Freedom Writers

1

My first Pen Pal was both black and white, weighed near a ton and loved shrimp.  Our relationship was one-sided.  I never wrote her; but, for fifteen bucks a year, she sent updates to my family’s rusted mailbox detailing her travels through the Atlantic Ocean.  One year, she was spotted by a fishing boat off the Novia Scotian coast.  Another, she had whale watchers convinced she was swimming with a calf.  Her name was Shred, in deference to the damaged condition of her fluke.  My annual contribution – tax deductable, nonetheless, though this was irrelevant as a middle-schooler –  contributed to research that supported the preservation of whales.  Whatever that meant.

In October of my first year in teaching, I decided my students needed Pen Pals, too, though theirs would be human.  This project had educational and selfish motivation.  First, letter writing is a frequent and lengthy activity.  If my students wrote letters merely monthly, I would have 40 minutes less of direct instruction to prepare. Secondly, and more altruistically, Pen Pals could provide my students access to new worlds, their current world view being wholly comprised of rap videos, an endless stream of rotund asses backing up into cameras, men standing in front of souped-up cars, money floating in the air.  Third, and most importantly, my students needed to learn how to write.

The essay prompts required by my county curriculum – talk about time you had a conflict with a friend or write a letter to your principal proposing a community service program being actual examples – weren’t working.  These prompts were met with ridiculous responses I feared wouldn’t score well in the spring’s state writing test.  Case in point:  Tre’von’s conflict-with-a-friend-essay featured a gun fight with his ex-best friend over their dueling membership in the Crips and Bloods.  To his credit, he used a great deal of onomatopoeia:

“Bam!  My gun went bam!  Pop pop his gun went.  POP POP BAM.”

Tre’von’s essays, sadly, weren’t the worst of the bunch – they were imaginative and though rambling, usually contained more than five sentences.  The other students had writer’s block, or more accurately, laziness; they hardly mustered three sentences before writing “The End” and using the paper as pillow for a nap.  I hoped writing a “real” person might inspire more, and genuine, interest.

But who would serve as Pen Pals?  Internet searches for “Pen Pal” drummed up plenty of opportunities to correspond with inmates, which was enticing, but also inappropriate.  Ultimately, I called upon members of my alma mater’s student ambassadors program.  Writing to my students seemed aligned with their mission to connect “past, present and future Tar Heels,” even if it was a stretch to imagine Tre’von or Dominique setting foot on campus someday.

My students were initially disgusted when I told them they’d be writing college students.

“Why would I write someone in college?” Dominique retorted.  “I don’t write letters.”  This was true.  Dominique’s letter-to-his-principal essay had been an expletive filled tirade concerning his most recent suspension, lacking the required salutation, date, or pesky periods.

As usual, I struggled for an answer.  I remembered Dominique had spent most of the year proclaiming his sexual prowess.  “Oh, really Dominique, you wouldn’t like to write a good looking college girl?”  I asked.  His face lit up.

“Aw yeah, I’m gonna smash a college girl,” he said, exciting the others.  I didn’t want Dominique smashing anybody ever, but I turned a blind ear to this comment so as not to suppress the positive momentum.

Suddenly, the boys were talking with each other, jumping out of their seats as they described the illicit acts they planned with their college girls.  Many of the fantasies include cars, which surprised me.  Though all old for seventh grade, none of the kids were of legal driving age.

“Will they come to see us?” Tre’von questioned hopefully.

“Well, I don’t’ know.”  This is my chance. “I guess it depends how well you impress them in your letter.”  I moved to my blue desk and retrieved the brief biographies I had compiled of each college student.  I dramatically passed each of my own students the Pen Pal biography I had selected for them.

“Ashley?  I don’t want no white girl,” Tre’von said, his usual look of disgust now returned to his face.

“What…Lindsey?  I’ve got a white girl, too.  Gross!”  Ah-Lonzo joined.  Ah-Lonzo was my star student, both respectful and hardworking.  I was dismayed even he found it acceptable to be blatantly racist, in front of his white teacher nonetheless.  I shot him my teacher stare.  “Didn’t mean no offense, Freeman, it’s just…”  Ah-Lonzo whimpered, realizing his error, though unable to find a suitable explanation.

