This is the time of year when students begin to select courses for the next school year. Students at the Center classes have always been open to any student at the school. In some cases students choose our classes. In other cases, counselors simply place them in our classes for reasons we as teachers never know.

Today’s blog features an essay by Nantrell Malveo, who will graduate this spring from Frederick Douglass High School. In the essay Nantrell explores how she found herself in a Students at the Center class and how her thinking about the class and the program has changed over time.

Students at the Center Creative Writing Class
Nantrell Malveo

When I first got to Douglass, I thought that I was just going to go do what I had to do, graduate, go to college and never look back. But what I didn’t know was that I was going to be in a writing class. When I first got to this creative writing class also called SAC (Students at the Center), I thought it was just another English class, and I was going to pass it just like all my other English classes. I was dead wrong. In this class you have to sit in a circle so everyone can see you and introduce yourself every time someone new comes. You have to write a story sometimes about whatever you want or most of the time Mr. Randels gives you a topic like “Your first experience with a gun or a dead body” or “Inhaling Brutality, Exhaling Peace” to write.

Then you have to write or type it and then read it aloud in class. Then your classmates give you their opinion on what they think you should change or keep. But that’s not the worst part. Then you have to revise it and read it again and again until you get every detail perfect; then you get a grade. I told my mom “these people want too much from me. They all in my business.” I was happy when my 9th grade year was over. Now I was closer to my dream of leaving.

My sophomore year came and went. It was bittersweet but more bad than good. Because of Hurricane Katrina I kept bouncing around from state to state, school to school. But the good thing about it was that I didn’t have any classes like the writing class where you’re always judged by what you write, the way you write, and unlike in writing class you don’t have to come up with the answer—you just have to study. But most of the time I was too sad about losing all my stuff like my photos and my elementary and middle graduation dresses to care.

It wasn’t until a year after Katrina, my junior year when I was back at Douglass, that I realized how much I really like SAC. And even though you have to write a lot, most of the stuff you write is about you, so there’s never a wrong answer. And it’s better to write stuff down than say it, so that no matter if you forget or something happens to you, your writings will always be around, and like I say “even if some people judge you, your pen and paper never will.”

And unlike most classes SAC is a place to express what’s on your mind and just tell people your thoughts on stuff whether it’s stuff at school, in your neighborhood, or just stuff in your life. That’s why SAC is something that I want to be a part of now as well as in the future.

Posted by Jim Randels at 5:55 PM | Permalink | 1 Comment | Recommend

Our students at both Douglass and McMain have read Toni Morrison’s Beloved this spring. Many of them are in the middle of working with some of our staff and graduates to develop a play that incorporates their writing about violence against women and their reading of Beloved.

Hearing them talk about the writing they are doing calls to mind a writing that Brittany Philson, a 2007 graduate of Douglass and Students at the Center, completed last year when we were discussing Toni Morrison’s novel. Brittany’s essay, featured in today’s blog, represents another of the many ways that our students write in response to class discussions about the literature they read.

My Dream (Pass Me Over)
Brittany Philson

It’s cold; I’m sleeping and singing to myself. The only reason I’m asleep is because it was boring today. I was kind of upset, because someone didn’t invite me to her birthday party. I guess she was having so much fun that she forgot about me. So I just went to sleep.

While I’m deep in sleep, I’m trying to think of places to go for Thanksgiving. My sister, Centrelle, called me a lil’ while ago with an invitation to come help her cook for turkey day, but I don’t know if I want to have good food with no conversation to go with it. And besides, Baton Rouge is just too boring for me and my wild ways. So I decided to just wait and see if I got any more offers, excluding the ones that I’d have to work for food.

Then it happened; someone violated my silence.

My “Me” time.

My Brittany vs. herself session.

I was awakened by this woman whom I first thought was Della Reese from the TV show Touched by an Angel.
She was standing over me with light shining from her body like someone was standing behind her with a flashlight. She looked surprised that I was actually looking back at her.

When I rose up to give her my attention, her eyes popped open real wide like she hadn’t seen me in ages.

Now I’m standing here wondering, “Who’s this lady who just woke me up and is staring at me like I’m a brand new car she brought home from the car dealership?”

I think she wants to say something.

I hope she says something, since she woke me up.

It must be important.

It better be important.

I gave her a few more seconds to give me a once over, since she couldn’t stop looking and wouldn’t start talking.

Then I started to do the same thing she was doing to me, except I would glance at her. And every time I got a good look, I would see a certain thing that she had that would remind me of this special lady I knew when I was younger.

