Flashbacks From A Southern Withdrawal

Alessandra’s mother drove me to the Village so I could hunt down the nearest coffee shop in Houston. A lawyer for several decades and still practicing, there is no lack of confidence or contrition behind her voice. “So, you’ve lived in Minneapolis all your life?” she asks during the drive. “No, I was born in New Orleans, and moved to Minneapolis when I was 4, when my parents split.” I responded.

I found no hesitation in me to tell her my parents were divorced, as she had introduced herself as a lawyer that deals with divorce cases. I don’t know why, it just seemed natural to describe my venture to Minneapolis over such a reason.

Trees tangle the air over the street. The drive began to remind me of New Orleans. There’s a certain aesthetic to plants in the south, the way they grow could be deemed an eery beauty or just the simple state of something never having to regenerate leaves from a harsh winter. The sidewalks bubble and crack from roots growing beneath them where Alessandra’s mother drops me off. It’s 9:30am and the weather is already hotter here than Minneapolis in June.

After finding a coffeeshop, I continued to walk past it into the residential area. There’s been little down time apart from crowds and the internet. The tour leading up to now has accumulated over 24 hours of driving, 4 days of late nights at South By Southwest, and a mountain of dirty laundry. Walking, for now, is a short escape before I hit the laptop and visit the world outside of real-time (gmail). Pacing toward Rice University, I turned a corner where the walkway cut off. Across the street, the walkway opened up to a giant park. A swingset or jungle gym lied in the distance, but most of it remained brown and green grass. The simplicity to it, the absence of any “Land For Lease” signs, the nature of it brought me back to Audobon Park, a green giant square mile of grass, pond and wildlife right outside of Tulane University in New Orleans.

I never really came to understand Audobon Park until I made a return to it when I was 19. On a trek to Mardi Gras with a few high school friends, I understood how my parents could fall in love with such a city.

Before I could turn my back on the park and make way to the coffeeshop I’d so casually passed by, I noticed something moving in the distance. It was a bench or something, I couldn’t make it out. Painted red and yellow, moving like a pre-programmed machine, it couldn’t have been a car or park vehicle… it was a small train. The memory surfaced like an old friend; me riding some kind of street car or small kiddie train in some park in some part of New Orleans with my father or mother. The memories are blurry from back then, but they’re visible enough for me to revisit them. The few I can recall lined up along with the street car memory, another flashback of a daycare worker lifting me to a window. Out of the window was fireworks bursting in a night sky… it was the 1984 World’s Fair in New Orleans… I was 2.

Later on, I can remember walking in on my babysitter and her boyfriend, an interracial couple which seemed perfectly damn normal to me, but not so much to the rest of Louisiana… I was 3.

And then a memory of an argument between my mother and father. I was buckled down to a kids chair in the passenger seat of my father’s Jeep while he revved the engine. My mother, outside the car, was saying something to him. They responded harshly to each other until- VROOOM. My father drove away with me in the Jeep while my mother was in mid-sentence…

That was the first time I had ever experienced a human being end a discussion without bidding a proper adieu or goodbye. My father spoke nothing of it for the rest of the trip… seemed perfectly damn normal to me then… I was 4.

Amazing what a small train running through a park in Houston can trigger.

The Velt: Chapter 3, Checking Out

After

I received an email from Michael, the principal of Roosevelt H.S. “Toussaint, we have a mess on our hands. I need you to call me asap.” That was it. Nothing else. It seems the poem I had performed to 10 different English classes created a backlash that went all the way to the top. I called Michael’s office, the secretary said she would give him a note to call me back. An hour passed, no word.

Christ man, I thought the guy said “asap”. I went back over Michael’s email… yep, right as rain he said “asap” in that email. So what was the hold up? Was he stuck in a vertigo stare at his computer per usual, or actually caught in a livid mess of parental disorder and students filing lawsuits?!?!

Before

This was it. I’d gone over the poem several times and it was damn near perfect for what the Hip-Hop Theatre was looking to do. The setup was simple, however the response was uncontainable. How the students reacted to the poem was out of my control. The goal was to address every issue Michael had given me liberty to take on, discuss the student’s ideas and get the message out that Hip-Hop Theatre would be meeting every Monday & Wednesday after school. Simple, right?

I entered my first class room. The teacher introduced me as Toussaint Morrison emphatically, and quickly sat down to her desk to deal with a plethora of papers. She didn’t check out, but was damn near close. Let it be known, cops and teachers are potentially the most underpaid pillars of our middle-class society. They earn damn near peanuts for the work they put out. There’s no pay for the hours upon hours you put in grading papers off the job, managing stress while off the clock, and so forth. In my line of work, mentoring means you have a very specific goal and job to do, it’s manageable- whereas with teaching a high school class room, it’s a one-person show… performing cirque du soleil. Dangerous, time-consuming, and emotionally draining.