Anthony summoned me over.  As I arrived at his desk, I hoped he’d whisper encouragement to ignore his racist classmates.  “What’s this name?” he asked, instead, pointing to his paper.

“Olivia,” I answered, pronouncing the name “Oh-leave-e-uh” in an effort to make the name seem ethnic.

My attempt was in vain.  “Man, I have a white girl too?” Anthony responded, dismayed.

Tequanda started to scream on the other side of the room.  “Jessica?  Jessica?  Hell no!  I ain’t no dyke.  I don’t want no girl, Mr. Freeman.”  She let out her trademark guttural sigh, as anger coursed through my veins.

“Well, Tequanda, Jessica can be your friend.  These are just Pen Pals, not who you are going to spend the rest of your life with.”  I briefly imagined Tequanda as a lesbian and suppressed a laugh.

“Well, I ain’t writing her.”  Tequanda threw her paper onto the floor.  “I said, I ain’t no dyke.”

“You are writing her, Tequanda, and watch your language,” I said, picking up the paper and returning it to her desk.  “That term hurts a lot of people.”

“It only hurts dykes.  Are you a dyke, Mr. Freeman?”  Tequanda asked.  Her comments always had some twisted logic; she was difficult to argue with in the moment.
“No.”  I answered.  Wasn’t that obvious?

“Well, don’t worry then.  But, I still ain’t writing her.  That would be sick.”  She smacked her lips in triumph, swiveling her head and looking me in the eye.

I returned to the front of the class, disgusted.  What had originally seemed like a full-proof plan had, yet again, gone awry, and so quickly.  Why did I think this would work?  This Pen Pal thing is like everything else in this classroom:  shit.

“Look,” I began, forcing my voice into the deep and authoritative tone I had begun to perfect for these moments, “these are very nice college students, and they have agreed to talk with you.  That’s very giving of them.  The least you can do is write them a letter and see how things go.  Who cares if they are white?”

They all look at me, searing their eyes into my skin, as if to say, “We care, you big cracker, that they are white.”  I realized having them write white people was just like having them write a cheesy essay:  another hoop to jump through, another foray into a world in which they presumed they didn’t belong.

“Well, you’re going to write these letters whether you like it not.”  Tequanda’s exhaled her guttural sigh again.  I continued over it.  “This first one is easy.  I just want you to tell them who you are – your age, what you like to do, what you think of this class, that kind of thing.  You have 20 minutes.”  I put the “Scholar Speak” arrow in “Six Inch Voices.”  Amazingly, perhaps in debt to overtly offending my race, they earnestly wrote their letters for five minutes.  No cuss words, no hitting each other behind my back:  working.  Real, actual, work.

Tre’von was the first to finish, announcing his completion by powering up his GameBoy.  Grabbing his GameBoy with my left and his letter with my right hand, I read:

Ashley.  My name is Tre’von.  I am from Ohio.  Can I have your picture?

“Tre’von, don’t you want to tell Ashley more?  She’s not going to be very impressed by this letter.  It doesn’t say much.”

“No.”  He reached for his Gameboy.

“Three more sentences.  Anything.  Tell her about how you like football.  Or how I drive you crazy.  Or what you loved so much about Ohio.  Anything, Tre’von, really, anything.”

“No.”  He reached for his Gameboy again, this time with more vehemence.

“Three more sentences or it’s a zero.”  I put the Gameboy in my pocket.  Tre’von whispered something under his breath about me being a “fucking stealer,” which, like so many things on this particular day, I chose to ignore.

Fifteen minutes later, I collected the letters.  Most were eerily similar to Tre’von’s:  they requested a picture and stated only the absolute essentials of name and age.  Tequanda did at least mention that she wanted Jessica to know that she “liked boys a lot.”  Even Ah-Lonzo’s letter was brief and apathetic.  I made a point to visibly grimace in exagerrated pain as I collect the letters.

Justin’s letter was the lone aberration, as his detailed his love of the Food Network and suggested he would like to “ride around town” with his Pen Pal.  His letter was incoherent, but I appreciated the effort, and rewarded him loudly.

