Visit Seven

            As I walked by the school football field today, I realized a remarkable thing, an idea which had not manifested itself before; I was feeling a sense of excitement to enter the building. I had started to like Roosevelt, despite its numerous imperfections. When I walked in, I made a quick stop in the upstairs bathroom where I found fatastic artwork of middle fingers and guns, and beautiful excerpts of poetry on the walls, such as “teach get fucked” and “Shit yo Class”.

            I started walking down the stairs, when a student began walking in the opposite direction towards me. This kid who was as skinny as he was tough-looking, rocked dreds and baggy jeans. He looked at me with a menacing stare that said I was lost.

            “You go here,” he asked with a bewildered expression.

            “ I teach,” I responded.

            When he heard this, he suddenly jerked upwards and changed his facial expression to a more respectful, neutral face. He then nodded, and politely went on his way. I realized then that the mere presence of a teacher-title, empowered me. When I was a simply a young-looking, white person in the hallways, I was a threat and a potential enemy, but when I was a teacher, I was an authority. I was boss.    

            When I reached Mr. Spike’s classroom, I began helping two especially motivated students with recording themselves for a commercial they were making. When the bell rang, I was then given the momentously tedious job of sorting the more than 80 mp3 recordings.

            After finishing, I proceeded towards Mrs. Quik’s new Creative Writing class. It was no longer the group I had been working with all year because at Roosevelt they run a semesterly class schedule, meaning electives like Creative Writing are on the quarterly schedule.  As I walked in to the class, I had high expectations, but to my surprise when I looked inside, there was only one girl present.

            Quik said that this was typical of the new class. She said that the class roster changes on a daily basis, and the come and go of students made it impossible for her to give any classwork that went beyond that period.            

            She said that she didn’t need me for obvious reasons, and so I decided to head over to Mr. Kim, the journalism teacher’s room. The one girl walked me up to his classroom. On the way to his classroom, I asked the girl if she wanted to go to college, and she said yes, although she didn’t know where. I told her that she should go to GW, and she snickered.

            “I’d never get in there,” she said. “My grades are ok. But Roosevelt ok, doesn’t mean much.”

            In Mr. Kim’s class, I found two students quietly reading a newspaper. Finally, I was at a newspaper class. Kim introduced me to the two students, telling me that they were 2 of the typically 5 students who are attentive and active participants in the class. There are about 11 students total, he said.

            The class started discussing articles from the Economist, and the students showed an impressive amount of interest. They then began writing a movie review on a movie they watched the weak before, called Shattered Glass. It wasn’t the best writing I’ve ever seen, but it was significantly better than what I had seen out of students in other classes. I think Kim was leading a good lesson.

            During the period Kim brought up that he was probably going to leave the following year, to go to Law School. One of his students asked him why he was leaving, and he didn’t quite know how to answer it.

            “I’m not really a journalist,” he said. “I like writing, but I’m not a journalist.”

            The answer seemed easy enough, but it didn’t fully answer the question. In my opinion, Roosevelt was Kim’s version of a year at the Peace Corps, the “Red Cross,” or “City Year”. I’ll bet he never anticipated staying at the school. Compared to some of the other teachers I had met at Roosevelt, Kim was significantly more qualified to teach. He was smart, and confident, and to be completely honest, probably too good for Roosevelt.

            I imagine this happens to a lot of the potentially great teachers at this school. They come in, optimistic and eager to get started, but then realize the barriers they are up against. They probably realize that it would actually be easier and far more profitable to change profession as Kim says he will do.

            On his way out, he offers one of the girls half of his snickers bar, and even gives her his umbrella for the night. This school is going to miss Kim next year.

            He then walked me down to the Spike’s room. On the way down, I saw the teachers standing outside of the door of their classrooms, and asked Kim why they were there. He said that the teachers were asked to stand by the doors in between all classes, to make sure the students were not causing any trouble.

             It made me think of my ability to turn the skinny thug from the stairwell into a polite young man, merely by saying I was a teacher. The administrators of the school theorize that a similar thing will happen when the students see teachers lining the wall. At the end of our walk, I asked Kim if I could teach a class, before I left, and he said that I could teach the next week that I came in. Excited, I said goodbye to him, and walked towards Spike’s room.

            When I reached his room, I found the students all locked out, and Ms. Quik banging on the door, key in the hole, but not budging. In frustration, Ms. Quik flapped her hands violently before charging down the hallway to get a janitor.

            I proceeded to try and jar the door open, after she left when a kid behind me told me not to bother.

