, playing games, dancing, making them laugh – none of it would stop the bullets.
A few days later, I sat with James in the cafeteria while he ate his school-provided breakfast before class. He was back to his old chatterbox self, with plenty of energy and plenty to say even early in the morning.
He asked me if I knew what Oxon Hill was. I told him that I did, that it was a nearby area in Maryland. James pointed out the cafeteria window to a tall red brick apartment building, the largest structure in our line of sight, sitting atop a hill that looked to be only a couple of blocks away.
“That’s Oxon Hill,” he told me, “They’ve been coming into our neighborhood and shooting a lot lately.”
James was right. The daytime gunshots I heard after school that day were just the start. The fall ended up being a tough time for the Washington Highlands neighborhood where Hendley Elementary School is located, right on the border between Southeast D.C. and Prince George's County, Maryland. At some point towards the end of 2017, a violent “turf war” broke out between D.C.’s Washington Highlands and PG County’s Oxon Hill region. It felt like we were on lock-down once a week. The Metropolitan Police Department became a very visible force in our students’ lives, monitoring their arrival and dismissal for safety each day. By April, Washington Police records reported 12 violent crimes in the area, including two killings within 1,000 feet of the school over the course of the school year.
James and I walked away from the window and back to his cafeteria table. Instead of sitting down, he stayed standing with one foot up on his seat – his own makeshift soapbox. James was the smallest boy in class and this was his go-to move when he wanted to say something, a way to force the other kids to look up at him for once. He looked like a prince ready to hold court. I sat down and gave him the attention he desired.
“They even shoot at houses sometimes,” he said, sort of matter of fact. He scrunched his eyebrows and puffed his chest to turn on his “tough guy” face that he would use every now and then on the playground. “They tried to get my uncle the other night while I was sleeping. I was in the back of the house and my mother got me out of bed and made me hide. I was up all night, but they didn’t get us.” He sounded proud of his apparent accomplishment.
I realized James was talking about what he told me earlier in the week. He was explaining to me why he had to sleep in the closet. His mother must have thought the closet was where he'd be safest.
James flipped a switch for the next chapter of his tale. He continued to relay the narrative with details that made it sound like his favorite action movie.
“The next thing you know my uncle and I climbed up on the roof,” he said, practically acting it all out on the spot, showing me he was a real life superhero. “Those bad guys went running.”
In his own way, in his own telling of the story, James gave himself power and agency back. He refused to be a helpless character in a tragic story. In his neighborhood, even the little boys are expected to be tough as nails, and I think he was embarrassed for having been vulnerable in front of me a few days earlier. I was glad James trusted me enough to share this part of his life with me, but I was also sad that he seemed embarrassed, almost ashamed, of his own powerlessness.
I left that conversation fearing for the safety of this child I had quickly grown to care about.
He asked me if I knew what Oxon Hill was. I told him that I did, that it was a nearby area in Maryland. James pointed out the cafeteria window to a tall red brick apartment building, the largest structure in our line of sight, sitting atop a hill that looked to be only a couple of blocks away.
“That’s Oxon Hill,” he told me, “They’ve been coming into our neighborhood and shooting a lot lately.”
James was right. The daytime gunshots I heard after school that day were just the start. The fall ended up being a tough time for the Washington Highlands neighborhood where Hendley Elementary School is located, right on the border between Southeast D.C. and Prince George's County, Maryland. At some point towards the end of 2017, a violent “turf war” broke out between D.C.’s Washington Highlands and PG County’s Oxon Hill region. It felt like we were on lock-down once a week. The Metropolitan Police Department became a very visible force in our students’ lives, monitoring their arrival and dismissal for safety each day. By April, Washington Police records reported 12 violent crimes in the area, including two killings within 1,000 feet of the school over the course of the school year.
James and I walked away from the window and back to his cafeteria table. Instead of sitting down, he stayed standing with one foot up on his seat – his own makeshift soapbox. James was the smallest boy in class and this was his go-to move when he wanted to say something, a way to force the other kids to look up at him for once. He looked like a prince ready to hold court. I sat down and gave him the attention he desired.
“They even shoot at houses sometimes,” he said, sort of matter of fact. He scrunched his eyebrows and puffed his chest to turn on his “tough guy” face that he would use every now and then on the playground. “They tried to get my uncle the other night while I was sleeping. I was in the back of the house and my mother got me out of bed and made me hide. I was up all night, but they didn’t get us.” He sounded proud of his apparent accomplishment.
I realized James was talking about what he told me earlier in the week. He was explaining to me why he had to sleep in the closet. His mother must have thought the closet was where he'd be safest.
James flipped a switch for the next chapter of his tale. He continued to relay the narrative with details that made it sound like his favorite action movie.
“The next thing you know my uncle and I climbed up on the roof,” he said, practically acting it all out on the spot, showing me he was a real life superhero. “Those bad guys went running.”
In his own way, in his own telling of the story, James gave himself power and agency back. He refused to be a helpless character in a tragic story. In his neighborhood, even the little boys are expected to be tough as nails, and I think he was embarrassed for having been vulnerable in front of me a few days earlier. I was glad James trusted me enough to share this part of his life with me, but I was also sad that he seemed embarrassed, almost ashamed, of his own powerlessness.
I left that conversation fearing for the safety of this child I had quickly grown to care about.
I wish I could do what James did and rewrite this story with some superhero swooping in and catching all the bullets that flew through Washington Highlands last year and remove my students from harm's way in the process.
I also wish I could go back and rewrite what I said to James that afternoon as he cried in the hallway. I want to tell you that I rose to the occasion as a fresh, young educator, that from somewhere deep within I pulled out the perfect set of motivational words to inspire and comfort James right when he needed it most. I wish I could tell you that.
What I did say that day was sincere, but, looking back, it will never feel like enough. My response to James did not heal his pain or address any of the issues facing his community, it only acknowledged their existence.
“My mom woke me up in the middle of the night and made me get in the closet. That’s where I finally fell asleep."
I stared at him – confused, nervous, shocked.
Finally, I managed to say two words.
“I’m sorry.”