“Well, Justin, this looks like an ‘A’ to me!” I announced as I put his letter at the back of the stack.  “I think she is really going to like this.  She’s really going to see that you put some effort into this.  You know what?”  I paused, making sure I had the class’ attention.  “I bet your Pen Pal writes you a nice long…”

Tre’von interrupted me.  “Can I have my GameBoy back?”

2

As pathetic as my student’s letters were, you never would have known it with the enthusiastic, long-winded and sweet tomes I received from the college kids.  Each student – Olivia, Emily and Ashley included – wrote a lovely letter to their respective middle school Pen Pal.  I knew this because I read each letter in detail after removing them from their original envelopes.  I needed to know what kind of reaction my students would give.  I think they will really like these, I thought, even Tequanda will be inspired to write back.

I presented the letters – sealed in new envelopes – excitedly to my class.

“I have a huge surprise for you!” I said as the bell rang.

“We’re going outside today?” Anthony responded.

“No.  Even better.  Your Pen Pals letters are here.”  They were not amused and I was mad at Anthony for proposing a much better surprise.

I passed the letters out with flair, plunking them onto the students’ desks with a loud thud and smile.  Teaching, sometimes above anything else, is about selling the moment.

The students opened their letters hurriedly, clearly excited, though making attempts to mute their oh-so-embarrassing enthusiasm.  As I watched, I was amused; it was obvious many of the students had never opened a letter before.  Dominique and Tre’von had no trouble – they had considerable practice in the form of suspension letters sent home from the assistant principal detailing their infractions.  Signatures lined the back flap of these letters, intending to deter the boys from opening them.  Dominique and Tre’von always ignored this, naturally, and often opened them in my sight.  They likely (and, if so, correctly) figured that respective to whatever they had done to deserve the suspension, their letter opening would pale in comparison.

Eventually, all of the students mastered the physical opening of the letter and  made attempts to read.

Anthony, as usual, summoned me over to read his.

“I can’t read this, Mr. Freeman,” he said, ashamed.

“Oh, Anthony, it’s ok…it’s in cursive, that makes it harder,” I responded, lying.  The letter was written in immaculate print.

I proceeded to read his letter to him.

Dear Anthony,

I’m so pleased to be writing you!  My name is Olivia.  I’m a freshman at the University of North Carolina, which your teacher, Mr. Freeman, just graduated from.  I grew up on Lake Norman, which is just a couple miles North of where you live in Charlotte.  In my spare time, I like to sing in the choir, go to church and volunteer at a local animal shelter here in Chapel Hill.   I can’t wait to hear more about you – what do you like to do for fun?

Love,

Olivia

Anthony’s eyes perked up when I read the word “love.”  He laughed a bashful laugh.

“Mine told me she loves me,” Anthony said, turning to Dominique.  “Bet yours didn’t say that.”

Dominique’s eyes scanned his letter.  “Nah, she didn’t say that.  Just means I got to try harder.”  Dominique paused.  “She gonna love this.”  He gyrated in his chair, extending his right arm out in front of his desk, thrusting his pelvis, suggesting a degrading and completely inappropriate sexual act.  I threw up a little in my mouth, caught it, and moved on.  As I made my rounds about the classroom, I had a sudden realization of the teacher I had become – so ineffective in motivating my middle school students to read or write for academic, self-improvement or grading purposes that I had to motivate them with sex.  Great.

The second round of writing went better than the first.  The students did their best to respond to direct questions from their respective Pen Pals.  Tequanda listed the many boys that she liked, and why she liked them, ever adamant to her Pen Pal that she was, in fact, not a lesbian.  Justin wrote about his love of Cheeto’s, the spicy kind preferably, and his sustained desire for his Pen Pal to come to Charlotte so that they could “drive around Beatties Ford Road together all day long.”  Anthony wrote ten words, each of them spelled incorrectly, but ten words nonetheless.

“Do you think she will be able to read this?” he asked as I collected his letter.

I scanned the paper, his handwriting so cautious and right-slanted that it resembled the emerging writing of a first-grader.  Anthony’s lack of reading and writing skills broke my heart daily, but today, I was especially devastated.  It had taken me months to understand Anthony’s writing, the mix up between “d” and “b” and his near total lack of vowels.  I had, of course, worked with him to the best of my ability (which wasn’t much) to improve his reading and writing – but, alas – no, Olivia would most certainly not be able to understand his letter.  I debated lying and informing Olivia that Anthony was, in fact, a German foreign exchange student with a physical handicap.

