...And you thought YOU could make a difference?

How would you feel if you found out that President Obama's daughters were not only unaware of the meaning of the word "leadership," but had never even seen the word? What if Frederick Douglass' five children had never heard the word "sacrifice?" What if Booker T. Washington's three children had never understood the meaning of the word "labor?" What if Malcolm X's six children weren't aware of the word "pride?"

Hard to imagine, isn't it? That's exactly why I scoffed when my white, New England-raised Teach for America English advisor told our group to be prepared to define and explain the word "prejudice" during an initial reading with our 99% all-black summer school students from across inner-city Atlanta. How dare she suggest that these students, raised in the heart of the South, could be ignorant to the word "prejudice?" As the one of the only black educators in the room, I merely shook my head and kept my comments to myself, chalking up her words to naivete.


That was until I met *Ashton. At 4-foot-7 with a voice squeakier than a Chipette, she was the first person I sat down to read with when I met my class of forty; forty tenth through twelfth-graders from across Atlanta who had failed to pass ninth-grade English. Forty students that included some with criminal records and an expecting mother. Ashton seemed to provide a stark contrast from the group because of her sweet, child-like innocence. A student at Coretta Scott King High School, an all-girls leadership academy in Atlanta, Ashton was like a breath of fresh air.


But, it wasn't until she began to read me the selected passage that I realized reading and writing were just the  tip of the iceberg in terms of the issues I would face while teaching summer school. Hunched over the paper in deep concentration, Ashton read each word carefully while following along with her index finger. It wasn't until we got to the word I was waiting for that she began to stutter.


"Prrr - pree - preeej..." I was watching incredulously as Ashton began to sink deeper and deeper, like she was being swallowed by quicksand. Let her sound it out, I thought. Just wait, she'll get it.


After what felt like a long, laborious 35 seconds, Ashton finally glanced up at me, her eyes pleading with me to give her my hand to pull her out. "Prejudice," I said finally, searching her big, brown eyes for a hint of recognition. My heart sank to the soles of my feet as she crinkled her brows in confusion.


"Preh-juh-diss?" she sounded out cautiously, looking back at the page.


"Prejudice," I repeated. "You know what prejudice is..." I paused. "Right?"


She looked back up at me and smiled sheepishly, shaking her head.


"But you've heard the word," I nodded encouragingly. She shook her head and shrugged.


My heart pounded as she waited for me to explain. She's got to be kidding me, I thought. But as I looked back at Ashton, I knew that there was nothing funny happening right now. Finally, I cleared my throat. "Prejudice is when someone forms a negative opinion about someone else without a logical reason." She nodded slowly. I continued, "For example, someone could be prejudiced against you because you're black," I said.


She nodded and continued reading. And though I, too, was staring down at the words on the page, all I could see was a mountain I was no longer sure I was prepared or equipped to climb.


I wish I could say that Ashton was the only student to whom I had to teach the word "prejudice" that day; but there were several others - all carrying the names of Coretta Scott King, Frederick Douglass, Dorothy Height, Booker T. Washington and George Washington Carver High School on their backs. The irony left me dazed and discouraged by the time I left school that day; where had the disconnect occurred? As I stood in front of my class that first day, I sadly watched as students cursed each other out, fixed the bandannas in their sagging back pockets and threw reading and writing assignments on the floor as a sign of defiance.


All of a sudden, I was Hilary Swank standing in a classroom to which I couldn't relate. I was Sandra Bullock watching a black boy with so much potential throw it away because he couldn't see past his immediate circle of influence. I was Emma Stone trying to save a group of disenfranchised black females through an overly-simplified solution to an overly-complex issue. With the exception of my skin tone and my educational background (having gone to both an HBHS and an HBCU), I was now the women I had scoffed at, resented and rebuked: the white savior who had thought that "making a difference" could happen in an hour and thirty minutes of reel time.


On my second day of teaching, one of my pregnant girls asked me why I cared so much about them raising their hands. After giving an impassioned speech about the importance of being respectful, college-ready and blah, blah, blah; she interrupted me. Just that quick, I was suddenly Whoopi Goldberg from Sister Act II, standing for the first time in front of a class of rowdy inner-city high school students who couldn't give a damn about me, respect or college.


"Let me tell you something, right quick," she interrupted, popping her gum and putting her hands on her eight-months large stomach.


Looking around at her classmates with a smirk, she finally met my surprised eyes. "Welcome to the A, Baby Girl, because we don't follow directions here; so, you might as well quit now."


In the midst of all the cat-calling, jeers and cheers; something in me snapped. No longer sure if I was the newest guest on the television show What Would You Do, a sudden star in the latest 'save the poor black children' movie or simply unprepared to deal with something I naively thought would be easy; I was now hysterical. I laughed...laughed...then laughed some more, until the entire class was looking at me with a mix of fear and confusion. Standing up slowly from the edge of the teacher's desk, I walked to the front of the room, shoulders still shaking with silent laughter. Turning around, I looked my baby mama right in the eye and said, "Now, let me tell all of you something."


All forty eyes were trained on me as I held eye contact with my very own 'Rita Louise Watson.' "If you think I came all the way to 'the A' to babysit you, watch you disrespect me, each other and fail this class again; it's gonna be a longgggg summer...baby girl." I laughed again and began writing on the board. "Listen up," I said loudly, smiling to myself.


"If you wanna be somebody, if you wanna go somewhere, you better wake up and pay attention," I turned around to face the class. "Because this is your moment."


And, with the pressure of Coretta, Martin, Malcolm, Dorothy, Frederick, George, Booker and Barack watching, it's my moment too.


"No you won't be name'n no buildings after me / to go down dilapidated / No you won't be name'n no buildings after me / My name will be mistated, surely." - E. Badu (A.D. 2000)