"I Bet You Hate Martin Luther King!"

I get to the end of the work week these days, and I am so exhausted I feel as though I just finished finals week. There are times I love my job. I work hard at it. Sure, there are many things that I cannot do easily any more. But the actual hands-on work with children, the mind full of creative ideas, hasn't decreased in quality.

I work with some truly damaged kids. Some have horrible home lives, some have organic brain dysfunction, others come from other countries, other cultures. Some have environments that don't much value education. Some homes are full of adults just struggling to survive the current economics. I know children look at my fair skin and "rock star" hair (as one told me last week) as a bit foreign. Most if not all of my students are not Caucasian. I am the "minority" here.

When I am not feeling well, it is difficult to call on my patience. I have been challenged by one third grade African-American boy, all year. I never take it personally, because the kid just doesn't produce for anyone. He has difficulty attending, focusing, completing tasks, and he is beginning to feel his difference. Yet, at "Family Math Night" a month ago, I watched this same child play chess with his grandfather, completely focused, and sitting still in a noisy, chaotic lunchroom.

I borrowed my daughter's chess set and presented it to him last week. I eyed him and told him about what I had witnessed in the cafeteria that night. I told him when we as a group finished our work, we would get out the chess set and he could teach us some moves.

He protested, got up, played with my toys in this stuffy, cramped office in a school full of empty classrooms. I told him to sit down, get to work. The other group members began to show boredom; once again this impetuous boy was absorbing my energy and not allowing me to work. Once more, I told him to sit down; that he would not have time to show us chess if he couldn't complete his work. That I would call his grandfather if he continued to disrespect me.

Then came the zinger:

"You're white and I'm black." he said. I looked at him and replied,

"What difference does that make? I am an adult, a teacher, and you are my student. I expect you to do what I tell you in here. If you do, you have fun. If you don't, I call your grandfather."

He glared at me. "You're white and I bet you hate Martin Luther King. I bet you hate Barack Obama."

I looked back at him steadily. The other children watched the goings-on carefully.

"Actually, " I replied, "I LOVE Martin Luther King. I LOVE Barack Obama. What difference does this make? I am the teacher, you are the student. I am white, you are black, it doesn't matter: I am here to teach you, and your job is to learn. So far you have done nothing. You have two more tasks to do before you leave here today. Get with it; get them done. Or Grandpa gets called."

We finished up the 30 minute session, and I was amazed to see him get to work. As I gathered up their papers, I asked him,

"So, J, I'm curious. What made you pull it together and get some work done?"

His brown eyes looked into mine. "Well," he said,"I was thinking." He put his hands together to show me."If black people and white people could get together, and work together, then we could be friends."

I looked at him, smiled and gave him a high-five.

"Yes, exactly, " I said. We CAN work together. I will always be your teacher first, rather than your friend, but the color of my skin will not change, just as yours won't...we need to work together." He got his reward sticker, and went back to his chaotic classroom.

This exchange has made me wonder how we can make a difference, one relationship at a time. It is all about RESPECT and COMMUNICATION.