Circa. 1995
Dear Educators; Close Your Eyes.
Imagine looking out of a home window on the corner of an inner-city neighborhood. Close your eyes and listen.
Listen to hear loud sirens.
Visualize flashing bright lights of police cars speeding by. Pause.
Notice what sounds are missing.
Keep your eyes closed.
Tilt your head up. There are no birds chirping harmoniously.
Look for the sun behind the clouds. What do you see?
Allow your attention to be pulled by the laughter of three little Black boys playing in a back yard.
Follow the sound of their joy through a metal fence, smiling so BIG you could burst from their excitement.
All of a sudden, you notice the smell. Abandoned trash turns your smile into disgust.
You notice a needle only feet away from these three little Black boys playing.
You are surprised that the smells and drug–infested alley has no impact on the boys.
Do not open your eyes yet.
Suddenly you notice the sound of a mother yelling, “Didn’t I tell y’all to stay outta of dat street… get back in this yard NOW!”.
You stop in your tracks as your eyes lock with hers. Your tears begin to well.
In her voice you recognize the fear of a Black mother.
Exhausted from constantly reminding her three Black boys of the dangers that lie beyond the metal fence of their inner-city back yard.
Slowly open your eyes you see three doors.
Door number one is labeled “racially profiled as a talented athletic future criminal.”
Door number two is named “unexpected fatherhood young raising the young.”
Door number three is called “in need of quick money, drugs, sudden death or prison.” You drop your head and begin to walk away. But then you notice a very tiny light behind all three doors.
A small unassuming glimmer. You walk closer, sliding between door number two and three to notice another door so small it doesn’t even have a number.
It reads “dream bigger…this is not your reality.”
Bending down on your knees you reach for the tiny doorknob.
It opens up to rectangular shaped golden curtains. With both hands you pull apart the velvet fabric. The space ahead is short & narrow so you crouch down; crawling forward on your stomach; pulling your body forward as your nails digs deep into the red clay-dirt. You pass the stench of the abandoned trash, you block your eyes as you move beyond the glaring red & blue pig lights, you want to stop when you notice the firm grips of a baby crying for your attention, you gently pull away and say to the kid “not yet… it’s too soon.”
Pulling, spitting out the occasional dirt, finally you reach what seems to be the end.
The end of the smells. The end of the blinding distracting lights.
The end of imagining. Standing up you notice a feeling of immense possibility.
Before you there is so much space. You dust yourself off.
Clap your hands clean and with one step you start to walk forward.
You move cautiously. Looking around in disbelief and doubt.
Taking in a deep breath.
There are no more smells. There are no loud distracting police sirens. There are no more metal fences. You keep walking forward and notice a new door labeled “classroom.” You enter just as the professor is in the middle of roll call.
You take the only available seat directly in the front center of class.
The professor says, [your first name and your last name], you raise your hand.
With a BIG smile and you proudly say, “Present!... I am here.”
-From the Corners of My Childhood