“Hi, I’m Toussaint Morrison, I’m with the Hip-Hop Theatre program after school. We meet Mondays and Wednesdays in the writing center in case anyone’s interested. We’re just conducting a quick survey of each English class for some research. 3 quick questions and then I’ll be outta your hair. Sound good?” I swiftly introduced. The class, in auto drive, reluctantly agreed. Bear in mind this is 9am at the heart of a 90/90/90 high school in the state with the highest racial disparity in the country. Yeah yeah, I know I keep saying that, but it still hasn’t fully registered with some people, even myself. To understand just how behind the circumstances are, I constantly have to remind / re-educate / research to keep my perspective fresh. Perhaps you grasp it differently.

“Ok, question 1. If you were in a track race, and you knew that one of the people you were racing against was faster than you. Would you A. Stay in the race, or B. Drop out of the race?”

The class almost entirely raised their hand in favor of A. One or two students raise their hand for option B, but would soon shrug it off as joking.

“Alright, 2^nd question. If you had a test to take today and you hadn’t studied for it all. Would you either A. Take the test to best of your knowledge, or B. Skip the class, maybe go to the library and basically not take the test?

The class again favored option A.

“Last question, you’re applying for a job, but you just found out that hundreds of people are applying for the same job and the odds might not be in your favor, would you either A. Still show up for the interview, or B. Totally blow off the interview and not show?

Again, the class favored option A.

“Wow, that’s interesting. I really thought you all were going to be in favor of option B throughout the questionnaire. Wanna know why?”

Each class had a different response to this question- “Because we’re teens?”, “Because we’re young?”, “Because we’re in a public school” launched into the air. The latter always gave me a smile.

Whatever the array of answers were, my retort was the same, “No, none of that. It’s because according to the numbers less than half of you are expected to graduate high school.” A girl’s jaw physically dropped. “And the few of you that do graduate, less than half of that group is expected to be employed. So, when you think about it, you have a better chance of being poor or in prison than you do of making it to college, let alone graduating college… Man, dudn’t that piss y’all off? I’m mad and I don’t even go to this school.” Agreed, that part is harsh, however nothing the students couldn’t handle. Strange, when faced with facts of disparity and social politics, the language seemed to be more alarming than the discussions of vulgar and expletive subject matter I’d overheard from students as I entered the classroom.

The poem continued…

“I’m from the south side of Minneapolis just like you- had to deal with the same bad football teams and cold winters you had to fight thru. What’s wrong? Some of you look confused- either you’ve been misinformed or lied to. The facts are the facts, there’s no such thing as a slight truth.

Wait, am I in the wrong place? Is this the Roosevelt High School: one of the most diverse high schools in the state where future ambassadors of the south side of the city come to study?  Where inherent queens and kings of Minneapolis come to learn? Nah, couldn’t be…

I seen y’all in the hallway actin’ cooler than Kool Keith, like your swag’s on a level that less than a few can reach, talkin’ that same jive just over a new beat- oooooohhhhh weeeeeee, it must be good to be popular, good to not care, good to have the hottest wear, good to be like “I’m too good to be up in here” – and that’s good. They’d want you to think that. Know why? Because you live in a city with some of the highest racial disparity in the country. So much that even the white students can’t turn the other cheek, ‘cos the kids from Southwest and Edina still look at them funny. That’s unacceptable to me, but all I hear in the hallway is “hey, did you make the basketball team?” Wow, y’all talk about hoops like it’s gonna save the school, when you’re in a situation where the odds don’t even favor you to be able to save you.

Man, dudn’t that piss you off? I’m mad and I don’t even go to this school.

By this time, the class had fallen completely silent barring a few situations, but we’ll get into that later.

Between your middle school completions, past achievements, parents, teachers, politic’n in the bleachers  whether the basketball team’s losing or leading, what you think will happen once you leave here, and your current demeanor to act like whatever it is I have to say- you don’t need it… it’s not what you thought it was.

Your teachers put in more working hours outside of the building than in. Your principal busts his butt so much, I’m surprised I haven’t seen his head spin over the general opinion outside of the building that Roosevelt  is nothin’ but a building full of Mexicans and Somalis. Man, people will say some of the darndest things when they don’t know what to call it. Personally, I find it appauling, but I’d hate to break up y’alls conversation in the hall about ballin’.

At this juncture, from the rhyme scheme and cadence I had delivered, the majority of the classroom understood what I was putting on was a performance. The element of invisible theatre had faded and everyone was on the same page. The reaction to this particular part of racial slurs went one of two ways: Either students broke out into laughter over the recognition that they had partaken in derogatory racial slurs before as well, or gazed an intensified stare at me that’d intimidate even the father of Wolverine.

