Edjumacashun in da hood, with readin’, writin’, and ‘rithmatic nowhere in sight.
In the Atlanta area in the late ’80s, there was an oversupply of teachers competing for positions in the metro area, especially in the “better” school systems. People with advanced degrees were competing with tenured teachers for the best positions available, which left me to choose from whatever was available.
I finally got an interview with Atlanta Public Schools, which had its headquarters downtown. The interviewer seemed very pleased to have a young, white Emory applicant in her office, so the interview was just a formality. She explained apologetically that there were currently no positions in the “posh” Buckhead schools (the only schools with any measurable white population), but she assured me she would place me in a “good” school.
In the end, I taught a total of two-and-a-half years in two different schools before I walked out in the middle of my third year, giving up on the “tenure” that would have been mine had I finished the year.
I couldn’t make it. Not even another day. In fact, the day after I quit, I went to spend a nice, restful week in one of Atlanta’s premier facilities: the psych ward at Peachford Hospital.
What put me there, you ask?
Spending nearly three years trying in vain to educate (or even control) uncivilized, unintelligent, impulsive, violent, illiterate five- to ten-year-olds, all the while being told that “Every Child CAN Learn,” and that any failure to do so is the fault of incompetent teachers.
During this time, I had suffered through several “evaluations” by my principals, where every little detail of my lessons were critiqued, and every disruptive or off-task act by my students counted as a “lost point” on my overall score.
If I objected, the principal would point to the new teacher next door and say, “Well, Mrs. Hudson is new, and she can control her class.”
Of course, I couldn’t point out that Mrs. Hudson is a 40-year-old, six-foot-tall, three-hundred pound black woman who terrifies me, let alone her students. That would be “racist.” So I persisted in my Sisyphean efforts for months and months, until my psyche just gave out.
The last straw was the day a kindergartner in the class next door brought crack cocaine to school for show-and-tell. He said he found it “under daddy’s mattress.” His teacher poked her head into my class and asked me to keep an eye on her children while she ran the boy up to the office. They called the father and told him to take his child home for the day; no one called child services or the police, for fear the man would get in trouble.
Leaving public school was probably the best thing I ever did, because cognitive dissonance will eventually resolve itself into either all-out psychosis, or an awakening into reality. I emerged a race realist.
Lest you think Atlanta is some sort of special case, back in the 80s my brother’s wife did her fresh-out-of-college nugget tour in the Charlotte-Mecklenburg school system. Less than a year later she emerged shellshocked and wild-eyed, with the exact same kind of horror-stories to tell as the above author. She damned near gave up on teaching altogether, in fact, despite it having been her sole ambition for most of her life.
Read all of this one, if you can bear to. The origins of almost all our present-day problems can be traced right to the government schools and the mess the Left has been allowed to make of them. If we hope to get a handle on those problems, the solution can only begin with taking them back. As Mrs Jennings concludes: “At this point, only politically incorrect solutions can save our country.” Pretty much, yeah. But then that’s only logical, since it was political correctness that wrecked it in the first place.