In the past few years, I have found a truly great compassion for African Americans. I am not certain what leads me to feel for this group more than others, especially since I am not African American myself. I do not remember studying "black history" in high school, except on Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday, and of course during the month of February. I did study the Civil Rights Movement in college and found I could not get enough. Government condoned blanket discrimination in my parent's lifetime appalled and fascinated me. I fell in love with Martin Luther King for his sound mind, his intelligence, his perseverence, and for his refusal to sink to the level of those oppressing him. I am continually captivated by Malcolm X and the fact that his answer to discrimination was seperatism. Who could blame him? In college I wished to be alive during the 1950s and 1960s, to join Dr. King in the Montgomery Bus Boycott and the march on Washington, fighting discrimination and educating others. Crazy me. I used to think those days were over.

I grew up in a bubble. The first eight years of my life I lived in a low income neighborhood. Most of my classmates were black. I spent my afternoons playing with LaToya, Tyrell, and Donnell. I never even noticed they were black and I was white. In third grade I moved to a white neighborhood and didn't face racism because I didn't spend any time with black kids. In fact, I can't recall a single black person in my elementary school after I moved. In middle and high school my exposure to African Americans was limited to a friend who only dated black guys, a girl whose personal slogan was "once you go black, you never go back". My junior year of high school I developed a huge crush on a black guy. I don't know if he was letting me down easy by telling me he didn't date white girls, but it made me uneasy.

I went to college on the eastern shore of Maryland. The eastern shore is a rural area and a completely different world. At first I didn't notice much of a difference. Most of my classmates were transplants to the area like me. Then, in my last semester at college, I began student teaching.

My first school was a middle school. Beautiful and brand new, and built in the middle of the poorest part of town. I was immediately struck by the poverty. Many students wore thin, stained clothing, often the the same outfit several days a week. Over 75% of the students qualified for free or reduced lunch. These children were almost impossible to teach. They didn't know if they'd eat dinner each night. They were twelve year olds who couldn't do their homework because they had to spend their evenings watching their younger brothers and sisters while their mom worked a double shift to pay the bills. How can one expect these children to care about learning? Who gives a shit about Lewis and Clark when you're scared to walk through your neighborhood alone? I cried for these children many nights. I had no idea how to help them.

Nearly all of the poor children in my middle school were black. I didn't want there to be a correlation but I knew there was. Years of abuse led to this. Even if racism wasn't directly applied to these children, their parents and grandparents were told they weren't was good as European Americans. They were stupid and lazy and lower than human. Those poor kids didn't stand a chance. And I didn't know how to fix it. The racism I perceived to be in the past continued to drag these kids down.

After middle school I moved onto teaching at high school. My high school was about 50% African American, and it was with great excitement that I approached teaching the Civil Rights Movement. Finally, a topic I loved. An interesting topic, a recent topic, a relevent topic. Who knew that it would start a war in one of my classes?

I'll never forget the young man at the center of the chaos. Let's call him David*. And that's as in "Duke", not "Duchovny", or "& Goliath". David was tall and thin. Physically he reminded me of Matthew Lilliard. Luckily for everyone he wasn't nearly as annoying as Matthew Lilliard. During the Cold War unit he shined. He clearly had a love for history, and he knew his stuff. He knew about Operation Mongoose, something I didn't learn until college. He referenced my favorite book, "Lies My Teacher Told Me". He was one of my best students. He was enthusiastic. I loved him.

Then the Cold War ended.

I'm not sure when David first revealed his racist nature. But he did. In a big way. I do remember my heart breaking over the ignorance and hatred displayed by such an intelligent young man. To this day I still cannot wrap my mind around how someone that well read could be so deluded.

In one class we read the famous letter Dr. King wrote from jail. David sulked and when asked what he thought of it he replied, "I don't understand why we have to learn Black History." Thirty students turned to look at him. The fifteen African-American students looked horrified. Some of the white kids also looked appropriately horrified. Other looked impressed that David had the balls to say such a thing out loug. I wanted to cry. I wanted to shake him. Instead--

"This is not 'Black History.' The Civil Rights movement is as important to our country as the Civil War or World War II. Martin Luther King, Jr. is as important to this country as Thomas Jefferson." I was very proud of my explanation. David didn't reply, but I could read the expression on his face.

It said, "Bull-shit".

On another occassion I set up a video of Dr. King's I Have a Dream speech. I knew they had heard it before, but I urged them to listen to the words, the words that never failed to give me chills. David did not share my sentiment.

"How much time do we have to spend on Martin Luther King? He didn't even do anything." Keep in mind I had about eight weeks of teaching experience at this point. In retrospect I should have called him aside after class and talked to him. Instead I told him, "Not much longer." We were going to study Malcolm X, the Black Panthers, the KKK, and Civil Rights legislation, among other things. He remained unimpressed.