We don’t make the news until our schools get shut down because the board decided they didn’t wanna pay the lease.

We don’t make the news until our classmates get shot and left to die somewhere in a hospital or street.

When the system’s not fair, it wants you to not care.

Man, I wish y’all had somethin’ to say about that. I don’t even go to this school, and I feel like yelling out loud.” A few beats pass… “Ok, that was a poem, could anybody tell?”

“Maaaaannnnnn whaaaaat!!!” was the usual reaction. The post discussion played as “Holy shit what just happened?” We’d go over some of the subjects and/or feelings the poem/performance evoked. Why did some of the students react the way they did? Why did it make you feel backed into a corner? Do we use this language day-to-day? So, why did it cause this reaction when I said it? We’d go on and on to the point I had to omit any more questions and relay the message that this is what the after-school Hip-Hop Theatre program emphasized; confronting social issues in and outside of the school building, then designating space for you to communicate those issues through spoken word and theatre.

Overall, the poem went stellar. Teachers stopped me in the hallway to request me to venture to their classroom at specific hours to perform the piece for their students. “Yeah, they really need to hear what you’re talking about. We try to have talks on race and stuff, but they won’t have any of it.” Exclaimed one teacher.

On the downside, and there’s always a downside, some students went Rambo during the performance. One kid in a classroom just couldn’t accept that I had said “white students” in the poem. It viscerally couldn’t sit with him. As he constantly interrupted the performance, I weaved the prose to interact with him. When he answered to the poem’s piece on “better chance of winding up poor or in prison” with “you can’t say that in here”, I simply retorted “Why not? It’s true. Want me to lie to you?” The rest of the class went in uproar either against me or against the riled student. The uproar subsided, and I’d continue the poem after the point was made that I wasn’t going anywhere and I wasn’t going to sugar coat anything. Later on, the same student would interrupt again during the reference to white students, which then again I responded “Are you uncomfortable talking about race? Why?” His response of “Talking about it makes it worse?” lead me to turn a question to the class, “So, does an issue go away the less we talk about it?” As the class in unison responded “no”, I continued with the poem.

It was bumps and hurdles such as that that lead it to- welp, the program’s demise. In one class, a student responded “HEY! YOU CAN’T SAY THAT!” during the line “we don’t make the news ‘til our classmates get shot and left to die somewhere in a hospital or street”. Again, my response “Why not? I have friends that got shot and killed in high school, why can’t I talk about that experience?” to which the student sincerely said “Don’t talk about that!”. Clearly, this student had experienced what I had experienced in high school / middle school and the performance wasn’t sitting well with him. He opted to leave, the teacher permitted it, and… welp, he left. I finished the poem, we discussed.

A teacher approached me amidst leaving a class. I was getting drained. Each class was like delivering bad news at a hospital. Nobody ever takes it well. “I was curious if you could come to my class on the 3^rd floor and perform your poem.” I agreed and attended the class at the hour she had requested. This was different, something was clearly amiss here and there was no turning back. I had already entered the room and was at the woman’s desk before I knew it. The class looked to be a storage room turned to impromptu academic haven. This looked more a place for stowing away sports equipment, a large steel cupboard stood 8 feet tall next to the entrance. It just looked damning ugly and made no sense to be taking up a third of the room. A student sat behind the steel cupboard just enough that you couldn’t say he was avoiding being seen, but enough to communicate “I don’t give a fuck”. This entire classroom didn’t give a fuck. Excuse the French, but the situation was sad. This was it, this was the rock bottom. A classroom for the 4^th and 5^th strikes that didn’t exist in the real world. They’d stowed away these kids to some ridiculous out-of-reach corner of the building and left them to a young teacher trying her damndest and a television from the 90's.

The poem didn’t even play to this audience. There were maybe 8 kids in the classroom, not nearly enough to foster some kind of unison response. I literally finished the farce survey and we simply discussed their present circumstance and goals for the future. The student that sat behind the steel cupboard said with contrition that he didn’t care what the statistics said, and that he was going to graduate high school and complete college. I continued, but it was no use. A girl texted throughout the entire presentation, two girls chatted with one another, and several of the students interrupted with so many questions of “who cares?” that it was dead on arrival.

