Pushout (11 page)

The presence of law enforcement (including school resource officers, school-based probation officers, security officers, and others) has been cited as one of the largest contributing factors to the increased rates of student citations in schools.
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The increased surveillance of Black youth in particular has led to increased contact with law enforcement, and in some cases, the juvenile court, for actions that would not otherwise be viewed as criminal, even if
they violate school rules—such as refusing to present identification, using profanity with a school administrator, or “misbehaving.”
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The presence of law enforcement in schools has instead blurred lines between education and criminal justice, as daily exchanges and interactions with law enforcement expand the surveillance of youth of color and normalize prison terminology (and culture) in school settings.
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Approximately 76 percent of students in middle and high schools nationwide attended a school with a locked entrance or exit door during the school day in 2013, an increase from 65 percent in 2011 and 38 percent in 1999.
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In this context, even asking a question can be seen as misbehavior, depending on the tone.

“What was it like to have metal detectors in your schools?” I asked.

“Annoying as hell,” Michelle said.

“You was getting checked every day,” said nineteen-year-old Nala.

“Okay, so how did that make you feel?” I asked.

“I felt like I was visiting somebody in jail,” Nala replied.

“For real,” Michelle agreed. “It's a downer for your morning to have to walk through a metal detector, you know?”

“They search through your bags and stuff,” Nala chimed in. “Especially for girls . . . like we have personal things inside of there.”

“Yeah, and they have men checking it sometimes,” Michelle noted.

Nala was referring to personal items like feminine hygiene products, extra underwear, and/or sports bras. Imagine a young girl's embarrassment to have to look at a man, or any SRO, after such an inspection—especially if she has a history of sexual victimization.

“For me that was the norm,” said Leila. “I just thought that's how school was. I actually like low-key did feel halfway protected because a girl had got sliced in the throat with a blade. And we did have a lot of fights and stuff. And so for me, I used to just walk in,
put my book bag on, and boom . . . I didn't really link it to jail or nothing like that; I just thought it was the norm, it was a lot smoother, and I still wasn't scared. I thought I'd be a lot more nervous, but [I wasn't]. . . . I just thought that's how school was, like ‘Ain't this how it's supposed to be?' Then you go to
another
school and be like, ‘Dang . . . that's how
y'all
learn.' True . . .”

Leila paused to mimic looking around the room in awe, with her eyes and mouth open as if in shock at the new environment. The young women laughed, but there was something more to be said about the different—separate and unequal—learning spaces that were provided for concentrations of poor Black and Brown children, as compared to their more affluent counterparts. Her mention of feeling “low-key . . . halfway protected” by security in school because of the threat of physical violence was part of her inability to envision an alternative. For her, surveillance was a typical strategy used to provide safety in school, as opposed to building a collective culture that elevates safety through equity and respect. This is the principle that was most elevated in her comparison between what she observed in her original school and what she observed in another school.

In describing her learning environments, Michelle mentioned that she felt teachers responded best to students who were already high performers, at the expense of other students who may have needed more attention. She linked this practice to the school-to-prison pipeline and noted it was a way of intentionally giving certain children permission not to perform well in school. She reflected on feeling “lost” in class at times, as if she was supposed to already know what was being taught.

“They'll focus on the ones that have it already, whereas if you don't, they'll just leave you be,” Michelle said. “When they come at you like you should know it already, it's like, mmm . . . should I know it already? You know, you shy away from even opening your mouth.”

“That's true,” Leila agreed. “Me being one of the people that grasps knowledge real easy, I'm one of the ones that talk too much, right? Yeah . . . I'm asking every question. I'm thirsty. I'm like, ‘Did you remember the homework assignment you were supposed to get?' . . . When I do be quiet, couldn't nobody speak up. The teacher didn't encourage them to speak up. Instead, he took me in the hallway and asked if I was okay, even though he just asked me to be quiet the day before!”

“I was the kid who was quiet, who was paying attention, but not necessarily asking questions. It was like, talk when you're spoken to . . . or be seen and not heard,” Michelle chimed in.

When girls spoke out of turn, they were often seen as disruptive.

“I was the type that asked questions,” Leila said. “Because I understood that the class didn't get it. You can feel it. So I'm one of those students that's like, ‘So you subtract the four from both sides, right?' And he'll say yes, and you can hear people be like, ‘Oh.'”

“That's what's up,” Nala said.

That's what's up among the students, because they were searching for understanding but not always getting it from their teacher. To some, Leila's willingness to speak up might be misinterpreted as being disruptive, though she saw herself as being helpful to the other students. The audacity to stand up and be heard in the face of fierce patriarchy and racial oppression is not always celebrated; instead, adults with authority have misinterpreted it as being angry and combative. Michelle's and Nala's experiences in the classroom reflect the dichotomous narrative about Black girls in schools—one loud, one quiet. Michelle's interpretation of her disconnect from the material as a pathway to confinement was largely about how the school's “permission to fail” has produced consequences that could extend well beyond unemployment. Failing out of school leads girls to the dangers of street life, so to Michelle, doing well in school was an important strategy for staying out of
prison. For Nala, who was outspoken and “thirsty” as a student, conflicting messages about her student identity complicated her relationship with her teachers, which also put her at risk of underperformance in the classroom.

Compounding these classroom dynamics were broader social conditions inside schools that led Black girls to have conflict—or an “attitude”—with others. I asked the girls in Chicago what issues or actions have set them off in the past. In response, they identified several triggers: “a look,” “the way you look at [us],” “boys,” “talking behind each other's back.”

“That's the main thing. ‘I heard you was talking about me,'” Nala said loudly.

“People hyping the situation up,” Michelle offered.

“Especially the boys . . . but the security guards and the teachers get in it too,” said Nala.

I wasn't expecting that one.

“Yeah, the security guards are the worst, though,” Michelle said. “Because the security guards will get cool with the students, and then they'll get to talking to them about the situation and then go back and tell.”

“And that's how the fight starts,” Nala said.

“So what happens when there's a fight?” I asked.

“Then the security guard will break it up and get them suspended,” Michelle said. “After they done hyped this all up . . . they live for fights, so they can have a job to do.”

“They break it up when they feel like breaking it up, though,” Leila said. “They'll sit there and watch the fight for a little while and then they'll do their job . . . so they can have something to talk about.”

For girls who attend a zero-tolerance school, the consequences of fighting are severe.

“Zero tolerance,” Michele said. “You fight, you're gone . . . I was at [an alternative school]. It was your last chance.”

“You can go to another alternative school,” Nala offered.

“Yeah, but they won't give you a reference. If you want to go to another school, they're not going to help you,” Michelle said.

“If somebody fights in a [traditional school], that's ten days automatic suspension,” Leila said. “That's two weeks of school that you already missed, and so now you're playing catch-up. So that's already unfair. But when you get into a fight, they don't solve the situation. They just say, ‘
You
go home for ten days, and
you
go home for ten days' . . . instead of trying to really figure out why did y'all fight and what's going on.”

Indeed, that was true when Leila was in school. Revisions to the Chicago Public School Student Code of Conduct now require that out-of-school suspensions be a last resort, and that schools follow specific measures to ensure that students are suspended from school for the minimum number of days.
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Also, the code requires that school employees “guide students in developing new skills in social competency, learning personal boundaries and peaceably resolving conflict, and to model appropriate social interactions.”
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To Leila, suspension is a heavy penalty that should never be taken lightly and should always be accompanied by work so that the student doesn't fall behind. But suspensions in Chicago—like suspensions in other school districts around the country—seem rarely to be coupled with an automatic learning activity or assignment.

“You can ask for your work,” Leila said. “And hope that they'll give it you.”

“Some teachers . . . if they don't like you already, they're not going to help you,” Nala said.

Throughout the country, school suspension policies differ regarding the assignment of homework, classroom activities, and/or testing. According to the Chicago Public School Student Code of Conduct, “The principal must ensure that a student serving suspension is able to obtain homework, and upon the student's return, provided with the opportunity to make up any quizzes, tests, special projects, or final exams given during the period of suspension.”
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Though most of the young women had graduated
from high school by the time we spoke, the teacher discretion that they observed may have been a violation of district policy.

Schools are supposed to be safe havens for our children and a place where their intellectualism grows and their skill sets—academic, emotional, and social—sharpen. This is achieved through academic coursework, but also through play. For children in younger grades especially, recess not only supports the academic achievement but also provides children with health benefits. Children are known to perform better on literacy tests and to be more likely to raise their hands in class after they've had a recess break.
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The benefits of recess to children with hyperactivity is even greater, as offering children a break strengthens their ability to stay on task for assignments.
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What happens when our schools remove these important opportunities for learning and recreational play and instead focus primarily on discipline?

Chicago Public Schools eliminated recess for its elementary and middle school students in 1991.
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In 1998, the district implemented a policy that granted school administrators the discretion to choose whether or not to allow recess. This resulted in two-thirds of Chicago schools opting for a “closed campus,” which means that for nearly twenty-five years, there have been children attending Chicago public schools who have never experienced school recess. This practice was condemned by the American Academy of Pediatrics, the National Association of Early Childhood Specialists in State Departments of Education, the Alliance for Children, and many others.
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Still, the decision has been left to the discretion of the schools in the country's third-largest school district, and many administrators have opted out, perceiving recess as a “waste of time.”
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For the students, this meant they had limited time to take a break, release, and reset.

“It went from learning all day, going to your prep, and then you leave,” said Michelle.

“With no breaks?” I asked.

“You get a lunch break . . . a bathroom break,” the young women said in unison.

“That's when people usually get riled up, because it's like [you've been] in school so long,” said Michelle.

“Now that's when you talk the most . . . they want you to sit at a table,” Leila said. “I been wanting to tell her something since nine o'clock! . . . It's not just 'cause they're Black. If you're born poverty-stricken, you ain't got no recess. The only time to talk is during lunch or after school. Y'all ain't got no sports. Y'all ain't got no activities. You don't have nothin' to be proud of at your school. You ain't paint nothing on the walls, or participate in nothing. You just coming from nine [o'clock] . . . to four or three-thirty.”

For these girls, the ways in which the learning spaces of children were designed to prepare students for a lifetime of institutionalization was shamelessly transparent. However, even in the context of incarceration, people get a “recess”—recreational time, usually outdoors, to take a break. In the absence of a break from the monotony of the day, girls may be less able to pay attention, more irritable and disruptive in class, and less inclined to feel connected to their schoolwork and their classmates.
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These are conditions that facilitate agitation and aggression, undermine student performance in class, and lead students to question why they are coming to school at all. Chicago has since extended its school day to provide more opportunity for recess, but there are still many young adults whose cognitive, physical, and emotional development have been harmed by the absence of recess.