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> WHO’S TO SAY > >I was a bit stunned to look up from my desk to see >this middle-aged Black man standing in my office. It >had nothing to do with his being either middle-aged >nor Black. It had, however, everything to do with my >building being a secure facility. My students were >all sent to me via a Superintendent’s Hearing because >they had brought a weapon into their home school and >had been suspended. Zero tolerance meant that they >could not immediately return to the middle or high >school where they had previously attended. Rather, >they were sent to what the community referred to as >the “Weapons School.” This was during the time of >Columbine and Syracuse, New York, most of the >continent away from that incident, was rife with gang >activity. To my best knowledge, my school was the >only one of its kind in the country at that time. Our >curricula included a variety of information and skills >that were designed to assist students in making better >choices. In fact, the name of the school, VINTA, was >testament to that…Violence Is Not the Answer. > >There was just one entrance to enter and exit the >building. There was a police officer and numerous >assistants who “wanded” and patted down the kids. I >had instructed staff that no one was to enter without >going through the same process as the children. Thus, >the Mayor, the Superintendent and all other visitors >experienced the check in procedures. So, it was with >some curiosity that I approached meeting this man >standing in front of my >desk. I suppose it would have been wise to be >fearful…to call out to staff…to move out the office >back door into the secretarial area. But I had no >fear of him. I was simply curious. > >I asked how I might assist him. He told me that he >lived at the YMCA across the street and that he was >trying very hard to get a job down at the Convention >Center. I figured that I was about to be tapped for a >few bucks. He said that he had an interview in a >couple of days and he wondered if any of my staff >might have an old briefcase and some paper and pens. >He wanted to look professional for a job that >consisted of working with plants to be used as décor >inside and out at the new facility. I assured him >that I would check and get back to him. He left the >building. > >The building was an old Carnegie Library downtown. It >had undergone a four million dollar restoration and >was destined to house a premier program of the >district. The top students from each of the four high >schools would study there and be mentored by local >business executives…it would have been a wonderful >opportunity for the kids to see how business worked >from the heart of the city. Sadly, the budget cuts >that impacted urban schools made that dream >impossible. Even sadder was the dilemma the District >faced in having to have the building occupied by >students or fail to receive the necessary State Aid to >re-pay the loan for restoration. > >I had moved from my district offices at one of the >high schools over the summer. The move took me to the >Southside of the city and into an abandoned Roman >Catholic school on the corner of one of the most >active gang areas in Syracuse. The building had been >there for most of the century. My parents were >married there. I was baptized there. But St. >Anthony’s was now in total disrepair…it was what many >would think perfect for the child who was so dangerous >as to carry that weapon to school. It was good enough >to keep those babies away from the good kids for a >period of time. It was sufficient to keep them off >the streets and all together where they couldn’t do >any serious damage to someone’s nice teenager. It >didn’t seem good enough to me but administrators go >where they are assigned. All summer long, I settled >in. Day after day, I sweated out the ways to make >that building look as if it wasn’t the last stop to >oblivion…and I sweated. No air conditioning! > >The week before the school was to open, the >Superintendent called with the news that I was moving >again. This time, the move was to the “penthouse” of >all district buildings. All day long, I was Louise >Jefferson, George’s wife, singing through the halls of >that mess of a building…singing “We’re Moving On Up…” >Of course, I had been warned about the potential for >taking my budding criminals into a pristine facility. >It never fazed me. I knew that all I had to do was to >tell my babies that everyone expected them to write on >the walls and stuff up the toilets. After two years, >I left that building with absolutely no sign that >students had occupied it…let alone my kids! > >The day after my visitor came with his modest request, >I asked staff if there was a briefcase lying around >their classrooms or home office that could be recycled >to a gentleman who was going on an interview. Nope. >So, not knowing what possessed me, I went to Walmart >after dinner that evening. I found a nice looking but >inexpensive briefcase and headed home. Office >supplies have long been a personal weakness…well, >perhaps it goes beyond weakness to obsession. I >filled the briefcase with paper, pens, pencils, tape, >and all manner of stuff to set one up to do some >serious desk work. > >In the morning, I went over to the desk at the YMCA >and left it for my visitor. As I looked around the >lobby at the Y, I thought about the over fifty years >that my father had spent three afternoons a week >playing handball…how he almost died there, as was his >fervent wish, when his over-worked heart gave out…how >my mother’s brother lived in one of those rooms for >decades after his marriage collapsed…how he, too, >collapsed there and died. And, then, I went to school >and completely forgot about my visitor. > >Did I mention what happened after my guest left? No. >Well, he walked across the large entry way where the >card catalogues had once stood. It was all open now. >I saw this from my totally glass-walled office. He >descended down the few steps and presumably out the >door. I was just steps behind. When I got there, I >began what was a less than tastefully phrased series >of accusations at the assistants sitting at the desk. >They looked at me as if I had three heads. “How the >hell did that man get into this building? Where were >you? What were you doing? What were you >thinking?”…all undoubtedly spiced with words I never >allowed students to say. They looked back and forth >at each other swearing, well, vowing, that they had >been there for the entire morning…the door was never >left unattended….there was no man…no one came in…no >one left. I knew damn well that they were covering >each other’s backside and stormed back into my office >secure in the knowledge that THAT would never happen >again. > >A couple of weeks passed. I didn’t give my visitor >another thought. So, imagine my surprise and >consternation to again look up from my work to see him >standing before me. Strangely enough, I was pleased >to see him standing there holding a big pot of >ornamental grasses. He told me that the briefcase >helped him to get his new job. He was very happy with >the work and he brought me a sample. I absolutely >adore ornamental grasses. I was somewhat concerned >that it might have been a purloined sample but, >nevertheless, I accepted my gift and he left. > >By now, you know what is coming. Again, I follow him >out. He disappears down the stairs and by the time I >get to my staff they are engaged in conversation about >something that happened in the community the night >before. As I begin my second tirade on the same >topic, I see the same expressions come over their >faces. “No, Mrs. Niles, no one came in here…no one >left out of here.” This time, I smile and begin to do >a quick mental status assessment on myself returning >to my office expecting not to see that wonderful pot >of grasses and planning a quick exit via the psych >center several blocks to the north. > >During my two year tenure in that old Carnegie Library >building, I made it part of my morning ritual, as I >unlocked the door, to say a succinct prayer that the >students and staff would be safe that day and all >days. There never was a serious incident. And, >considering the volatile nature of my students (and >some of the staff), this was a miracle in and of >itself. > >When I moved to Buffalo upon retirement, my friend and >gardener, filled a pot with some of the ornamental >grass which had grown to monumental status in my yard. > She told me that I should never be without what had >become known as the Angel Grass. We continue to >thrive in the safety and sanctity of our home. My >angel came and went…I suppose…but his presence is felt >in every sway of those grasses. > >Kathleen Bryce Niles

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