Irony and Hope
“I knew most young black men die between 18 and 25.
I knew my outcome would be in the streets.
I would soon be in prison or dead.”
Do you know what old English teachers savor? Delicious irony. Nothing is quite so pleasing as an unexpected twist in a narrative, and when it’s real life, it’s even sweeter.
Let me tell you about Ché Carter, a student I had some 30 years ago. He was a senior in my African American Literature class. At that time, I was a young, white teacher. Ché and most of his classmates were Black teenagers.
The years have not diminished my memory of him—brash, bold, and with a light in his eyes that assured you of his intelligence. He made me crazy when he displayed his uncanny ability to take the class off course, to test the limits of my patience, and to make me laugh.
Ché spent many hours of his high school career in the detention room, and this is where I reconnected with him—except the room has evolved over the years. It is now the principal’s office. The space seems to have claimed Ché in the past and in the present. He now resides as principal in the same school that often characterized him as defiant. If that’s not delicious irony, I don’t know what is.
After 30 years, he greeted his old teacher warmly. I had asked to interview him, to hear his story and learn what brought him back to the school I had taught in for thirty-five years, Ann Arbor Huron High School, in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Ché did not confide in me when I was his teacher. Power and confidence infused him. The silent message seemed to be, “While I like you, I don’t need you.” I heeded the message. Now, he opened up about his life. Nothing was off the table.
I asked him to start from the beginning. His parents separated when he was five, but he was quick to say both remained in his corner. As a child, Ché suffered from severe asthma requiring lengthy hospitalizations. Because his mother worked and had other sons to raise, he was often alone. Nevertheless, he always felt her support and presence. While juggling jobs and children, she also returned to school, graduating from college one year before Ché did. She was a special education teacher in the same school district.
His father, a former member of the Black Panthers, named him after the Cuban revolutionary, Ché Guevara. Ché was clear: “We were always taught to be very strong and courageous, to stand up for what we believe in, to have lots of integrity, and be men of character.” To this day, his father is his “moral compass.” Ché is well aware that not all of his current students are as lucky as him when it comes to their childhood.
“Defiant”—this was the adjective often used to describe Ché in high school. He explained, “I was a kid on the fringe—not special needs; I wasn’t a risk. Nobody reached out to us. We had a kind of chip on our shoulders.” He continued, “When the world constantly reminds you over and over again that you’re different, you tend to want to push back. I did a lot of barking at teachers. That’s your defense mechanism saying, ‘Hey, guess what? You may smash me with your teacher power, but I’m going to take it back by making you mad and taking your class in the other direction.’”
In his junior year, Ché was suspended and sent to an alternative school for a semester. “I did get kicked out. I remember the incident. This white kid and I bumped into each other, and he called me the N-word, so I dropped him.” When I asked what consequences the white student faced, he replied, “Nothing. I just knew I was the problem, and I was going.”
When it came to life after high school, Ché said, “I knew I had to do it from the ground up.” That meant earning his own money for a car and college. “I tried to do everything to get money. Let’s just grind. More people I knew were getting shot, killed, locked up. Working so hard, I was staying out of it, but so many lost their lives.”
He is no stranger to violence. He shared, “My brother got shot in a drive-by at a party. When I heard, I didn’t believe it. He was supposed to go to the Navy that week. He survived, but the bullet went into his arm and tore up all the tendons. He was discharged before ever setting foot in the Navy, and this took me down another road. I wanted revenge. A bubbling gang mentality was in me. But I also began to realize that a lot of my friends were only talk. I was the one who would get hurt.”
Speaking with little perceptible emotion, he told me, “I knew most young blacks die between 18 and 25. I knew my outcome would be in the streets. I would soon be in prison or dead.”
He then described attending The Million Man March in Washington, in 1995, as a “moment of awakening.” Louis Farrakhan, leader of the Nation of Islam, asked black men to assemble from across the country to commit themselves to lifting the black community in America. A portion of the oath Farrakhan asked Black men to dedicate themselves to follows:
I PLEDGE that from this day forward I will strive to love my brother as I love myself. I, from this day forward, will strive to improve myself spiritually, morally, mentally, socially, politically, and economically for the benefit of myself, my family, and my people. I pledge that I will strive to build businesses, build houses, build hospitals, build factories, and enter into international trade for the good of myself, my family, and my people…1
That was Ché’s “call to action, a charge to go back to my community and do something powerful.” He promised himself, “When I get back, I’m turning the switch. I’m going to do it.”
Starting community college, he chose an interesting major, mortuary science. “I decided I was going to be a mortician,” he said. “I wanted to help people in their worst times. That comes from my mom. But a college-career guy said, ‘Look, you’ve got too much to give to the living.’”
Ché changed his mind and his academic major. “I chose education.”
Paying for college entailed working three jobs—one of them being a custodian in the very school he now resides in as principal. Ah, the irony.
Ché is filled with confidence and passion. His past fuels Ché’s connection with his students today. He earns their trust. “I know what it means to be marginalized, stigmatized, invisible.” He knows he will improve the lives of his students. I envy his energy.
When I began teaching, I believed in education. I believed in its power to transform lives, the lives of all students regardless of race or economic background, or any of the other labels used to describe our differences. But the years have worn down my confidence. For 35 years, I saw students divided in ways that often helped generate academic outcomes determined by economics and race. Today, as an educational facilitator, I work with teachers across the country, and I have seen nothing to restore my idealism. We are more divided than ever—not only in classrooms but in our country.
I am sure of one thing: American schools are a microcosm of our country. Improve one, the other benefits. Fail one, the other suffers. They are mirrors of each other. I have attended workshops, read extensively, and learned from those such as Ta-Nehisi Coastes, Ibram X. Kendi, Bettina Love, Lisa Delpit and so many others of all races; but equity is not our reality. Now, I seek a new source of knowledge. I’m referring to students and former students who offer their truths.
Every student who sat in my class offered me something to learn. Regardless of economic background, or race, or any other descriptor, each had a story to tell. However, when someone is different from us, we are offered an opportunity to see from a new lens. So, I decided to reconnect with former students, just as I did with Ché. I interviewed 22 former students. All presented me with a different perspective than my own because of race or economic background. Their graduation dates varied widely—from 10, to 20, to almost 40 years ago. All are adults now living in America. They are my experts on lived experience.
There was no master plan on how the former students would be interviewed. I relied only on my memories and let names come to mind. And then I tracked them down, reconnected, and asked if they were willing to be a part of this project. When the final list of students was compiled, I knew it contained a balance of those who had been successful in high school and those who struggled—a mix of those who seemed to enjoy their school experience and those who fought against it every step of the way. Not one turned me down. Topics that repeatedly surfaced in the interviews determined the chapters of this book.
An English teacher’s life is teaching stories, the literature that enriches and educates. Perhaps the personal stories of these former students will help heal our educational system and our country. Perhaps they will restore my hope that now resides within principal Ché Carter.