            “We go to black school,” he said. “Shit just don’t work.”

            Not quite sure how to respond, I smiled and agreed that Roosevelt had its problems. I offered my critique of his argument.

            “I’d say door maintenance is significantly more related to money than color,” I said. "I've never met a racist keyhole."

            “Same thing,” he said. “Black is poor around here. Good thing I’m Hispanic.”

            He then proceeded to ask me if I wanted him to break in. When I said no, he sighed, and offered leaving as an alternative. Unfortunately for him, I denied that suggestion as well.  Eventually the janitor showed up and broke in to the door with a screwdriver.

            “I could’ve done that in half the time,” the kid said. 

Visit Six

            Tourists made me late today. There was a high school model UN conference on the GW campus so children, as loud as they were pubescent, were running around in every direction I turned. On the metro, the case was no different. On the blue line, they surrounded me, most likely going to the capital for a tour.  When I reached my transfer point at L’Enfant Plaza, I nearly ran off the train, ecstatic to finally escape the MUN kids. I entered the green line train to Greenbelt, and took a seat in the backrow. As I sat there, I started thinking about how different these two lines truly are.

            The blue line, connects most of the wealth of the city. From the shopping centers of Eastern Market  and Pentagon City to the tourist sites of the Capital, the Smithsonian, and the Arlington Cemetary, to the GW campus,  people on this train are wealthy. The green line is different. This train connects the rest of the city; Real DC.

            Both trains have their own set of  similar characters every day. On the blue line you tend to see fat tourists with cameras hanging from their necks. On the green line you see young men with tattoos and chains from their necks. On the blue line, you see loud obnoxious collge students (or high school MUN kids). On the green line, you see middle aged men, wearing nikes playing loud rap music from their flip phones. On the blue line, you see scarves and ties. On the green line, you see doo-rags. It’s less than a 30 second walk from one train to the other,  and yet they are drastically different.

            It was only a half-day today, so I was only going to be at school for two hours. It seemed to me, like nobody was doing work either. One kid was sitting around doing nothing, so I walked over to him. When I confronted him on doing nothing, he said that he wasn’t even scheduled for fourth period, which was half the day. I asked him if he wanted me to give him work, and surpisingly, he said yes.

            - “There’s a fire in your gymnasium,” I said.

            He looked at me with a bewildered expression.

            - “Huh?”

            - “This is a journalism lesson,” I said. “Pretend I’m the chief of the fire department, set up some questions and then interview me.”

            He shrugged his shoulders, and responded with a quick “ok.” He then began typing five questions or so before calling me over. The interview went well, although he broke character a few times, and asked questions to Evan Koslof, not Mike Wallace, the “chief of the fire department.” I asked him what he planned to do after high school, and he told me that he knew he wasn’t interested in college. When I asked him why not, he said that he wanted to go to the Navy, and then go into law after. As we continued on with the interview, I really started to feel like we were making major strands. He then went to “get a drink,” and didn’t come back for 25 minutes. Oh well, for major strands.

            He then left, for the final period, and I was left once again with nothing to do. One student named Cesar was working on an application for a job, called the United Alliance, when I offered to help him craft a resume.  He had never made a resume before, so the exercise proved to be pretty helpful for him. I showed him how to manipulate words to make ordinary things seem more important than they actually are. For example, I showed him how an office assitant could become a “Student Liason to the School Administration” or how a four year football player could be a “Four year Varsity Athlete in Football”. I also started to show him how to write a cover letter, although the bell interrupted the process, and he was gone a couple minutes later.

            The day was short (less than two hours for me), and relatively unproductive,  but at least I helped two people, and that made me feel somewhat positively about my work that day. After the bell rang, I headed for the door, and began walking down the bumpy streets, peppered with construction sites.

            As I was walking towards the metro, I witnessed a pretty odd interaction. There was  group of nearly 20 people standing on a street corner. They were all black men whom looked to be between the ages of 18 and 24, and they all wore hoodies of various colors. To me they didn’t seem to be doing anything suspicious, but as I walked near, a cop car started backing up slowly toward them. Two officers then jumped out of the vehicle, one of which was a skinny Hispanic man, while the other was a large white man. The first officer told them to move down the street, to which nobody responded. It was at this point that the larger officer chimed in

            - “Are you fucking deaf or retarded,” he yelled. “Get the fuck down the street. I’m not fucking around.”