Leaving the room, I had relayed all the info I could about the Hip-Hop Theatre program, but felt suddenly devoid of a purpose in all of this. I was at the grassroots stage of organizing a group of students to give a fuck, to actually care about something- not even show up, but to care about the issues at hand. I confronted myself with the question “Am I parading on some self-righteous sociological cause for myself, or am I really trying to change something here?” The answer was the latter and partially the former. I’m passionate about this, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. How else do you bring a city to understanding its current state of affairs without recognizing it. The sad state of MN (pun intended) is that the discussion of racial disparity is absent from our culture. Sociologically, we’re screwed. I listened to NPR last week hold a forum amongst several scholars in higher up ranks of the MN Education System discussing the current state of racial disparity in Minnesota. The discussion got overwhelmingly sugar coated, bordering on optimistic. I immediately flashbacked to the kid behind the steel cupboard asking me “Where’d you get these statistics from?” After explaining to him that you can find articles on these stats from the American Psychological Association, U.S. Census, MN Compass, or really any published material in the past two years on racial disparity in Minnesota, he responded “Man, they can eat a dick”.

I set flyers out to each classroom after wrapping the performance, also leaving a poster in each classroom. Later that day, I had the largest turnout of students since I had started the program. 8 students not only attended, but brought forth personal stories of their experience with race, class, ethnicity, etc. The session was amazing. We went over the syllabus, drew out plans for the January performance, delved into the subject matter the students wanted to cover for the stretch of the program and went through a few Theatre of The Oppressed games via Boal. Success.

The stage was set for the next 10 weeks to engage and hone the skills of the students to give a slam poetry and theatrical performance for January.

After

Michael finally called me back. “Hey, Toussaint- yyyeeaaahhhh, we gotta big mess on our hands”.

“Ok, so what’s up?” I humored the tension in his voice.

“Welp, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna pay you $500, and we’ll just call it quits. And if we ever need your services down the road, I’ll definitely give you a call”.  He said in the nicest and most passive way possible.

“Alright, sounds good”. Why I agreed to such a shorthanded offer, I still can’t tell you why, but I did. I was contracted for $3000. Do the math as you will, but it just sounds nastier when you hear "paid less than a third of what was promised." Cheers, here's to not committing that part of the story to memory.

Slighted, hurt, and damn deflated I had to seriously ask myself if walking into a high school classroom and delivering the message I delivered in the way I delivered it was the right thing to do? More importantly, if given the opportunity again, would I have done it any different?

The answer is “Absolutely not. I would not have done a single thing different had I the same opportunity". Looking back at it now, several months passed, there’s undeniable hurt I feel at what transpired. I empathize with the student that walked out on the performance, as after I experienced the same tragedy of losing a classmate to gun violence, I didn’t want to hear any of it. I emotionally shut down in those instances, and can relate with his reaction. But (and a big BUT), still looking back at what happened, there was just no way I was going to walk into a classroom and lie. When a patient’s in critical condition, the doctor doesn’t tell them “Hey, it’s going to be ok”. Per request of Michael, the school’s principal, and several teachers who had requested me throughout the day to perform for their class and address issues of racial disparity and education, I was going to communicate what the current situation is and in a manner that got the attention of the Roosevelt H.S. student populous.

The success in all of this were the poems I received from the students that attended the final Hip-Hop Theatre session. The sad part was having to email them back, telling them to keep writing out their opinions and experiences, however that it would meet no stage in January due to the sudden cancellation of the Hip-Hop Theatre program. In addition to that, I found the unconventional success of addressing these issues unbeknownst to nearly every English class that day in Roosevelt H.S. Nobody had ever set foot in my high school classrooms and relayed that kind of information or empathy. Although I had many a great mentor outside of school, there was never anyone that dared step into a classroom to alert every student of color to the city’s current stratification.

The best way I can put it is if there were a fire in a building, damn right I’d go to every room and alert everyone- hey there’s a fucking fire in the building, spread the word and take necessary action. However, as I asked in the beginning of this post “Would anyone care if I told them the gravity of the situation?” the answer from the Roosevelt Faculty is “not enough”. The hollow nature Michael had exhibited in our first interactions was a clear red flag to me. He couldn’t have been interested in actually saving this school, the guy wasn’t even operating to the key of anything to save. What blew my mind was the sense of “Hey, everything’s going to work out” that Michael carried wherever he went. Perhaps I’ve gone cynical in my days of touring the country holding educational theatre performances on race, gender, sexual orientation and substance abuse.

It would take me nearly 2 months later to collect any form of pay Michael had promised, and several visits back to the building just to ensure the check was mailed. The result of the entire transaction is disappointment. In my opinion, there are a damn many gifted teachers and staff working for the success of its students, however the foundation from which they operate is already so flawed and gravely dysfunctional that it sustains the disadvantage for students of color and inner-city youth to graduate high-school at a college-ready level. Sugar coating nothing, Roosevelt H.S. is a disservice to its students.

