Economic Crisis + School Uniforms = Teen Angst

Today I had a meeting with the principal about students who want to use the library while they're off track. (For those of you out of the loop, our school is year-round, with three tracks that go four months on and two months off. So, there are always two tracks on, and one off.) In the past, we've allowed off-track kids to wander onto campus and come to the libary as long as they could show their school IDs at the front entrance. Sadly, some young darlings have chosen to abuse this arrangement, bypassing the library entrance completely to visit teachers in their classes, go to the PE field or locker room, or just randomly wander. It makes sense that the principal needs to tighten things up a bit, and we came to a decent enough agreement that kids could visit the library from 8am-11:30am while off track. They still need to sign in at the front entrance, show their IDs, and (this is new) wear their school uniforms.

This is the part that really interests me. They're off track. They are coming from home for maybe as few as 10 minutes to return a book. Why do they need to change clothes? I'll tell you why. According to our assistant principal in charge of security, our uniform policy is going down the tubes fast and we need to save it before there is mass chaos at the school (Oh no! Cute shoes! Funny t-shirts! Personal style! Aaahh!).
More and more kids are showing up every day completely out of uniform. What is the reason for this? Is it defiance, protest, civil disobedience? Nope. It's the economy. I really wouldn't have thought of this, since I just assumed that kids who bought their uniforms at the beginning of the year would still be able to use them. Then I remembered that, of course, kids grow. So some of our families can no longer afford to buy new clothes for their kids. Or at least not two sets, one for school and one for home. But there are other, less obvious reasons for this too. Our kids and their families are moving, and moving quickly, into and out of their homes. We have kids coming back from Riverside and other outlying communities where their families hopefully bought houses and then could not make it work, or had ballooning mortgages, or lost their jobs and came back to live with family. We have kids who are evicted and actually have to leave their homes without being given the time to pack all of their things. Perhaps some of them even come home to a house or apartment where the locks have already been changed and their things have been lost in the shuffle.

So what does the school administration do in this situation? Is there some kind of precedence? They can't very well punish a child in these circumstances, nor can they abolish the uniform system. As of now, I believe they are using a two-step process to fix the situation. Step one has some interesting implications.

Step one: Have the parents sign a uniform waiver so everything is on the up-and-up. You see, the school district has a very secret uniform waiver that parents can request that allows their student to come to school without a uniform. At most schools, the administration will try to talk parents out of this, listing all sorts of scary security reasons that justify uniforms in the first place. Every once in a while though, one meets a cool kid in cool clothes and asks, "Why are you not in uniform?" The cool kid will coolly reply, "I've got a waiver, miss." And then one can share a short moment with the cool kid where the following is communicated telepathically: You have cool parents who thwart the system, therefore you too are probably cool, and you should know that I am cool and thwart the system, only I can't really do so openly because this is a school and I am a teacher, but you should know that I dig it, man.
In terms of this current uniform and economy crisis, however, the waiver serves a different purpose. It's just there to make sure that everyone's i's and t's are properly dotted and crossed, and I'll bet that it is presented to the parents in such a way that they walk away believing it is only available as a temporary measure and not as a permanent choice. The danger for the administration, obviously, is that some of these kids and parents will uncover the truth and decide they want to continue the waiver for good. I'm really hoping that happens, if only to observe the hands-tied reaction of those who will undoubtedly hate it.

Step Two in the process to get these kids dressed is to send a very nice man to the home of the student and (I believe) begin some paperwork to get uniform clothes for the family that are paid for by.....and here I just don't know. The school, the district? It's anyone's guess. What I heard today is that it takes a few weeks to make this happen, so I assume paperwork is involved. And who is this nice man? None other than our Pupil Services and Attendance officer, known to most of us as the Truancy Officer. Usually when you see him coming, it means someone has missed a lot of school and the school demands answers! He's actually very kind and nothing at all like Edward Rooney, but nonetheless, his job can't be easy or uplifting. Going into homes to discover the root of trouble that causes kids to miss school or not have proper clothing must send him home at night with knots in his shoulders and a heavy heart.

So there it is. Direct and visible impact of the GEC (global economic crisis, pronounced geck). It must be manifesting in other, more discreet and sneakish ways. In part I am extremely curious about them, and in part I dread knowing.

A Ghost from My Past

Five years ago, in an effort to help out a friend who was struggling in the classroom, I took on Pedro Lopez. Pedro was a puffed up 6th grade boy, startlingly attractive, scarred by grief, piercingly intelligent….and willful. And boisterous. And mischievous. In sum, Pedro was more than a first-year teacher could handle. When he would get out of line, his teacher would send him to my 7th grade class, where at first I was forced to break down his tough exterior through stern insistence, and later he blossomed into a participant in the class, a hanger-on at lunch, and a joyful part of my day.

The next year Pedro was part of my 7th grade class. Still head-strong and arrogant, he quietly became a reader, a writer of poems, and finally an actor. Outside of my room, however, Pedro still did not get along. An angry young boy, he was still grieving for his mother’s untimely death from years before. Other family members of his had been victims of street violence, which I believe now he must have actually witnessed. His PE teachers sent him to the dean constantly, he was always threatening to fight some of the older kids, and his bluster just could not be contained. Except when he was in my class.

I loved Pedro fiercely, and it became my daily mission to “save” him. I got him into a gang prevention program. I got him grief counseling. I met with his sister, who was the guardian of all four of her younger brothers; she was only 22. I chose books for him that dealt with grief, anger, violence, and teen angst. By the end of the year, I believed the spell had been broken. Silly, naïve, young, young me.

In 8th grade, Pedro had mostly first-year teachers again (a common thing in poor, urban schools). They did not pass his rigorous tests for reliability, trustworthiness, and grit. I saw him in the hallways everyday, and it nearly broke my heart. Once he popped his head in my classroom door after having been kicked out of his class; he had small, round, multi-colored stickers covering his face like a mask. He was dancing and showing off…for me? For my students? My heart sank. I had lost him. Without having him in my daily clutches, I didn’t know how to proceed.

Pedro graduated (well, he advanced to the next grade, but there were no robes involved) and that was that. I gave him my cell phone number, although I never heard from him. A few years later, I was filling in for the library media teacher whose place I have since taken when a younger version of Pedro showed up in the library. Jonathan, his younger brother, was harder and meaner than Pedro had been. He was unimpressed with my affection for his brother, and I suspect my hellos and best wishes were never conveyed. I had given up any hope that Pedro would someday come back into my life.

Until yesterday. A shorter, longer-haired Pedro came up the library stairs, out of uniform, chewing gum, singing a loud and rowdy song. His name is Chris, and he is a marvel. Along with his 6th grade class, Chris listening eagerly as I gave my orientation presentation. He was out of his chair, bouncing around behind it as I described the magazines and comic books we have to offer. He bounded around the library, glowing with the radiant intelligence and humor that I always saw in Pedro. I asked him to say hello to his big brother, but tried not to expect anything. Chris came back today. He said Pedro says hello in return and that he would love to visit me sometime. My heart was in my throat as I looked down at this replica, so happy to have been reminded of how Pedro changed my life.

Although he couldn’t possibly know it, working with Pedro is what made me a decent educator. From him I learned the possibilities and the heartbreaking limitations of my role in each student’s life. More than anyone or anything else, Pedro made me want this job. I haven’t allowed myself to think of him often in the recent past; it makes me worried and anxious to imagine that he might not be happy or safe or at peace. But now there’s Chris. Chris is happy, or at least he seems to be. This is a good sign, and it gives me hope.