            The mass of people,  mostly high school kids dispersed in all directions, including these three men in hoodies, who suspiciously dispersed in one direction on their own. When I crossed the street, I turned around, and watched the scene develop, staring directly at the large cop. He looked straight at me, and then back at the others. I pulled out my phone, and continued staring at him, as if to say, “I dare you to beat one of these people while I’m watching.”

            The people dispersed, and the police officers then went into the car, before driving down the road, behind the suspicious people who ran away. It’s interesting that in order to get a police officer to treat you well, all you need is a pair of nice shoes and a polo. Here’s my way to fight crime. Give every low income person a nice shirt and a watch. It might not lower crime, but it will certainly lower incarcerations.

Visit Five

            There are some days when you feel like nothing can bring you down. This was one of those days. It was the day before Spring break, and I woke up this morning with a great feeling inside of me. It was sunny out, breaking 65 degrees.
            And I think this positivity was contagious. Nearly every person I saw waved at me, as if they knew me. I was walking towards the high school, and coming the opposite direction was a very intimidating person. This person, seemingly homeless, was rolling an empty cart straight for me, and mumbling things to an imaginary person on his left. As I drew near, he looked straight at me, and as he opened his mouth, I could only guess what was coming next.
            - “Good morning to yah,” he belched. “Have a great day!”
            I guess images can be deceiving. He might have been delusional, but he sure made me feel good as I walked past the Wendy’s and past the construction. After signing in at the front door, I went down to Mr. Spike’s room without a single wrong turn. On the way there, I received two “hello”s and one “Sup.” This was really turning out to be a great day. Things turned negative as the day continued.
            The first class had the typical attendance of 5 to 7 people. The class was relatively boring, especially for the teaching assistants who had the thrilling job of watching the students silently work with headphones in their ears. The students were working on placing titles over film clips, by watching an online instructional video on it. The skills are practical, but at the same time, they have basically nothing to do with journalism.
            Spikes said that this teaching style was no accident. He says that the classes get moved around so much, that it becomes pointless to try and think of this class in a traditional way. He said that his class becomes more like a trade-school session every semester. In other words, the students come in, learn basic skills, replicate them, and then leave for their next class.
            When I started to question his methods, Spikes went to his closet and pulled out a colorful poster board with a giant triangle on it, and said that this was the reason traditional education methods wouldn’t work. The triangle had different vertical bars going across it, each with a different word written across it.
At the bottom was Knowledge, followed by comprehension, then Application, Analysis, Synthesis, and finally Evaluation. He slammed his finger down on the second row, knowledge.
            - “At Roosevelt, they’re stuck here, at Knowledge,” he said to me. “Some reach comprehension. Basically never past that.”
            He says that the kids have become very good at simply copying down what the teacher or book tells them to do, but rarely have the ability to think critically about a topic on their own. Spikes said that most classroom exercises included walking into a class, receiving a worksheet, and getting started. He says that this is why it is so difficult to ask the students to sit down and write an essay. They are far better stenographers than philosophers.
            During my break, I went over to the Pizza Hut across the street, and ordered a personal pizza through the bullet-proof glass blockade which surrounded the cash registers. While waiting, I realized something that I thought was kinda beautiful. I was sitting next to a Asian man, while a Hispanic female employee took the order of a black man, and a person from the Middle East placed my order into the oven. God Bless America.
            I returned to Roosevelt for my third period class, and started doing manual labor for Ms. Quik, so as to help set up for an event their class was doing the following Tuesday. They were getting ready to put on a show for a nursing home, in which they would show literary skills they had performed. While they practiced their material, I went into the recording booth, and worked the video, and tested out various edits. The class went smoothly, and the students seemed to have fun, although they didn’t learn anything, relating to a writer’s workshop class. Another day at Roosevelt.
            During the next class, the girl I have previously referred to as the devil was excused for half the period because she was eating lunch. I was upset by the teacher allowing this to happen, and so after the class, I questioned Ms. Quik about the girl. She explained some things to me, which put it in perspective. This girl, was troubled, to say the least. According to her, this kid was reading at an elementary school level, and would have been in a special education program at most other schools. Its not anything genetic, but rather, her elementary school experience that put her in this position, she said.
            Spikes said its like this is in a lot of different classes at Roosevelt. He says that there always seems to be children peppered into the crowd who have no place being there, but get thrown in there anyways. Students that are under-prepared, are never given a chance to get back on track, but rather just fall deeper and deeper. Spikes said that it was like quicksand, the way the students get trapped, and slowly fall under. He says that what they really need is a rope. By this he meant, they need services that can help them again a quality education. I think back to my high school, and remember the various programs such as English-as-Second-Language (ESL), Opportunity For Change (OFC), and interactive guidance counseling programs. I have no doubt that had this girl gone to my high school, even with her limited elementary education, she would be at a far greater level today.
            An education at Roosevelt is limited, but it is especially limited for those who were already disadvantaged from the beginning. There is no getting back up here. Once you are down, you typically stay down.

