Henderson - Sit down and shut up: how discipline can set students free

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To my parentswho set each of us free

Anyone writing a first book owes a lifetime of debts. My most permanent one is to my parents. My father, who as a very young man marched with Martin Luther King Jr., immersed us in books. My mother, who marched in life alongside my father, immersed us in love. We, their children, owe them everything.

My second debt is to my siblings, with whom I spent my early life roaming forests, climbing trees, and inventing lives for ourselves beyond the borders of the tiny world we inhabited so long ago. I feel proud of the adults you have become and precious about the past we share.

Ramesh Gajraj and Alejandro Ramirez, from our first days together in college, the enormous intellectual and moral demands we made on each other have lasted a lifetime. Without those demands and the friendship that accompanied them, this book would not have been possible.

No one championed this book with more enthusiasm than Ayanna Floyd David, a great boss, better friend, and artist extraordinaire. With her keen writers wit she even christened it with its name. Her unwavering interest pushed me to expand the vision of the book from the start and, in the final days, encouraged me toward the finish line. I couldnt be more grateful.

Modupe Akinola, Liz Kirby, Natosha Reid Ricethe holy triumvirate of my Harvard dayshave been loyal friends and confidants since we were undergrads together. They are and have been friends, wives, mothers, sisters, leaders of black men and women, and I consider it a blessing to be numbered among them. Modupe especially pointed a way forward for the book at a critical time, as she has at many points in my life. Each of them have my devotion.

Dan Sharfstein deserves a special mention. He read and improved my proposal for the book and blessed it to his agent, just as he read and improved my manuscript and blessed it as I sent it off to my editor. He and the brilliant Ann Mikkelsen buoyed my spirits at a crucial time, and for their years of friendship, I am thankful.

Kukhautusha Croom lent much-needed counsel and support, as she has for everyone lucky enough to call her a friend.

Anyone who has come within the orbit of Debbie Allen will understand my debt to her. No matter the many hats she wearsdancer, director, choreographer, mothershe is above all a teacher. It has been my great good fortune to have been one of her students.

Wendy Strothman took up my proposal with enthusiasm, helped hone it to a knifes edge, and sent it out into the world with her exacting imprimatur. Along with Lauren McLeod, she has guided me nimbly through every stage of this journey. For seeing the potential in me and in this book, I cannot thank her enough.

Steven Pinker generously offered his time, and with a single stray comment about the role of fathers sent me down a completely unforeseen path that led to one of the most lasting discoveries in the book.

Dolly Chugh and Rene Quon contributed much-needed advice at crucial moments.

Donna Cherry, along with Alan Bradshaw and Katherine Haigler, maintained the integrity of the book throughout its many drafts.

Michael Flamini provided reassurance and continuity during the final stages of the book-making process.

If Helen Vendler, Seamus Heaney, and Henry Louis Gates Jr. helped form my adult mind, then the following incomparable listMs. James, Ms. Williams, Ms. Anderson, Ms. Chappel, Ms. Ellis, Ms. Leverette, Ms. Brown, Ms. Turner, Ms. Price, Ms. Broom, Ms. Earney, Ms. Gandersman, Ms. Hope, Ms. Moureaux, and Ms. Seaveyof my public school teachers formed my youthful one. I am the writer they made.

I cannot, of course, end this without thanking the marvelous Karen Wolny, marvelous editor and human being. A simple but incisive comment early on in the writing transformed the nature of this book and enriched it beyond measure. She held my hand through every stage of its creation and, in the most fundamental way, it would not exist without her. For that I am eternally grateful.

I was staring at a football player. His shoulders were bent, but he was not crouched for a blitz. He was eyeing me straight on. Even without pads he was massive. The air in the room was fire-hot, muggy. Any sudden move and this whole place would explode. He and I were not friends.

He was coming for me pretty hard along with his lady friend, whom the whole class called Booty, despite my effort to explain that no young woman should allow people to delegitimize her by naming her after a body part, no matter its prominence. (Would Oprah allow someone to call her Booty? Would Michelle Obama? Would Lupita Nyongo?) Booty was having none of it.

I was at Countee Cullen High School in the heart of South Watts. Not long before, a freshman had been shot outside the school. Its history of racial and student violence goes back decades, but I didnt know any of that at the time. All I knew was that two dozen high school students were watching and waiting to see what I would do. And I was watching too, because the football player was cursing me in the worst way. Maybe Id told him to sit down one too many times. Or to stop distracting the class while Im teaching. Whatever it was, I had set him off.

Motherfucker, fuck you. You dont run shit up in here. What you gon do? Yeah, he was cursing me out pretty bad and baiting me for a fight. And frankly he had a good question: What was I gonna do? I hadnt figured that out yet. Because in the back of my mind, I was thinking about those YouTube videos of kids fighting teachers and how at least half the time the teacher gets rocked. Hard. And I had bones, an ego, and expensive glasses and didnt need any of those crushed. I shrugged and forced myself to sound cool, even casual: Probably call the guard.

It was so offhand, youd have thought we were discussing the color blue. I was nervous and struggling not to show it. The kids were still watching to see who was going to win. It was in my best interest that I did. Someone shifted in their seat.

The kid doubled down. I dont give a fuck! Call the guard! Urkel-looking motherfucka.

Laughter and commentary from the kids: He called that fool Urkel. This wasnt going well, but I sensed an opening.

Did you just talk bad about Urkel? I offered before I knew exactly where I was going. He was a little thrown. Something in my brain told me to pursue this line of questioning.

What?!

Did you just talk bad about my boy Urkel?

Im talking about you, fool. With yo bitch ass. Truth is, the name calling was making me see red. So I stuck with the 1990s sitcom theme to keep from busting a blood vessel.

Well, youre out of line there, I told him. No one talks about me or the homie Urkel like that! So I think its best you go to the office and think hard about what youve done! A few laughs and some quizzical looks from the rest of the class. I headed for the door while calling for the campus aide and keeping myself well outside the kids body space. He just kept cursing: Stupid motherfucka.

The aide arrived and waved the kid out, but the kid was working on a stem-winder of final curses. Maybe it was my pride, maybe something else, but I didnt want to let the recriminations go completely unanswered. My go-to is to say something funny, but the stress of the situation had thrown off my comic sensibility. Okay, Santa, I said, switching fictional characters. Merry Christmas to you too. Come back next year. The aide chuckled and I got a few more laughs from the kids. He took the student, who kept jawing the whole time. I went back into the classroom. The students were staring at me, some glaring, one or two smiling; others didnt know what to make of me. I pulled up my pants briefly so they could see my socks, and I made a show of adjusting my glasses, the way Urkel himself would do it. I turned directly to Booty with a less-than-friendly smile: Now what are you saying? I was hoping the mixture of nerdy weirdness and just-kicked-out-the-biggest-kid-in-class toughness would be enough to get her to give in, but she was staring daggers. I kept staring back at her, a direct challenge, the final risky skirmish in a battle of wills. A few seconds later she looked away, mumbling what I was sure was not the Lords Prayer under her breath. A tiny win. Very tiny. But I took it. I looked up and out at the rest of the class. Someone said, This fool crazy, as I stood with my socks peeking through the bottom of my pants. It was almost a compliment. Better to be thought crazy than a bitch-ass!