She was a fairly tall woman with the best chocolate skin I’d ever seen on a woman of her age. The aroma that came from her body was the familiar smell of someone who would spend hours in the tub on a Saturday morning with vanilla lingering behind her with every move she made. And I couldn’t help but notice that her fingers were just as long and narrow as mine. Her wardrobe looked very similar to what my mama was wearing when she went to church that Saturday morning and wasn’t home the next day to cook Sunday’s dinner. She was well groomed and seemed like she had never worked a day in her life. Her character seemed free from the hardships of life.

The last thing I remember that I was thinking before she spoke was, “I hope I look like her when I get to her age.” I’ve never seen anyone look this perfect in person, except for the celebrities I’ve seen on TV. They don’t even have anything on this angelic woman standing in front of me.

The first thing that came out of her perfectly shaped lips was “Brittany.”

“Yeah,” I responded while rubbing my eyes, making sure that I was seeing correctly.

“Do you remember me?” she asked, smiling ear to ear.

“I don’t know.”

“Why!”

“Am I supposed to remember you?” I said a little too violently, not meaning to sound that way. It must have been my body telling me to get rid of this stranger interrupting my beauty rest.

“You don’t have to be so mean to me,” she said while cuing me to sit down next to her on my bed.

“So how are you doing in school? Still making A’s on that report card like you’re supposed to?”

Even though I didn’t know her, I felt the need to lie to her because she knew me. So I told her, “yeah,” knowing I hadn’t seen an A since the ninth grade.

“I know,” she said, staring me in my eyes.

“You know what?” I asked, looking at her like she was crazy and hoping that she did not just respond to me, when I was thinking to myself.

“I know you haven’t been doing your duties in school lately, and I know you’ve been hiding from your Marine recruiter. I know you’re desperately trying to give up and run away from the two things that mean most to you, because you think no one cares about what you’re doing for yourself.”

Then I slowly turned my head towards the floor, wondering who told her this, feeling like I’d just been busted for a criminal offense. I know I would never tell anyone that I’m basically trying to screw up my life. Damn, where did she come from, and why is she spying on me?

“You’re right, you didn’t tell me. I’ve been watching you. You can’t get away with everything. You do know that, right?”

Then I looked at her. I laughed because by now I caught on to her listening to my thoughts. Then that laugh soon turned into a despised look when I suddenly realized that, if she’s listening to me now, then she’s been listening to me think when she’s not around. I wanted my thoughts to disappear like Dorothy did when she tapped her heels three times. Something told me to sleep with my shoes on. I cracked a mischievous smile.

“You’re just like your father with your own inside jokes to yourself. I can’t help but laugh at you when I see you laughing for no reason.”

That was nice of her. Comparing me to the man who didn’t call me for my 18th birthday. She really hit a soft spot there. Talking about watching me, you should’ve been watching him, making his ass suffer. Reminding me that I was living in a world with a worthless father.

“Brittany that’s not my child, and besides you never cared for that man anyway.”

I wanted to laugh so badly. Because she knows me better than I know myself.

She was right, but he could have called.

Now I’m sitting here stuck within the conversation, not knowing what to say next. I don’t want to give her false information, so she can bust me in my lie.

My mind just started to feel different, like someone was knocking on it, telling it to pay attention. Something deep down told me to ask myself if this was her: The woman I promised myself to never forget.

I felt her hand touch mine. She was looking at me again with joy in her eyes. I think she was happy that her slow-minded child finally came to her senses.

I don’t wanna cry. I’m not gonna cry. I don’t want her to see how soft I am over her.

“It’s too late for that you big crybaby,” she said, laughing her eyes out at me.

“What are you talking about? I’ve never cried for nothing a day in my life.”

I felt grateful that god had finally answered one of my 4,017 cries to let me have just one more memorable conversation with my favorite lady.

Looking at her, I was surprised that she was actually sitting there laughing at me. That moment made me reminisce about the last time I made her laugh.

“Yeah! You wouldn’t cry over something somebody did you, but you’ll cry like there’s no tomorrow when it comes to me.

“You remember that day you were crying because you missed me terribly. You was in the bathroom on the floor between the toilet and the tub when you asked me why did I leave you here, why didn’t I take you with me because you didn’t like being in this world with a bunch of people who don’t understand you.

“Or the time when you was sleep, and you started to cry because you was wishing that I was there with you.

“And my favorite one yet was when after you read the story you wrote about me, you went home and cried, because you didn’t know you were ready to let the world know how I left my baby here alone so suddenly.

“Ooh, and you know what else I know?”

“What else?” I replied anxiously, wanting to hear more from her since she was making my spirit rise with every true word she spoke.

“I know exactly why you didn’t mention my last request in that story.”

“Why?” I looked at her confused, like she was a foreign language that I was getting tired of trying to learn. I wished she would just tell me.

