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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 > > >What a neat story! Isn't it amazing what we experience >if we keep out eyes, ears and hearts open?

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