The Roosevelt Student populous is a brilliant one with vibrant energy and ability to introspect. Ironically, like a sad joke, that brilliance and ability goes unfostered in a continual perpetuation of racial disparity by the same public school system promising farce equity.

The Velt: Chapter 2, Seven Years Removed

Having mapped out the syllabus for a 12-week curriculum of slam poetry and theatre improv, the after-school program was prompted to begin. Michael, the principal of Roosevelt H.S., sat at his desk in the usual position of back turned and staring at his computer screen like an oracle. “I think we can start this as soon as next week?” I said with a slight question at the end. The entire operation had been tedious at best. Although Michael and Hassan had been brimming with enthusiasm to calibrate a theatre program- a drama program- some kind of program for the students to have an artistic outlet, their understanding of the syllabus seemed to be non-existent. I had engaged with Michael less than a handful of times and he was already entrusting me to teach a 12-week after-school extracurricular for $3000. I mean, the guy barely knew me, had never seen me perform a lick of theatre let alone slam poetry and was handing over the keys to a 90/90/90 high school after-hours to teach kids how to… speak for themselves.

Problem: Again, this is a fng 90/90/90 school. Reference The Velt Chapter 1 if you have no clue what 90/90/90 is, and also you shouldn’t be reading Chapter Deux if you haven’t read Chapter Uno- shame on you. However, taking you know what I’m talking about- a 90/90/90 school is in absolute need of an after-school organized activity to assert students to speaking for themselves in an artistic or formal manner. The opportunities were limitless in this position; we’d study Bao Phi, Augusto Boal, Neruda, Shane Hawley, Shakespeare, KRS-ONE- we’d cover it all. This is unprecedented. This wouldn’t be Hot Cheetohs & Takis, we’d turn it to Politics & Hegemony! I was excited, couldn’t wait to get down to business.

First thing was first, in any form of introducing a new class or event to a populous, time to print posters. I put together an 11x17 bill to promote the after-school’s presence and plan of action. Pause- what’s the name of the thing- I mean, what’re we calling said after-school activity? Politics & Hip-Hop- Slam Poetry 101- Fight The Power, Write For Hours? Christ, I hadn’t even thought of this. “So, I’m sending out the FYI to the faculty, what’re we calling this?” Michael said bluntly with his back turned at his computer. “Umm, Hip-Hop Theater” I said. It was ballsy, not over academic, but a bit much- almost an oxymoron. Hip-hop is theater, and theater isn’t necessarily hip-hop… jargon aside, it stuck. The kids had to know that hip-hop was involved, that they’re voice would be given a stage to say what they felt or had been feeling for some time and never had a proper setting to voice it. In the latter, they had to know that we’d be dealing with scenes that they’d be curating the scripts for and playing out reflections of their lives in and outside Roosevelt H.S.

A majority non-white high school, on the brink of getting shut down in a city that had all but pulled the plug on its life feed, was putting me in charge of a hip-hop theatre program… this is serious shit, man. There are no arbitrary moves made in this building, you can damn near see the tension wafting from the walls of Roosevelt H.S… from the outside.

After plastering over a dozen posters around the school, my time had come. Michael gave me the option of using the writing center’s room or going with an abandoned band room. The band room was a sad sight while empty. Outside of it sat a poster of Tapanga from Boy Meets World promoting kids to not drink and drive. Michael played a good Fix-It Felix for the while I was there, but at first sight of a poster from the early 90’s sitting on a door… it gave me reason to think twice. Was Roosevelt actually invested in seeing their students succeed, or was it just a farce with the name “Wellstone” tagged to its title outside the building? Something was amiss. Something didn’t sit with me well, like a rollercoaster I had already been locked into, my only options were to defy logic and make a bloody jump off the ride… or travel the predestined rails it had already set in place. Couldn’t back down at the beginning of a job. It would be a balancing act of trusting Michael and implementing  a space for students to talk about sociopolitical subject matter through art.

First day on the job- I avoided the dungeon/cavern of broken dreams from the 90’s (the old band room) and opted for the cushy writing center. Plus, the first day wouldn’t necessitate a lot of space, just room to sit and chat. The goal was to get a feel for the subject matter the students wanted to talk about, the direction they wanted to take their writing, and then integrate that into the hip-hop theater’s plan of action. I sat on the stiff red couch which looked more welcoming than it actually was. Felt like I had sat on a brick bench once I hit the damn thing. Ok, it’ll get better. Can’t wait to meet the students and see what ideas and words they wanna throw forth to paper.

