98th Avenue

memoir in progress about my trials and triumphs teaching struggling readers at an urban middle school in East Oakland.

Excerpt:
By the time I get them, my eighth graders are already seasoned veterans; they have learned how to deal with being "the stupid kids" by being the class clowns, who are just too cool and too tough and too funny to even be here and "who gives a flying fuck about pansy-ass middle school anyway, and fuck reading cuz that shit for pussies and fags." These are my kids and they steal my cell phone that first week and two CD players the next, but they are still my kids.

Even though Michael tells me he hates me every day and Darius spends the first ten minutes of each class dancing up and down the rows, and Shakita is angry at the world, Jidae is the one who gets under my skin the most. Because the thing about Jidae is that he is a charmer; he is a badass who is also a heartthrob, with big honey comb eyes that sparkle, a downy soft voice and a way of blushing that makes everyone – male and female - sway and stagger and absolutely melt, and this just annoys me. His seductive smirk reminds me of Romeo Castillo, the little monster of a cool cat who did everything he possibly could to sabotage my classroom last year and then batted his long lashes and puffed out his tiny chest when caught in the act. Jidae is a smooth talking trouble maker, and worst of all, in those first few weeks, he does not think me worthy of his charm.

Jidae, like so many of my other students, comes with a history; teachers tell me that it is perfectly normal that he hits the wall and curses everyone when he is frustrated. Mr. Hall recalls over margaritas how last year Jidae got so angry at a teacher that he climbed to the roof of his car and stomped until the aluminum bent. Then there was this other time when he was so pissed that he ran out to the street and threw a brick through the window of a passing car. The principal, Mr. Ashby, had to call the police when the owner of the car banged on the front doors declaring his intentions to beat the fuck out of that little shit.

"It isn’t you," they try to reassure me, "that’s just the way Jidae deals with frustration." But their words do not comfort, and everyday I am on edge because he is like a wound-up jack in the box, and I am waiting for that last spin of the handle. Less

Book Info

Project Forums

98th Avenue

98th Avenue

Start Reading