Everytime David spoke, tension in the class grew. One student asked to be moved away from him because of the racist comments he made under his breath, comments I could not hear. Another student approached me asking that we just skip the Civil Rights Movement if it is going to cause so much anger. My response? That is precisely why we need to study it.

After a week or so David didn't speak up as much. His shock value had worn off and he simply sulked in the corner, which was fine with me. His racism only showed through in his opinion essays where he used phrases such as "minorities taking over the school" and "white men losing their jobs to unqualified blacks and women." Women? A racist and a chauvenist. I should have known. I wrote notes on his papers and encouraged him to talk to me outside of class. He never did.

The race riot came to a head on an unlikely day. A boring day. The class was taking notes from the overhead on Civil Rights legislation. Most students wore a familiar expression, their eyes glazed and vacent. Suddenly a commotion broke out in the corner of the room. Feeling a little glazed over myself, I brushed it off with a "quiet down" and continued to lecture the class. I was interrupted by a girl yelling "SHUT UP!" I looked up and saw David's 6'3" form looming over Casey, a petite white girl. Hatred and fury clouded his face and he drew back as though he were going to hit her. Without thinking I sprinted to the the back of the classroom and stepped between them. Our exchange went something like this:

Stacey: Sit down!

David: NO!

S: Sit down or get out of my classroom.

D: THIS ISN'T YOUR CLASSROOM. YOU'RE NOT EVEN A REAL TEACHER!

S: Get out of here.

D: NOT UNLESS YOU MAKE HER GET OUT TOO (referring to Casey).

S: That's my decision. Go.

D: THAT'S BULLSHIT!

David stormed from the room. I was physically shaking and about to cry. Casey was crying. I told her to go to the bathroom to calm down, but she was afraid David would be out there waiting for her. I took to her the front corner of the room and asked what happened. According to Casey, David had been telling racist jokes and Casey told him to shut up. He responded with something about her being a "nigger lover" because she dates black guys. It escalated from there. I sat Casey down at my desk and went into the hallway where David waited.

As soon as he saw me he advanced at me, but I was careful not to back away. I almost hoped he'd hit me so that he would get expelled. But he didn't. He said he didn't do anything wrong. Physically threatening a student and using racial slurs aren't wrong? He claimed he was provoked by being forced to study black history. He was so tired of having "black people stuff" shoved down his throat. He can't stand to be around "them", they are always "showing off and getting away with everything." I told David that he has the right to his opinion, but I would not tolerate him using racial slurs and expressing racist views in my class. I certainly wouldn't tolerate him threatening people and screaming.

D: What about free speech? It's my right.

S: You need to study your constitution. You do not have the right to say whatever you want in my classroom. Feel free to speak your racist mind outside of school.

D: That's bullshit. Tell that bitch Casey she belongs out here too. She should be in trouble.

S: Go to the office.

D: Gladly.

By then I had been out of the classroom for almost ten minutes. I was certain chaos had broken out. I walked through the door to a silent classroom. Apparantly word of what had happened had traveled. The students didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to say. Finally a quiet black girl raised her hand. She, along with others in the class, was impressed by how I handled the situation. She was sorry I had to go through that, but glad David was out of the classroom. We all laughed, and began discussing what happened. The students loved how I rushed between David and Casey, and many of them thought he might hit me. I admitted to them that I was scared. The class and I bonded. As the bell rang one of my favorite students said sadly to me, "I guess Dr. King's work still isn't finished." Several students gave me hugs. My cooperating teacher returned from the library with, "what did I miss?"

David was suspended for three days. Upon his return he had a conference with his parents, the (black) principal, and my cooperating teacher. I was not allowed to attend since I was not technically a teacher. After the conference ended I learned just where David learned to be a racist. In the conference his parents expressed their disappointment for the low standards of the school, brought about the the African-American faculty and students. They were sorry David lost his temper, but understood why he did. He was, after al, facing a bleak future due to decreasing opportunities for white men.

After returning from his suspension David did not participate in class. He had lost his spark. I hoped he would perk up during the Kennedy Assassination or the Vietnam War, but no such luck. I still think of David. After the day he screamed at me and almost hit Casey, I hated him. After the parent conference I felt sorry for him. Thanks to his parents he didn't stand a chance. David would hate to hear it, but he was a lot like my poor black middle school students.

I finished my student teaching, and some of my students bid me farewell with comments like, "you're going to be a good teacher because you don't take any crap", "keep fighting the good fight", and, my favorite, "girl, you know you're a black girl trapped in a white girl's body".

My teaching career has since ended, but I'm still learning. And hopefully I'm still fighting the good fight.