Not even the teacher had the desceny to watch the hurt well in my eyes as they brushed off my question.
My young years were spent in the area of Chicago known as: Back of the Yards. Until the fifth grade, I had gone to the Catholic school a block away. Half way through that year, my mother moved us out to a predominatley white suburb with the intention of providing a better life for me.
I was an angry kid. I didn’t blame my mom, but she was on the receiving end of the emotions dredged up by the sudden impact of being unwelcome. I was angry that, becuase of the color of my skin and where I had come from, I was seen as an outsider, not worth interacting with. I suddenly became less than.
The cruel hand of discrimination slapped me hardest while on the first day in my new math class. Not to fault a Catholic school education (too much), but, before moving I had just been taught the fascinating world of multiplication. While, my suburban public school counterparts were just finishing up division.
<Insert fluttering eyes gif>
I was amongst strangers, further alienated by the bare introduction the teacher had made: “Class, we have a new student.” They gestured to me with one hand. Their shoulders didn’t even turn. As if, my presence was expected to only be temporary. I was given a place by the door. On the edge of the selectively attentive students.
“Let’s continue,” they went on, and the brief attention given to me was swept away. Like the dust that gathers in neglected corners.
Besides a lack in decency, the teacher was good at their job. Despite the gap in my experience with these new and beautifully alien concepts, I was able to grasp the fundamental idea in the remaining 40 minutes of class.
They had reviewed previous material only once. It was at the request of another student. I tried to jump on this break in their monologue with a question of my own. My raised hand had gone ignored, though.
So, I patiently kept it raised till the teacher’s eyes accidentally found me. “Yes?” Is how they gave acknowledgement.
It suddenly felt wrong to ask. But, I didn’t let the moment go. I asked if they could explain the inverse relationship between multiplication and this thing called division. Granted, I phrased it differently in my ignorant youth, stumbling over my words, for they too were being judged.
My request garnered a few giggles and some snickers, but too few looked at me. As if I would stain them with a single glance. Not even the teacher had the decency to watch the hurt well in my eyes as they brushed off my question, telling me to see them after class to discuss my lacking education.
Though, like the rest of the children, they quickly left once the bell rang.
So, the below is a short poem of my response to that moment.
The best intentions put me in that room. But, spite and resentment kept me there. I’d make the turned faces see, despite how hard they tried. I’d shatter their guided lives by the color of my skin, strutting across the glass surface of their privilege.
I don’t blame my fellow students for how they treated me at first. Rasicms and the act of discrimination is something taught. I blame the teacher for not setting a better example. Instead, they had set a tone for my remaining time in that grammar school.
I would like to add that eventually I had made friends with some of those students. Though, it was much later that I found a place of welcome and acceptance. Eh, such is life.
Till next time.
Alexander J Hernandez 