Five minutes pass… No one in attendance yet. I grabbed some papers from my bag to go over the syllabus a 2^nd, 3^rd  - enter the first student… and another. Sidenote: I’m not going to go into any detail of anything discussed between the students and I during the after-school program. It’s arbitrary to the point of the story, and plus... that shit is private. Working with youth has been one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever come across in my lifetime, and now, engaging with primarily youth of color at a city high school to create poetry was beyond ideal.

The hurdle now, was getting kids to actually show up to the program… consistently. If we were to put on a performance at the end of the curriculum, how would we make it happen with spotty attendance? It was going to take a team, and after two weeks (4 classes) passed, it wasn’t working. At most, I’d had 4 different students show to Hip-Hop Theater and 2 students show at a time. The subjects and work we created for those two weeks were absolutely amazing. We’d covered sociology inside and out of Roosevelt, hierarchy within the household, and street politics.

The idea and space was creating a dim glow- some kind of light nonetheless, and I wouldn’t stop at it there. Wrapping the 4^th class, I made an impromptu entrance to Roosevelt the next day to visit with Michael. Always busy with something or what seemed absolutely nothing, Michael welcomed me to his office. “The turnout for the hip-hop theater after-school program is pretty dismal, and I want to make a go of garnering more interest in the program.” I confidently declared. Brimming with energy as usual, Michael replied “Yeah- sounds great!”

“I’d like to go into a few classrooms and perform some slam poetry to give the kids an idea of what it is they could be a part of after-school”, I proposed. Michael again enthusiastically agreed. I was determined to turn the general student populous of Roosevelt High School’s attention toward their potential to speak through art for just a second, if even. I hadn’t performed serious slam poetry for over 7 years. Honestly, nothing scares me more than being on stage with no beat and my own words. It’s possibly the most vulnerable I’ve ever felt; to get up in front of a crowd of strangers and speak with the promise that my word is worth everyone’s time. I also, fucking love it- love being at the precipice of a moment to orchestrate a skill and instrument I’ve been passionate about since birth.

I couldn’t just roll up to each English class and rock a poem I’d written years ago about some opinion from some political or personal issue. I’d have to reach even the most checked out kid in the class room. Beyond 7 years of not performing serious slam poetry, it’d been even longer since I’d written a new poem. So, what better time to start than now- write a piece revolving around the issues Michael had communicated to me at the beginning of this whole thing; 90/90/90, lack of enthusiasm enrolling to a school that was your 2^nd or 3^rd choice, being the most diverse school in the state, student violence, etc. The list could rant if it wanted to, but I’d have to be direct. Make a straight shot to the heart of Roosevelt’s current circumstance sitting as an dim star on the edge of South Minneapolis. Question was, how would the students respond to the poem?

What occurred next was nothing short of an ugly success. (To be cont.)

The Velt: Chapter 1, 90/90/90

It’s clear this room hasn’t been refashioned since the 70’s. With the makes of a studio police cubicle farm or library, I would not change a single thing within the Roosevelt High School Principal’s Office. I’d visited a principal’s office on more occasions for breaking something, disobeying a teacher, or fighting. My middle school days were notorious for running through the hallways without a hall pass, conspiring against authority, and prying the self-esteem apart from bullies older than me. All of this accomplished with dedicated partners in crime, Idrissen and Tony. We’d separate as we grew older, and little did I know that I’d be attending many principal offices in the future working with adolescents, special education, and now art.

Already late for the meeting, the arrangement was more official than I had presumed. I entered the glass encased office. A tall gangly white gentlemen, Hassan and a shorter brown woman who I presumed to be the principal sat at the only table in the room. I sat. “My apologies for my tardiness, traffic”, I discreetly fibbed as I pulled up to the table.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m Michael” introducing himself. “This is Denise, our assistant principal.” Realizing the tall gangly white man to be the principal I turned my attention toward him. The shorter brown woman I had mistaken for the supreme authority of the school still had an air about her that wreaked of “I don’t play that shit”. A little intimidated I let Michael  the talking. “So, can you all give me some kind of background on Roosevelt as of right now?” I asked.

“Well, we’re a 90/90/90 school, which means Roosevelt ‘s student population is 90% of color, 90% at poverty level, and 90% studying at or below grade level… “. My thoughts blanked for a moment. I’d realized working with the kids in pre-K and 3-5^th grade that it was bad... Kids of color disheveled in classrooms, mentally checked out dealing with anything and everything outside of the building, leaving school to trek back to an abusive home, leaving school to enter a world of apathy and classism. When you’re standing toe-to-toe with a 9 year old that has emotional behavior disorder while clutching their forehead in frustration, there’s a point of understanding that this can get better, that we can potentially make it- that no one is here to fix or change you, but to see you become the person you were meant to be and quite possibly become the success your imagination has stretched to fathom. Fast forward half-a-decade and those same kids are in high school. Imagine it never got any better, imagine it got worse. This was the graveyard for the aspirations and hopes we had for our students in elementary school... this was a Minneapolis high school that didn't have the word "south" anywhere in its title, this was reality. Sitting next to Mr. Bradley and the clean-up crew, there is an understanding that it will get worse before anything begins to turn down a better path. In my head, I’d screamed “holy fucking shit man, let’s get these kids out of here.  90 90 90??!!?!?! This is bad man- fucking MAY DAY!” several times, but kept myself to sitting, smiling and listening.