“Oh, yes, Anthony,” I said, lying yet again, hoping he wouldn’t be able to detect it the worry in my voice.  “I think she will just love this.”

3

Olivia, sadly, didn’t love Anthony’s letter.  As my students’ letters were mailed in December, I was shocked to find a few of the college kids were studying abroad when I received the return letters from Chapel Hill in January.

“Sorry, some of the kids won’t be getting Pen Pals this semester,” the student ambassador president wrote.  “Would they like new ones?”  She then continued to detail the exotic destinations the old Pen Pals could be found.

As I read, a horror filled my body.  Middle school students operate on a faulty ethics system:  they each want to be able to exclusively and independently break all rules without consequence, but do not want anything to ever be unequal should it mean they miss out on rewards.  In short, individual liberty rules, but equality is non-negotiable.  My friend Caroline, a fellow teacher, best described this approach to life as the “Convenient for Me Theory,” in that one should at all times adopt philosophies that are personally advantageous in the moment.  Unwanted pregnancy?  Jump on the Pro-Life train.  Got a boyfriend you want to marry in a shotgun wedding?  Get knocked up and keep that precious human life God gave you.  The ethics change; the intent is constant.

The prospect of handing out Pen Pal letters to a majority – but not all – of the students was not possible.  Thus, for the few students whose Pen Pals were now cavorting in the running of the bulls or living in a tribe in Africa, I gleefully forged letters.  As I learned to do throughout my brief teaching career, I capitalized on this dishonesty to push my agenda.

My trusty red wine at my side, I began with Anthony’s Pen Pal, Olivia.  I labored to keep Olivia’s voice consistent with her previous letter and even put little hearts over the dots in her “i’s” to disguise my handwriting:

“Dear Anthony,

It was great to hear from you.  You remind me a lot of myself when I was your age!  Man, middle school was a crazy time.  One thing I always did was stay after school with my teachers to get extra help whenever I could.  That was how I learned how to read and write as well as I can today.  Now look at me – a college student!  You seem like a really sweet boy.  Stay that way.

Love,

Olivia”

I had more fun with Jessica’s letter to Tequanda:

“Dear Tequanda,

Hold up, girl!  Don’t get too crazy with the boys.  It’s ok to like boys, but they can be trouble.  I had a boyfriend when I was your age who ended up in juvenile detention.  That’s when I realized I had to focus on myself and not let anyone else drag me down.  I’m not a nun or anything – just saying – you’re too young to let boys control your life.

Your friend,

Jessica”

I had to write Justin’s letter twice, as a few drops of red wine got spilled onto the first draft.  Nonetheless, I gave Justin’s letter the special attention he himself had given:

“Dear Justin,

Of course I’m a fan of Cheeto’s!  I also try to eat a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables so that my whole diet isn’t comprised of junk food.  With your interest in food, you should think about being a chef.  But, make sure you keep your grades up and learn how to read really well.  Recipes are full of writing, you know!  As far as riding around Beatties Ford Road together, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that soon, but that does sound fun.  I’m really busy this semester with my classes.  They can be hard, but college is so amazing and so fun.

Your Pen Pal,

Desiree

PS – Not to nag you like Mr. Freeman does or anything, but, you should really work on your punctuation.  You write so much and you have such a personality, but sometimes it’s hard to read your letters because they don’t have periods or commas.  I know you’re learning – and it’s not a big deal – just a friendly suggestion from your Pen Pal, sweetheart!”

The next morning, I brought the Pen Pal letters to the front of the room without saying a word, fanning them in front of my face with drama.  As the white envelopes obscured my view of the class, I pictured what I was sure were my students’ joyful smiles behind them.

“Again?” Ah-Lonzo sighed.  “I already wrote that woman two times.”  Tequanda followed Ah-Lonzo’s statement with her trademark room-shaking sigh.

“Oh, mine be writing me back ‘cos she hooked on this,” Dominique interjected.  I brought the envelopes below my face; my vision was immediately permanently scarred by the image of Dominique pointing to his crotch while licking his lips.