“Because you already knew all I wanted for you was to live right. And besides that, I also wanted you to know that I love you no matter what you choose to do, so stop letting simple things get to you. Now stop crying for me and be the strong young lady that I know you are.”

That’s her. She’ll break you down and pick you up while doing it.

There was no need for me to open my mouth and spoil the moment.

She got up, looked at me, smiled and shook her head, and kissed me on my forehead.

“Good night Brittany.”

She must know what I’m about to ask her.

Walking off, singing a song, reassuring me that she heard what her daughter wanted.

I wanted to see her again.

So I lay back down, excited and disappointed at the same time, like I was one of those people who was going to be waiting in line for a big Christmas sale after the Thanksgiving Holiday.

“Mom I want to tell you one last thing,” I said turning towards her while leaning on my elbow.

She stopped dead in her tracks and stood tall like she was about to be announced the winner of a million dollar award.

I smiled at her proudly and told her:

“Happy Birthday,” and Thank you for keeping (My Dream) alive.

Posted by Jim Randels at 6:03 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

Today’s blog introduction is written by Jennifer Harden, an 11th grade student at McMain.

Reading The Scarlet Letter
Jennifer Harden

“Wow!” The first thought that came in my mind when I heard my classmate Ayrion Miller’s essay about her mother and inspired by The Scarlet Letter. I’ve done lots of things after reading a book: journals, book reports, outlines and analysis papers, all the typical things you would do in an English class. I have never really heard things so personal relating to our topics in any class since I started school. I always thought literature was supposed to be this boring stuff you read and never understand what the author is really trying to say.

But in my AP English III class taught by Students At the Center at McMain, we actually talk about the book in relation to real-life situations. It helps a whole lot. I think it makes no sense to “teach” things that I can’t connect with the real world. I thought that was the whole point of coming to school anyway, to prepare me for the REAL WORLD. I’m sure finding the spot where commas go in a sentence about Jan going to the store for grapes will one day come up. But where’s the girl named Keisha who is pregnant at 19 and has a baby daddy who wants nothing to do with them because of the “look” he’s trying so hard to achieve? Sounds a lot like Dimmesdale not owning up to Pearl.

Over the Christmas break, we were instructed to read The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. In this piece, Aryion Miller, also a junior, wrote about how she related to The Scarlet Letter. It’s definitely not an ideal English essay, but it helps to be able to relate to real situations. After we heard the essay, it made me think about The Scarlet Letter in a different perspective, almost as if it was written in today’s time inadvertently. It definitely adds to the enjoyment of the book. Her essay helped me to connect it with things that really happen.

No Clue (Like Dimmesdale)
Ayrion Miller

“Who is that man Hester? I shiver at him! Dost thou know the man? I hate him, Hester!”
--Pearl speaking in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter

On June 28, 1997, my sister, brother, and I were all asleep in our rooms. My dad had gone out to look for my mother, because she hadn’t come home the night before, so we were home alone. That morning we received a very disturbing call. The phone rang, and both my brother and sister jumped out of bed to get it. My brother got to it first, and they began to argue over the phone. My brother being the oldest and biggest won and answered the phone. The lady on the phone, whom I believe was a relative, had called to tell us that she was sorry about our mother.

During all this commotion with the phone call I was still in my room. My siblings had no idea what to do or think. They had just found out that their mother was dead. Soon, my aunts and uncles were over at our house. They attempted to calm things down. My dad had never returned home. My aunt picked me up and carried me down the street to her house. I didn’t know why though. In fact I had no idea about what was going on around me.

Later that day, my dad finally came home. He gathered my sister, brother, and me all in the den to talk. Even at six years old, I could tell that what he was about to say was hurting him. He told us that my mother had been shot and killed. I didn’t know then and I still don’t know why someone would do such a thing to my mother. To tell the truth, I never even asked. I couldn’t ever bear to bring the topic up. Especially with my dad, because I didn’t know how he would react.

Well, I still didn’t understand what was going on. I mean, I was only six at the time, and I had never experienced death before. My dad tried to explain, but in the back of my head my mother was still alive. She had just gone away for awhile.

As I read The Scarlet Letter for my SAC English III class and considered situations in which characters didn’t understand situations they were in the middle of, I began to think of this incident. Just like Dimmesdale, I had no clue about what was going on around me. In The Scarlet Letter, Chillingsworth was trying to get revenge on Dimmesdale, and Dimmesdale had no idea. He was blind to the evilness surrounding him. For a long time, I was blind to the fact that when my mother was shot and killed, so was the normalness of my life.

