When I was growing up on the island, I used a soft white rock to write sentences on an old car door. My siblings and cousins were my first students; the rock was my chalk; the old door was my chalkboard and the and great outdoors – beneath the trees, shaded from the island sun- was my first classroom. When my siblings and I migrated from Jamaica to the United States in 1991, our thick Jamaican accent separated us from the African American students at George Washington Carver Elementary School. My brother, only five years old at the time, suffered the most of the three of us. Some of my brother’s classmates asked questions out of childlike curiosity and when they did not understand his response, they mocked and laughed at him. The teacher, not yet trained in navigating a diverse classroom, failed him. As a result, my brother grew frustrated, unheard and alone. The next unsuspecting student who dared to ask my brother a question and mock his response received a fist in the face.
My brother was suspended for four days, from Kindergarten. Upon his return to school, he was forced to learn in a hostile environment. He not only struggled socially; he also struggled academically with reading. My mother purchased books and programs like Hooked On Phonics to teach him and my sister and I was asked to help. I found both the books and programs unexciting. One day, as though the island sun was radiating light into my mind, I decided, I would find a way to teach my brother to read. After my brother endured the hostility of the classroom, we entered a learning space together in Silver, an old bread truck my father parked in our backyard. Unlike the island that was warm year round, it was cold in New Jersey, and sometimes we watched as the snow fell on the truck window, encasing us in a world of white. It was frigid outside, but inside we were warm. I taught my brother to read that year. I wish I could say I remember a specific moment: the day he learned to pronounce a letter, read a word, a sentence, a paragraph. I don’t. My memory of our learning environment is like a scent that evokes a sense of nostalgia. A scent that is too powerful to stay but from time to time is gracious enough to enter, fill and warm us like the island sun.e
Simply put, I have always been a teacher. I am evolving.
Don’t be a ghost. If you have read thus far, please leave a comment below:
Who have you always been? How have you evolved?
Kadine Christie