- Evan Koslof

Visit Four

            The metro ride has become a routine. As the train lazily glided across the tracks, I sipped my coffee and read the Times, as I slowly shook off my sleepy demeanor. When I reached my transfer point, the green line was already there, seemingly waiting for me to get there. I could tell. It was going to be a good day.

            I entered the school building, with a stronger, more confident walk than ever before and passed through the metal detector without any problems. Signing in as a guest at the school, the police officer even smiled at me. I walked down the stairs, only getting lost a record one time, before reaching my final destination of Mr. Spike’s room.

            I truly enjoyed the second period. Spikes started off the class by watching a broadcast video made by a reporter at the Washington Post. The video was flawed, but it was still at its basic level journalism, which made me happy. To this point, the class had consisted primarily of learning how to maneuver through Adobe and various other computer programs. To finally start talking about journalism was a positive experience for me. I finally felt like it was my place to speak out to the rest of the class, in an attempt to offer my help.

            We then transitioned into watching another video by National Geographic. This video focused on solving the question of “who is the average human being.” In other words, the video used statistics to find out what a crashed alien was most likely to see on our planet. In the end, it turned out that it was a 28-year-old Han Chinese man. Interesting. Even more interesting though, was how captivated the students were by this clip.

            Most of the students seemed surprised by the findings, and for me, it made clear another problem with the educational experience in a school like Roosevelt. I believe that many of the students here have a more isolated lifestyle, than I had growing up. I wouldn’t be as arrogant as to say I was cultured when I was younger, but I was made aware of cultures outside of my town, state and country, mostly due to the school I attended. One example of this could be found when Spikes asked the classmates who was the most average after watching. One boy raised his hand and yelled confidently,

             - “A 28-year-old Chinese man.”

Spikes than corrected him saying that it was in fact a Han Chinese man. The student than sarcastically replied.

            - “But he’s Chinese —ain’t he.”

            Another example of this disconnect between their community and those of other countries could be found in their responses to the great amount of poverty outside the United States. When they found out how much water was consumed in Ethiopia compared to the states for example, some of the students were shocked. It is facts like these that can really help give someone perspective, and I believe that this is what happened to these students. For the first time, since I started at Roosevelt, I felt like there was a meaningful relaying of lessons being passed from teacher to student. It felt good to be a part of the teaching staff.

            In the next period, I once again helped out with whom I’ll call the three stooges. In reality though, it should be called the 2 stooges, and the poor girl that can’t get any work done because of the other two stooges. Although, three stooges is probably a more catchy name.  This group consists of the teacher, who I’ll definitely call one of the stooges, due to her silly attitude, and inability to teach, the devil-girl, who consistently does no work and tries to sleep in class, and the poor girl who can’t seem to get any work done with the other two. I have made it my “mission” to try and help this girl named Shonice, and I can actually sense that my words of encouragement have been successful in doing so.

            While the Teacher-stooge went off with the devil, I proceeded to help the other girl with the work she was doing. She was trying to create a flyer for an event they were having in the following week, and she actually made great strands. More important than giving her content-based advice was that I was trying to help her gain some confidence in herself. Sometimes she would say things like, “so, what do you want me to write.” My response would consistently be, “what do you want to write? What do you think would come next?” And what I found every time, was that she would write down a great sentence. Too often, students become stenographers, writing down what the teacher wants them too, but they would be better off if they were given the opportunity to trust themselves, and write down what feels right to them.

            When she finished her flier, she sat confidently, looking over her final product. It was then that the devil emerged from the other side of the room, and with a small grimace on her face, hit the power button on the non-stooges computer. Shocked, I asked her why she did it, and called over the Stooge-teacher. As expected, the devil received no punishments but to say she was sorry to the other student, who had lost all of her work due to her deed.

            After helping her complete her assignment another time, I then went and helped another journalism class. In this class, the teacher Mr. Kim, had the right idea. The class consisted of pure journalism and reporting. Each student in the class chose one topic, and pursued it. One wrote about go-go dancing. Another wrote about school lunches being “unhealthy and just nasty”. One girl took a rather intriguing approach. She was writing about murder.