Michael went on, “We also had a student who was shot and killed this past June just before graduation. It was a real tragedy. He was well known in the school, everybody was really impacted by this, and… yeah. Denise, anything you want to fill in on?” Michael spoke with contrition, but still there was something in the damn room that was missing. It wasn’t Michael the short brown woman’s intimidating army lieutenant demeanor, or Hassan’s concern to see this all work out- a necessity to this conversation was horribly absent. Not a second to waste man, get it together and listen to these people! They have money and they will pay you for art! I’d subscribe to the devil on my shoulder, but I was curious about this school and the mystique to a building that had been underfunded and neglected to near death.

With nothing to lose, but a job, I asked “Is the school in any jeopardy to be shut down due to everything you just told me?” Michael sighed and responded “Our enrollment has been on a decline for the past decade. Since I’ve become the principal two years ago, the school has seen its first incline in enrollment in a long time.”

Fascinated none, I continued “How many students attend Roosevelt High School?” “802” he answered. The discussion continued of Michael s vision to have every student involved in an extracurricular activity at the end of the day. Since he had graduated with a theatre degree from the University of Iowa, he was enthusiastic for me to work with the students on theatre and slam poetry. Pressed for time, we halted the dialogue to pick up at a later date.

Days later, I emailed Michael a schedule and syllabus propositioning the after-school theatre program we had discussed. It would take place twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) after school for two hours. The students would create their own performance, rehearse it, and present it to the city- blah blah blah the formalities of creating any performance between an artist and institution of academia. What drew me in further than anything was exact thing that had been absent in the room at the meeting. Although Michael's mouth was moving, the short brown woman carried the “no shit” attitude, and Hassan had a 200% genuine interest in helping the school- sweet Jesus, something was gone- something intangible. Wait, you mean to tell me a leader of the student body was shot on the southside of Minneapolis less than half a year ago, 90% of your students are performing at or below their grade level, and last year you cut the varsity football team! It boggles the mind that a high school rest on academic failure and have no football team to bury the conversation with it. I mean, nothing covers your ass like “we suck at school, but we kick ass in athletics”. My petty concerns aside, the subject that lambasted me was the enrollment of 802. Roosevelt High School is a huge building that could fit 2000 students, if I had to gander. To see it at less than half-mass is relative to watching a 2 on 5 basketball game. 

Minnesota is #1 in the country for racial disparity in education, meaning the gap of academic achievement between white students and students of color is largest in Minnesota…

Zoom in.

Minneapolis and St. Paul are the bane of urban culture in the state of Minnesota, carrying the country’s 2^nd highest racial disparity in the country where people of color are 20 times more likely to be pulled over, coveted, or questioned by police than white people…

Zoom in.

Roosevelt High School has the highest population of students of color per capita than any other Minneapolis High School let alone in the state of Minnesota. To say it’s on the fringe of failure would be a lie. I will be absolutely truthful with you, the school is already a failure in a system that has already failed it. In a society where a C is a passing grade, there are places where anything below an A is failure- anything below an A is a means and request to do better. Here, at Roosevelt High School, the life support has been trashed and is a mockery of what it could be. We all may differ on standards of academic success, but I dare challenge you to challenge yours. Just because someone drew a line and told you it was where the race finished, doesn’t mean you should stop running.

Leaving the building, looking at the YMCA across the street my family friend, Barb Jones, had cultivated into a haven for kids of color, bi-racial kids, and interracial families, I remembered her brazen daily war waged against the societal standard set for the city of Minneapolis. Barb was from Cleveland, so you can imagine her perception of the Twin Cities’ passivity toward white privilege and race. She instilled a fire inside every employee at that YMCA to break the frame of their perception and re-calibrate their standard of success right now. Years ago, Barb passed away from cancer. With every fiber of me and minute of life I have on this rock, I can only hope to accomplish a fraction of what she had accomplished in her legacy. I want these kids to have a voice outside of a building that had become the crux of racial disparity amongst the worst in the country.

