Time - Man of the Year/Time_Man_of_the_Year_Compact_Publishing_3YX-Disc-1_Compact_Publishing_1993.iso/moy/122192/1221120.000

Text File | 1993-04-08 | 18KB | 353 lines

                                                                                EDUCATION, Page 62

What Makes This School Work?


Malcolm X Elementary has everything going against it -- except
the commitment that may be changing students' lives. Or even
saving them.

By TED GUP/WASHINGTON


    Malcolm X Elementary School is in the heart of
Washington's seventh police district. It is known to some
officers as "the jungle," because, as one black patrolman
observes, "it's all about survival here." Across the street from
the school is a graveyard, its iron fence mangled where a
sixth-grader crashed a car he had hot-wired. Near an outside
corner of the school is "the penthouse," where at night, under
a mural of the U.S. flag and the words WE WANT A DRUG-FREE
AMERICA, the crackhead prostitutes of Alabama Avenue sell
themselves for $2 or $3. Every morning the school custodians
splash bleach against the doorways to wash away the stench of
urine. Behind the building are the projects -- public housing
and empty lots. On the playground, thieves have carried off
whatever of the jungle gym is not bolted to the ground.

    This is a school with little going for it: no special
government programs, no foundation grants, no major benefactors.
It is not a magnet school, not a school for gifted children, not
special in any way -- except for the extraordinary things that
go on inside. America's abject inner-city schools may yet be
rescued by a new commitment from Washington or by the bold
reform movement gathering strength in the think tanks and
universities. But in every city there are schools like this one
that are not waiting to be saved, which offer a case study in
how to make the most of nothing at all.

    Malcolm X thrives on ideas, stubbornness and high
expectations. Its teachers and staff are realistic about the
lives students live during the 16-plus hours a day they are not
under the school's protection and are aware of the lessons that
must be unlearned. "They're not kids, they're really not," says
Chester Earl Jordan, father of a five-year-old Malcolm X
student. Jordan, along with others, patrols the neighborhood at
night, a flashlight in one hand, and -- until recently -- a gun
in the other. "If you sat down a third-grader and asked him how
to weigh crack, how to bag it, how to load a 9-mm, how a beeper
works, you're going to get first-rate answers right off the
bat."

    All but two of Malcolm X's 30 teachers are black. The
classrooms feature pictures of famous African-American artists,
scientists and writers, and there is a clear, though unspoken,
sense of pride that it is blacks helping blacks reclaim this
troubled community. But there are many teachers who knew little
of the inner city before arriving here. "It was a culture shock
even for me," says second-grade teacher Avis Watts, who was
raised in the Virginia countryside, and whose parents taught
college. Now she appreciates just how critical the school is to
the children. "This is their lifeline really," she says. "They
know they'll be fed, loved and everything else in this school."

    Everywhere, there are lessons in contrasts. In Room 212,
Gloria Sheila McCart ney's fourth-graders sing "the gospel train
is acomin' " and drown out the incessant scream of sirens from
Alabama Avenue. The rosebushes planted outside were hacked to
bits by vandals; but inside, preschoolers nurse acorns in paper
cups and watch for signs of growth. This is a neighborhood
where a child could get stabbed over a pair of sneakers; but the
students of Malcolm X Elementary dress in uniform, the boys in
white shirts and red ties, the girls in plaid jumpers. "If we
don't hold high expectations for these children," asks principal
John Pannell, the son of a West Virginia school-bus driver,
"then who will?"

    Pannell and his staff understand what they are up against
and bristle when students' standardized-test scores are
compared with those of more affluent or suburban schools. Only
1 in 10 children comes from a home with two parents.
Three-quarters live below the poverty line. Some come from
shelters. In the morning, before school opens, 250 children --
half the student body -- line up outside waiting for a free
breakfast. As the month wears on and parents' incomes run out,
the line grows longer. Some children have not had dinner the
night before and complain of a headache. "This is the only real
meal that some of them get," says cafeteria worker Doris Tabbs
-- "Grandma," as the children know her. She calls them her
"babies" and often pays for treats from her own pocket.

    Many at Malcolm X express a sense of desperation in trying
to rescue the children. Frank Edge is a formidable 215-lb.
former professional wrestler who works as a school security
guard. Children follow him around the playground and through the
halls, where he doles out lollipops and hugs in equal measure.
But for Edge, this is no casual job. Before coming to Malcolm
X two years ago, he was assigned to a nearby junior high. When
students from the school were killed, it was his duty to walk
the grieving mother or father to their child's locker and help
them clean out the books, papers and gym shoes. How many died?
"Twenty, maybe 30," he says, his eyes welling up with tears.

    Edge's role goes well beyond providing security. "He's
explained to my son how to be himself, how not to be a follower,
to use his own judgment," says a grateful Sylvia Chavis, a
single parent and mother of sixth-grader Terrence Cooper. Each
of Edge's warnings is tinged with the memory of an empty locker
or graveside service. His job too is not without risks. Last
year three men opened the door of the school and leveled
automatic weapons at him. "Hey, you," they hollered, paused for
a moment, then left. Says Edge: "I never know if I'm going to
come home at night or not."