             I was shocked when she told me about her project. She was writing about the fact that three people from Roosevelt High School had been murdered that year. Even the wording of how she told me this information was surprising.

            - “Yeah, three have been killed. Two were friends, and they got shot in the head.”

            She said it so casually, as if she didn’t just give me a graphic description of a murder in her own neighborhood. We’re not in Kansas any more. Or rather, I’m not in Foggy Bottom anymore. 

Visit Three

            The entire school was energetic and excited today. The Roosevelt High School basketball team had made it to the DC finals, and the entire school was ecstatic. I walk into the school, and immediately see students running down the halls, yelling “Go Roosevelt” and “Down with Coolidge,” amongst other more profane words. I get to Mr. Spike’s basement classroom and the energy is just as present down there as upstairs. I remember Mr. Spikes saying something to a student that remains very resonant to me. “If this school cared as much about academics as the basketball team we’d be set.” An exaggeration, but still says volumes about how teachers and the administration interact at Roosevelt.

            Mr. Spikes got the second period class started with a lesson on adding music to a fake audio commercial. The students had fun with it, choosing music of different genres from rap, to rock, to in one student’s case, classical music. I helped the students manipulate the sound to create an audibly pleasing commercial. More comfortable than the first two days, I really started to jump into the teaching on this third visit. The students seemed more receptive to me this class, because I was no longer a stranger. 

            During the third period, I also became closer to the students, and got a more accurate view of how the students in the class interacted. Only two people were there on this visit, one of which was the girl who had been sleeping the week before. Her minimal effort continued, and she distracted others in the process. Their first assignment was to merely copy down a prewritten script on the computer. This process proved more difficult than I would have expected. A lot of the students I have been teaching, have little experience with computers, to the point where many of them had trouble typing simple word documents. I look at this as the new type of global inequality. I have had a computer in my house since the first grade. Before I could flirt with girls, I was given the ability to surf the internet and type word documents. Many of these students do not have these opportunities. I fear that as our society becomes increasingly dependent on technologies, including the computer, certain segments of the world population will be left behind. I am curious in whether this is the case here at Roosevelt. Before I’m done working at Roosevelt, I would like to pass out surveys to find out whether their family has a computer, whether they themselves have a computer, and for how long. I think this is a worrisome trend, because in the modern age, everything is done by computer.

            Macbooks and Ipads might be a fantastic resources, but I think its important that we think about what effects will come from this “new age inequality.”   

Visit Two

            My bagel was cold on my second visit to the school. As I held this food in one hand, and a coffee in the other, I quickly stepped down the sidewalk towards Roosevelt High School for my second day on the job, excited by the idea that I would actually get a chance to meet the kids. I placed down my coffee and took off my belt at the detector, and passed by in a much faster way than the last time. As I buckled up and signed in, I remember two students running by, before being told to slow down by a large, wide police officer who worked at the front desk. As I started walking toward Mr. Spike’s classroom, I looked around at the numerous designs and posters on the walls. Everywhere I looked, there were pictures of prominent black men and women who had achieved greatness in their lives. These posters, from MLK to Obama, were meant to say, “I look like you, and I did it… You can too.”

            I think this policy is meant to counter a prominent frame that is increasingly taking over the media coverage, where it seems as if white men are in suits, black men are in jails, and Hispanics are selling drugs. These obvious stereotypes do not reflect reality, but rather a pseudo-reality unintentionally suggested by certain news outlets.

            After being lost for nearly five minutes, I found Mr. Spike’s classroom, and was glad to see a full classroom waiting for me. This group was not the most enthused of all students, but they had a general interest, and some even pretended to care about my entrance into the classroom. Mr. Spikes seemed to care a lot about the students’ ability to impress Collette, the other Prime Movers Media worker, and me. During this period, Spikes went over Adobe Pro, an audio mixing program that I had never used before. As he taught, Collette and I were learning as much as the kids were. However we were able to pick it up at a faster pace. The students then separated into their own workstations to complete the class assignment.

            Almost immediately, one person raised their hand. When I went over to help, he informed me that his computer was not functioning. Two or three other students were having the same problem. The PCs were malfunctioning, and it took Mr. Spikes working with the server for more than fifteen minutes before the students were able to start their assignment. Problems like these definitely limit the effectiveness of their classroom experience. One student put on headphones and placed his head down on the desk. I wondered why Spikes didn’t reprimand him, but then I realized that it wouldn’t have made a difference. The computers were broken. He might as well have been absent for that period.