“Once she go black, she ain’t ever gonna go back,” Tre’von chimed, high fiving Dominique across the desks.  Preemptively swallowing the vomit that was making its way up my trachea, I determinedly walked through the room, flinging the envelopes onto their respective desks.

As they opened the letters, I noted the students had all mastered one skill, that of opening the envelopes.  What had once been a novel act, they now were able to do with ease.  Private victories, Alex, private victories I repeated in my head.

“Uh, Mr. Freeman,” Anthony whispered, beckoning me to his side.  “This handwriting looks like yours all a sudden.”  I purposely froze my face so as not to show a reaction.  Are you telling me you can’t read or write, Anthony, but you are suddenly an expert in handwriting analysis?

“Oh, don’t be silly, Anthony,” I began, grabbing the letter from him and squinting my eyes to read as if the handwriting was so alien that even I, a college-educated adult, had trouble deciphering the scrawl.  “I would never put hearts over my ‘i’s.’”

“I don’t know Freeman, mine kinda looks like your handwriting, too.” Justin offered from the other side of the room.

“He been faking it the whole time!  These cats ain’t even real!” Tre’von flung his letter to the ceiling.  It made a lovely flight pattern as it slowly sifted to the linoleum.  I picked Tre’von’s letter from the ground and dashed to the front of the room.

“If you all think I have time to sit and home and write fake letters, you all must be,” completely and sadly correct I thought, “crazy.”  I took a deep breath.  It didn’t help.  Then, I did go crazy.  “Plus, if I were making this up, don’t you think I would have done some things to make this whole project go a little bit easier?”  I sighed and threw my hands up in the air in desperation.  “Don’t you think I would have done some things to at least make this work?”

“Like what?” Ah-Lonzo asked.

“Well, for one,” I walked over to Tequanda.  “If I had been making all this up, I would have given Tequanda a male Pen Pal, seeing as to she’s so concerned that she is a lesbian – ”

“Dyke,”  Tequanda interjected, as if correcting me.

I walked over to Ah-Lonzo.  “And, you, Ah-Lonzo, I would have given you a black Pen Pal seeing as to you are so concerned about writing a white person.”

“Cracker,” Tre’von interrupting, continuing the routine.

“And, you, Dominique, I would have…well, I don’t even know, as you seem to think this Pen Pal is your new girlfriend despite the fact that you are thirteen and she is twenty-one.”

Dominique failed to see the illogic in my statement.  “Ain’t a crime as long she ok with it.”

I shook my head in disgust.  “Just write your letters.  Ten sentences or it’s a zero.  You have thirty minutes.  I’m going to sit at my desk and I don’t want to be bothered.”  I shrugged back to my blue oasis and pretended to grade papers, only occasionally glancing up to monitor their progress.  Only half the class – Tre’von, surprisingly, included – bothered to write a letter.  Tequanda spent the work time writing a note to a girl friend, laboriously detailing just why she thought Dominique was the cutest boy in the whole school:  he had a good line up, hot baggy pants, thug eyes and she had heard his junk was “fo realz.”  This, especially, seemed an injustice to me:  she could write a note, but not a letter?  Save for the junk, Fake Jessica surely would have appreciated this list.

As I sat, I stewed.  My valiant efforts had, once again, spectacularly failed.  I’d done everything right – considered the student’s interest, provided real life inspiration, even manipulated reality – to no avail.  Not only were their letters subpar, but they were no closer to realizing that college was the only way out for them.  Plus, I had enlisted volunteers to read completely embarrassingly short and grammatically incorrect letters.  Surely it was obvious to them, too, that I was a complete failure.

Then, I conjured Shred, my own middle school Pen Pal and the impetus behind this endeavor.  I pictured her damaged fin poking out of the salty ocean water, its glossy sheen catching the sunlight.  Next, I went somewhere dark and blue with her, diving deeper into an ocean where no one, no “Convenient Theory for Me,” no state writing test, no heart dotted ‘i’s’, no dykes, no crackers, no bullshit could touch me.

It was Ah-Lonzo who roused me from my daydream.

“Mr. Freeman, the thirty minutes are up.”