    No one understands the stakes at Malcolm X better than
Earl C. At night he works as a federal undercover narcotics
agent. By day he volunteers his time providing security and a
reassuring presence at the school. Earl, a former Golden Gloves
boxing champion, is rough-edged and straight talking. A father
of six, he can also be a gentle man, and is often seen crossing
the playground or walking the halls, a knot of adoring children
at his side.

    Two years ago, in another quarter of town, he cornered a
drug dealer, only to discover it was a baby-face 11-year-old
boy. The child had a gun. Earl slid his own service revolver
back into the holster, hoping to defuse the tension and
thinking of his own son that age. After a few words, the child
pulled the trigger, and a .32-caliber slug ripped through Earl's
groin, coming to rest between the muscle and spine. Earl
returned a single shot. The boy fell dead. "After I shot the
kid, I rocked him in my arms," says Earl, his voice cracking.
"I took something I can never give back. I went home three days
later, saw my kids and burst out crying." The bullet still rests
against his spine. "I figure if somebody had taken some time to
spend with that kid, showed they really, really cared, this
wouldn't have happened. You can't save everybody, but if you
save 1 out of 200, then you've accomplished something. That's
my whole purpose here."

    Sometimes his methods are unconventional. Over the summer
he took groups of Malcolm X students from the fifth and sixth
grades to the District of Columbia morgue and pulled back the
sheets on the bodies to show the children the ultimate product
of violence and drugs. On one visit, the children viewed a
corpse riddled with 11 bullet holes. The victim's mouth had been
sealed with duct tape. One of the children in the group
recognized the body as someone from the neighborhood.

    Earl's message to the children is direct. "I tell the kids
here, `I'll be your best friend or your worst nightmare.' "
Despite his supervisor's warnings, he often gets personally
involved in his cases. Last year he arrested a woman for selling
crack, then agreed to take the woman's three children into his
own home for six months while she underwent a treatment
program. He knows there are risks, both physical and emotional,
that go with extending a hand to children. "I love all kids,"
says Earl, "but I trust them as far as I can throw the
Washington Monument. Some of these kids have known only
violence. It's like entering a lion's cage with steak in all
your pockets -- you come out all chewed up." Moments later, he
is comforting a fifth-grade boy who has fallen on the
playground.

    Like so many inner-city principals, Pannell seems forever
on the verge of being overwhelmed, having inherited a school in
turmoil. Says Pannell: "The only thing you can do is pray
daily: `Give me the wisdom to make the right decision.' " He is
nothing if not pragmatic, accepting the largesse of corporate
donors and government alike (he receives both Head Start and
Chapter I funds), and espousing a mix of George Bush's "thousand
points of light" and Lyndon Johnson's "Great Society." To
encourage the children, he has set up an elaborate system of
rewards for excellence in every category, amassing a treasure
of parchment certificates and glittering trophies, medals and
pins he hands out amid much fanfare. The outstanding student
last year received a 4-ft.-tall trophy of walnut and brass
replete with winged victories and a lamp of learning. "This is
what the students need," says Pannell. "They need it tangible,
and they need it immediate." Something appears to be working.
Attendance rates, now running 93%, are finally expected to equal
the district's system-wide average, and the number of school
volunteers is steadily increasing.

    But perhaps the centerpiece of his administration is his
effort not merely to establish order and civility but also to
make the school a place where children feel wanted. Even before
the children enter school in the morning, assistant principal
Michael Owens has them line up in neat rows, fingers pressed to
their lips, calling for silence. "Don't we look pretty today?"
he calls to them. "What kind of school is this?" he asks. "A
school of love," the children answer in unison.

    There is a constant question of discipline. Pannell has in
essence deputized the entire school to assist in keeping order.
Students discreetly report anything that seems threatening. When
tensions rise or confrontation seems imminent, the diminutive
messengers appear at his door and whisper into his cupped ear.
That network has averted some fights and shortened many others.

    More often than not, even reprimands are laced with
compassion. At recess a six-year-old in an oversize coat takes
his younger brother by the hand. He walks him from the
playground to the rear of the building. The older boy takes out
a green felt-tipped marker and writes FOKE YOU BITH across the
back wall. Poor as the spelling is, the intended message is
clear, and students alert Pannell. Within minutes the two boys
find themselves sitting across from the principal. "You got your
baby brother in trouble. Now pick up the phone and call your
mother," Pannell tells the tearful older boy. It was a simple
matter, except that in it Pannell saw a chance to sever the
older boy's habit of including his brother in mischief. Down the
road, says Pannell, it could save the younger boy from being an
accomplice to something more serious -- a drug deal, even
murder. Minutes later, the older boy was scrubbing his
penmanship off the wall with a brush and a pail of detergent as
tall as he was.

    To repeat offenders, Pannell gravely passes out "pink
slips." They have no intrinsic meaning other than the gravity
with which Pannell presents them. "They're hot pink -- they mean
they're in hot water," he laughs. Rarely does he or assistant
Owens show anger. "We don't want to rule on fear," says Owens.
"They get that out there," he says, glancing out the window.
Besides, underneath, even the toughest of these children
responds to a soft voice. Two boys who have been fighting are
led into the principal's office. At first they appear
steely-eyed and sullen. Then, under Pannell's tender
inquisition, they begin to melt. One of the boys, a
fourth-grader, sobs and rubs his tears with the end of his red
tie. Pannell listens, adjudicates and gently chastises the two
before sending them on their way.