            The next period was pretty shocking to me. This class, which is a “Writing Workshop” class, lacked a great deal of legitimacy. There were only three people in the class, and they were not given a very difficult task. They listened to a recorded story, and then they were asked to write down the main points from it in a word document. This simple task, which was already half-way done at the beginning of the class, took the entire period to finish. One of the three girls kept falling asleep in class, and oddly, the teacher didn’t seem to care. This teacher reassured the other students that “it was ok,” because she “was tired”. The other two girls seemed to be hardworking and smart, but had little reinforcement from the teacher and class.

            The third period was an interesting one. It was the last period on a Friday that admittedly refused to end. It was a sunny day outside, and I could tell that the students were just ready to run out of the building, first chance they got. Still though, there was pretty good attendance, and there were about 14 of them. They were doing the same project as the 2^nd period was. They heard the assignment, and went and worked on their projects silently. I was impressed by how attentive they were, but disappointed by the complete lack of interest. Then again, I thought back to my High School days, when I had last period English on a Friday, and it made a little more sense. In the future, I would like to try and motivate them more. Journalism is not only an essential part of living in a democracy but also it is a topic that generates real, practical skills. If I can get one person to become a journalism-nerd like me, then I’ll consider my time here a success.

- Evan Koslof 

Visit One

            As I get off the DC Metro, I am bombarded with exciting stimuli and loud traffic noises. There is an “Eat Chicken” market across from the metro, and graffiti on the walls surrounding the block of the train station. Immediately, it becomes apparent that we are not in Foggy Bottom. Although the area doesn’t seem too dangerous, there is still a noticeable difference both in wealth and race. There are closed shops and lower income homes, although some exceptions are evident, such as a large organic supermarket and a construction site, building an architecturally advanced building, potentially a sign for future gentrification. Also, as I said before, the differences were not just economic, but racial. As a white male at primarily white university, its easy to say, I could blend in pretty well, but as I got off at the metro station at Georgia Avenue-Petworth, I was suddenly an “other”. The two other people from Prime Movers Media whom I travelled with and I were the only white people in the area, and judging by the stares from some passer-bys, we stood out.

            The school was larger than I expected, but then again, I was told to expect the worse. As I walked toward the building, I pictured the school being like those from the dramatized TV series, “The Wire,” and so when I saw the tall brick building with a large parking garage and a football field, I was moderately surprised. I was soon to learn that the problem wasn’t with the building, but rather with what was inside of it.

            Inside I was told to pass through a metal detector. I was surprised. My High School certainly didn’t have a metal detector. I remember walking in next to a student, who sported sagging jeans, a black hoodie and some Nike shoes. As he passed through the metal detectors, he looked turned off. The process of passing through a metal detector to make sure there were no weapons in the school – a pretty frightening idea if you think about it – was not even a part of his thought process. It was as if he was saying, “you don’t trust me or my friends, but that’s cool… whatever.” Unintentionally, these detectors act as a constant reminder to students that they are considered armed and dangerous. Personally, if I was reminded this every day, on the way to English class, I might start to believe it.

            In the class, I met Mr. Spikes, a bright man whose heart is in the right place. He cares about the kids, and wants to reach out to them, but he also knows the restricted parameters that control his ambitions. If he goes in there with a lecture or any difficult class work, they will simply ignore him.

            On this first visit, I did not actually get to meet any kids, but one memory does stand out in my mind. While talking with the teacher, a student walked into the classroom. She was a young girl, probably a junior in high school, and she had her hair up in a way I’ve never seen before. She spoke quickly, and almost inaudibly over the chewing of her gum. She was supposed to be in the class that met the period before, but she was not there because she was seeing a “counselor”. The teacher asked for the note, but the girl responded with a quick “she didn’t give me one.” The teacher then left with the girl to go meet with the counselor to find the truth.

            From an outside perspective, I thought this seemed like a pretty normal interaction, but this was just because I didn’t understand two things that were culturally different in this school than my high school. First of all, this student was more comfortable with lying to her teacher than I ever would have been in high school, and second of all, the teacher was more comfortable blatantly distrusting the girl. In the end, I found out that the counselor wasn’t there, and hadn’t been during the last period. The girl was lying to the teacher, and the teacher was right in this case due to an immediate distrust. My question is how many “good” students are treated like they are liars on a typical day.

            The narrative is becoming more and more clear: I imagine walking into my old high school. What if I was immediately labeled a “criminal” as I pass detectors, and called a “liar” in the classroom. I might not be here at GW, if this was my upbringing.

- Evan Koslof