Posted by Jim Randels at 7:43 PM | Permalink | 1 Comment | Recommend

In Students at the Center, we have long advocated that it’s not enough just to have quality teachers, rigorous curriculum, safe schools, and any other items on the list of strategies to improve education for the young people struggle with school. For the last twelve years, we have demonstrated through the students we teach in these most challenging schools that strategic additional resources are necessary.

We hope that with the significant increase in funding a much higher percentage of students at Douglass and schools like it can receive the attention Raul needed to successfully complete high school and enroll in college while dealing with major neighborhood and family trauma.

Dear Daddy
Raul Dominick

Dear Daddy,

What up? How are you doing? I hope fine.

Well since you’ve gone away, my life has been a roller coaster. Last night, I was watching your favorite show on Monday, Monday Night Raw. I can still remember you and me sitting up watching Hulk Hogan vs. The Rock. My mother, she’s been ok, but still regrets the fact that you’re gone, because it’s kind of hard raising three kids. Now I’m doing my best to help her, but when bad news comes around, then she’s depressed.

Can you believe that your baby boy went to jail? He and his friend were in the parish on his dirt bike, and when his friend saw the police, he started running and the police arrested your son for a crime he did not commit. Then you have your middle son, who’s thinking he’s a man but only 14. He’s talking back to our mother and also doing horrible in school. We’re trying to help him, but he doesn’t want it. I wish you were here so you could put him in line like you did when he tried to curse you out.

Now, your mother, she’s been doing ok. She’s been having some heart problems, but when we visit her, her world turns from bad to good. I know she’s been missing you, because every time she looks at me, she thinks it’s you. You know she’s still cooking that great Cuban food.

Dad, my life without you has been difficult, but don’t worry. I did all you told me to do before you died. I have graduated from middle school, passed all four parts of the GEE, will soon graduate from high school, am going to college in the fall, and last but not least, especially, have not smoked or had a drink. I can see you every time I’m tempted, telling me “you bet not do it,” with a belt in your hand.

So dad, I hope I made you proud, and I hope you will watch over my brothers, your mother, my mother, and also me.

Love Your Son,
Raul Dominick, Jr.

Posted by Jim Randels at 6:09 PM | Permalink | 3 Comments | Recommend

Here is another essay in our series of student writings about parents. Dan Vy, a senior at McMain, is in our Advanced Placement English and creative writing classes.

This essay is also part of a book entitled Men We Love, Men We Hate that SAC will publish soon.

A Question Never Answered
Dan Vy Tran

How was your life back in Vietnam? That question was always on my mind every time I talked to my dad. Every moment he sat down to rest, I would be there, waiting to pop the question. But at my every attempt, he would always stare straight at me and tell me to go complete homework or a chore. That was some years ago.

I remember my last attempt to ask that question and the answer I received. Except the answer wasn’t from dad. It was from something else. It was like the usual times. My 51-year-old dad sat on the couch, reading his Vietnamese magazine that comes in the mail every month. My 12-year-old self was on the computer, playing pinball and working my way to first place. So absorbed into the game, I wasn’t aware of my dad behind me. When the game was over, I noticed and asked my usual question.

“Dad,” I began, “what was your life back in Vietnam?”

“What do you mean?”

“How were your childhood and your teenage life in Vietnam?” I replied. “You know, your past.”

He stared at me. “Don’t you have homework or chores to do?”

“Nope.”

His head turned away, and his eyes stared into space. I could tell he was remembering something, though what it was I didn’t know. Dad finally stood up with a sigh and left.

Dismayed, I turned my attention to the computer desk. I saw my dad’s stack of pictures and rummaged through the photos. For the first time I saw a faded, black and white picture of a 5-year-old boy. It was 1956. It was Dad. I never paid attention to it before. Curious, I kept flipping through the photos. Pictures of teenager Dad working in an orphanage and participating in Boy Scouts came up. It was odd. I had looked in this stack of photos before. Why didn’t I see these pictures before? At the end I saw a military man with his platoon. It seemed like the photo took place at a South Vietnamese army base. Nineteen-year-old Dad was standing in a row with his fellow soldiers. His face wasn’t happy or full of smiles like the pictures before. It was grim and determined. I looked at that picture carefully, and realization dawned on me. Dad had fought in the Vietnam War.

I still remember how shocked I was during that moment. But that moment sprung more questions. Did the war affect him that much not to talk about his past? Is he remembering what happened back then but too hurt to tell? Those new questions will never be asked nor answered. Why? I have asked myself that question many times. My answer is even though I am curious, I don’t want to stir any dark memories that may lay hidden his mind. War is something no one should go through. People shouldn’t experience the memories of death in the battlefield, or the first time they were ordered to shoot just to kill. If he doesn’t want to talk about his past, I won’t push him to answer my questions anymore.

Posted by Jim Randels at 11:14 AM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend