Take a Small Step

All rights reserved by the artist Callandra S. Cook. Image may not be reproduced.

All rights reserved by the artist Callandra S. Cook. Image may not be reproduced.

All rights reserved by the artist Callandra S. Cook. Image may not be reproduced.

All rights reserved by the artist Callandra S. Cook. Image may not be reproduced.


All rights reserved for the artist Callandra S. Cook. Image may not be reproduced.


All rights reserved by the artist Callandra S. Cook. Image may not be reproduced.

Callandra S, Cook, or Callie as I always knew her, and I met in 2001. (I know the year because I still have my Teach for America t shirt that says 2001 corps member.) When we met, we both were recent college grads. We both were passionate. We both had signed on to do one of the most challenging jobs in the world: an inner city teacher.

But one thing I know now for certain is that we had not the slightest clue what we had gotten ourselves into nor how much it would change the very fabric of who we were. We had big hearts, sharp minds, and a sense of adventure.  TFA had chosen us well, but the choosing was only the beginning.

We sat on the campus of SUNY Maritime in the Bronx beneath the Throgs Neck Bridge in the sun. We stared at the water and chatted about where we had been, who we thought we were, and what might lie ahead. It didn’t matter that we were strangers. It didn’t matter that she was from Ohio and I from NY. It didn’t matter that we had different sexual orientation or racial background. Our paths crossed, and I still remember how fresh and new we were sitting on that concrete wall staring at the great blue expanse of water dotted with a million high rises of the city.

Callie and I did not end up teaching the same grade, or in the same school, or even living in the same neighborhood. Over our two year TFA commitment, we saw each other  quite a few times at various events, but our paths drifted apart. She stayed on after the two year commitment and my life took me to Brooklyn, where I continued to teach.

Callie and I stayed loosely connected through Facebook. I admired her dedication to the students of Baltimore from afar. Commenting on her beautiful daughter and her amazing photos of her family hiking in the woods. But most recently, I noticed her photography project and have been transfixed. I love her vision and her experience with inner city education that fuels it.

Right now education is like a minefield. A war that has polarized our country and pushed the argument far from what the children so desperately need from their schools and teachers.

Whether you love or hate TFA, charter schools, Common Core, testing, homeschoolers, public schools or private schools….I hope that you take a moment to consider supporting one amazingly dedicated and talented teacher’s project. For I believe that the only way education will get better is one visionary person at a time.  Callie is certainly a visionary.

If she does not meet her fundraising goal, she will not get any of the donations. So please check out her kickstarter site and consider taking a meaningful step in education reform.

Sure it is a small step in the face of all of the reforms, but every journey is made up of thousands of small steps.


Baltimore Memoir: Excerpt #1

The blurb of a bio that I wrote, describes a list of my experiences in black and white. But those experiences are etched in my memory in a vivid rainbow of colors. But those early years I spent in Teach for America in Baltimore , changed me the most.  Once you know the truth about poverty in America , it is not something easily forgotten.

Teach for America has been in the spotlight lately, most recently with an huge piece on NPR , which I will most likely read once I finish this post.


But whether you love what TFA does or hate it, those who have done it will tell you that it was one of the most influential experiences in their lives. Part of understanding me and the drive behind this blog is understanding what I have seen. Back in 2003 when I completed my 2 year service, I started writing a memoir about it. I never finished, because now my memories are tainted by who I am and what I think as a 35 year old experienced teacher and mother.

This is one in a series of posts that I will share from that memoir. The names have been changed, but the stories are true. They are told by me at age 22 or 23.

(This first piece I have been reading to my middle school students for years. It still gives me chills to read it aloud. I think of “Calik” often.)


Squinting into the bright May Baltimore sun, I stood ringing my little bell.  It was time to go in; across the street I saw a crowd of classes waiting to cross the street to the playground.  My goal was to get my class off of the playground before it turned into a mob scene making it impossible to extract my sneaky ones from the melee of arms and legs. Today was a good day, most of my children lined up except for three boys who clung to the swings.  I was too tired to argue so I yelled, “We’re leaving without you. I’ll just report you missing.” I began to lead the class towards the crosswalk when I heard the heavy footsteps of two of the boys running to catch up.  When we reached the crosswalk, I heard the voice of the final boy shouting, “Look at me.”  My head turned in sync with the rest of my class to find Calik standing on the top bar of the swing set.

My first thought was of motherly panic, to run and coax him down like a kitten from a tree.  However, 8 months in Baltimore had numbed me.  Instead I shouted back, “You got yourself up there, now it’s up to you to get yourself down.”  He smiled at me a wide sinister smile then, jumped gracefully -arcing into a forward flip.  It seemed like an image shot in slow motion, for my heart leapt into the arms of my brain, which was churning out images of carnage and gory headlines.  Luckily, Calik landed on his feet with the skill of a professional gymnast and ran to get on line. The children all cheered.  After a quiet sigh of relief, I turned to glare at him with my best teacher look and simply stated, “I will be calling your mother.”  (That night I did call her to inform her about her son’s dangerous stunt.  She promptly informed me that he does them backwards too.  I had no choice but to suggest that she look into gymnastics camp for him.)

*             *              *                *              *

I never believed in giving my students candy as a reward, even before America formally acknowledged its obesity problem. I know that all of the horror stories that I have about that first year teaching, would scare any novice teacher into becoming something less agonizing. However, I loved them instantaneously and it didn’t matter that I yelled at them every day. At the time, all of that seemed normal to me, because I was surrounded by it.

Anyway, on one occasion, I bought the class apples as a reward.  I had enough for every student and two or three leftover.  At the end of the day, Calik hung back, which was weird because he usually sprinted out of class before I could yell at him to slow down.  What wasn’t unusual was the fact that Darnell, his inseparable best friend, was hanging at the door screaming, “Calik, I’m leaving without you.”

“Ms. Washington, can I get another apple?”

“No, Calik, I don’t have enough for everyone to get another one. So, I am going to take these three home.”

“But, I never get to eat apples at home, and I really want another one.”

“I said no.”

“Please, I do good tomorrow.”

There was something about the urgency in his eyes that softened my weary soul, and I handed him the apple. “Just don’t tell anyone,” I said but he was already off and running before the sentence left my lips.  I went back to straightening up my room thinking about how badly he wanted the apple. Not more than five minutes passed when Calik came tearing back into the room.

“I thought you guys went home.  I am busy, and I’m not giving you any more so don’t even ask.”

“There are rocks in this apple,” he said in a muffled voice.

“Rocks? Boy you really done lost ya mind… go home, okay, I am tired.”

” Rocks, Ms. Washington, look. See? Rocks!”

Calik spit something into his hand and shoved it toward me in a jerking motion, now he was yelling, “Look! Look!”  I looked at his hand and sure enough there were five small rocks in his hand covered in blood.  Only, they weren’t rocks.  I leaned forward and he shoved his hand up closer to my face. Squinting at the crimson colored lumps, understanding sunk my heart into the pit of my stomach. Rocks would’ve made more sense.  Instead, I was eye to eye with pieces of his rotten teeth that had shattered on the firm flesh of the apple.  The healthy apple, I thought, in morbid dismay.

I remember my second phone call to Calik’s mom.  I informed her of the apple incident, awkwardly apologizing for my role in the final demise of his teeth.  I stammered to explain my logic in giving the kids apples, suddenly unsure of even that simple gesture.  His mother took the news in stride, not nearly the reaction I expected.  “That boy does nothin’ but eat that candy all day. No wonder the boy teeth done dropped out of his head.” I grasped the phone with numb fingers as I urged her to take him to the dentist.  She laughed and said they didn’t go to the dentist and that he’d get over it.  She thanked me for calling and that was that.

I went to bed that night with Calik’s words echoing in my head.  “Rocks!”