    Moments later, two girls appear at his door, agitated and
hoping he can help them avert a fight. One is a stocky
third-grader, the other a fourth-grader with limpid brown eyes
and cream-colored skin. "She called me a whore," said the older
girl. With agonizing patience, Pannell unravels the dispute. The
girls are friends. The day before, the older girl invited her
friend home for the first time. There the younger child saw her
friend's house was in disrepair, that the outside door was
battered and punctured by what she thought were bullet holes.
At school the next day she told friends about the house and the
broken door. The older girl, insulted and hurt, fired back that
at least her mother had a house and wasn't so poor she had to
live with a man to gain a roof over her head. Pannell listens
calmly, then convinces the two that they should make up. They
disappear down the hall skipping and laughing.

    But a serious fight brings automatic suspension. "This is
not punitive, it's protective," Pannell told parents at a
back-to-school night. His concern about weapons was evident.
"I'm pleading with you as parents to check your children before
they leave home," he told them. Last year a young boy brought
a 13-in. butcher knife to school. Students saw the blade in his
jacket pocket and reported it. The knife was confiscated; the
child was suspended.

    Pannell and his staff offer a constant refrain. "What is
the rule?" he asks. "No hitting, kicking, fighting or other
types of negative, violent behavior," answer the students. Even
among Malcolm X kindergartners, tempers can flair into serious
combat with little or no provocation. In the community around
Malcolm X, fighting often escalates in an instant. "There are
no more fisticuffs," says Pannell. "It's maiming, stabbing,
shooting immediately. This is the kind of learned behavior, the
environment in which these children are growing up." At Malcolm
X, the short-term objective is to intercede and present a
peaceful resolution. The ultimate goal is more ambitious. "Too
many black males are being killed every day," says Pannell.
"It's necessary that we put violence prevention into our
everyday curriculum. We have to do something to stem this tide
of violence."

    But for some the lesson in avoiding violence comes late.
Psychic scars have already made them casualties of the street.
"I'm afraid my day is going to come, that I'm going to get
killed one day," says a fourth-grade boy. Two members of his
family were shot to death, and police advised him not to discuss
the shootings for fear the killers would return for him.
Recently he witnessed a neighbor gunned down as well. "I saw the
fire come out of the gun," says the boy. "It hit him in the
head, and he fell out." He is struggling to rise above the fear
that is around him. He is still very much a child, and school
is the one bright spot in his life.

    Despite their exposure to violence, the students
demonstrate a remarkable resilience. Crystal is a bright-eyed
13-year-old with fine, long braids and an irrepressible smile.
She deeply appreciates what Pannell and others at the school are
trying to do to stem the violence. Two years ago, her brother
Leonard died from a gunshot wound in the chest while standing
in front of his grandmother's house. She believes Pannell's
words and those of her teachers can make a difference, though
it will do nothing to ease the loss of her brother. "I wish we
could do it all over again," she says, "so my family could hear
this."

    Drugs have taken a toll among the parents. Problems of
abuse and neglect are undeniable. But there are also many
parents deeply involved in their children's education who defy
simple stereotypes. Pannell speaks of a concerned father who
routinely called him from the Washington jail to speak with his
daughter and ask how she was doing in school. The child, a
fourth-grader, was an honor-roll student. Since his release from
jail, the father has been a frequent volunteer at the school.

    On a recent parents' night, scores of parents came to
school to meet with teachers and discuss their children's
classwork. Among them was Virgie Heath, a 33-year-old single
mother who recently lost her job and who last year spent six
months in a shelter for the homeless. She did not finish high
school. "I want my baby to have the best," she says. "He loves
school -- reading, math, everything." Last year her son Ernest
made the honor roll.

    Tyrone Woods and Debra Tracy were also at the school that
evening. Woods, who wears a gold earring in each ear, admits he
was no choirboy in his youth. "Coming up as a child, it was bad.
I was terrible," he said. "I came from a one-parent home, and I
didn't want that for my children." Now, as a father, he is
strict -- a stickler for homework and keeping a neat room. What
does he teach his eight-year-old daughter Doree?
"Responsibility and respect for her elders, as well as her
peers," says Woods, a postal-service employee. He is unabashedly
proud of Doree, who gets all A's in third grade. Says Woods: "I
can honestly say my daughter will have a great future." Adds
Tracy: "This is a school you can be proud to send your child
to."

    No one at Malcolm X speaks of miracles or underestimates
the challenges these children still face. But for Debra Tracy
and so many other parents at Malcolm X, the most valuable
instruction their children receive -- in self-esteem,
nonviolence and dignity -- may not appear in any book. They are
lessons offered by an entire school community -- principals,
teachers, security guards, cafeteria workers, volunteers -- that
has transformed a dowdy building in the inner city into a
sanctuary of hope. Theirs is a lesson other schools should be
eager to learn.