It was then I recognized what was missing in the room. Here, a school quickly becoming the nation’s leading definition of institutional racism, abandonment, and negligence… and nobody in the building acknowledges it. Although Michael, the principal, spoke with conviction toward Roosevelt’s situation, I had just realized that not a single student understood the actual gravity of the circumstance. I’d dare them to speak on it, write on it, and perform it through the program Michael commissioned me to teach at Roosevelt. The problem now lie in getting the students to actually care about something they had a stake in.

The Velt: Prelude

I can’t withstand it anymore. The Spyhouse Coffee Shop has to go. Some of my best work was written there- entire albums, play scripts, most my literary livelihood can be credited to the damn place, it was a sanctuary for concentrating. However, the shitty internet connection and effortless condescension from the baristas have gone beyond the point of return. This morning has to be christened with a new venue, a fresh start, a place where no one knows my face or name… the Loring Park Dunn Bros.

I pack my belongings and backpack and make way to the new location to write. Enter Dunn Bros, any Dunn Bros, coffee bean scented with newspapers rustling about. It's perfect- this table’s comfortable, hell, I could start a new home here- Baristas are nice, the place is huge, beautiful view of Loring Park without getting held up for your wallet- I’m in. “Hello, you are Toussaint Morrison”, a soft voice in an East African accent quietly interjected to my left. “Are you still writing plays”, the voice asks. I turn, it’s a familiar face. I’ve seen this man- dammit he’s familiar as all hell- I feel like I’ve known him my entire adult life, but never exchanged a word or name with him. “Hi, I’m Toussaint” totally not answering his question.

“You know, you should come to Roosevelt. They need some kind of theatre there. You could teach the students!” the familiar East African man excitedly clammered. This guy clearly doesn’t know me as well as I think I recognize him. “I mean, I don’t know how much they could pay you, but the school could really use someone like you around”, he went on.

We ran track together- recognized him from the old city track & field showdowns at Washburn H.S... as well as the social grid of the University of MN. I’d been in proximity for the past decade with this guy and still didn’t know his name. “Hassan. I work at Roosevelt”, he said.

Teach theatre to kids? What would I say to them? Hi, I'm Toussaint. Most times I open my mouth, people get pissed off, I get slapped, I get paid, or I win a poetry slam?

Hassan, it is. I’ll take you up on the offer after I finish working out the details on this song about Risperdal and emotional behavior disorder. This should be damn fun. And by fun I mean I have absolutely no clue of the opportunity you just extended. The little I do know of Roosevelt High School is that it’s the alma mater of several of my best friends, several infamous athletes, and an easy target if you had to point your finger in the direction the school you most likely did not want to wind up at. Sitting right next to perennial academic success school Minneapolis South H.S. and a not too distant Minneapolis Southwest H.S. (#1 in the state).

Distressed by what I just said? Don’t be. It was the first thing I was informed of when I stepped into my first meeting at Roosevelt. “Most kids wind up here that applied for Minneapolis South or Southwest, and are a bit discouraged that they didn’t get in”. F that. I want to give these kids a voice, a stage, a mic- something in which to brand their creative thumbprint on their city.

Somewhere along the line, the city had failed the building, abandoned it beneath the shadow of South, Southwest, and a deplorable public school system that ranks dead last in the U.S. for racial disparity in education.

Some while ago, somehow… the bar was settled near the floor for the standards of Roosevelt H.S. I was going to challenge that- change it, even. Most importantly, I wanted to know what the students had to say about it.

The Biggest Hands I Ever Did See

It was exactly what I had hoped would happen, to be socially stranded at some bar while my friends made off with their friends and be forced into the realms of the awkward. Brooklyn had been stand-off’ish, but nice up to this point. I had come to the Brooklyn Whiskey with Lucia to meet her Teach For America buddies, a circle of broughams from separate corners of the country all brought together for two things: to teach a low-income/neglected student base, and say “yes, I lived in New York for a time or two, let me tell you…”  They were a brotherhood of sorts, and as time passed on (20mins) the riotous pack of Teach For America fellows became enthralled with Lucia. It seemed as if they’d been denied something for the past, oh, year or so.

“What time do you guys usually have to be up in the morning?” I insisted to the tallest of the Teach For America fraternity pack. “Usually 5am, but not tonight. Tomorrow’s a government holiday.” He replied from the side of his mouth while scouring the scene of Sunday late-nighters and mid-Autumn skirts. I glance back to my go-to, the New Orleans Saints game on one of the dozen television sets hanging from the ceiling.

“I can’t wait to be the fuck up outta there though” the frat pack For America leader murmured from the side of his mouth again. “Really? How often you think about just up and leaving the Teach For America job?” I asked. “Every God Damn day” he replied still scouring the floor. “So why don’t you ?” I retorted. The Teach For America frat leader turned from his skirt scour and looked me in the eye from the half a foot he stood above me. “Because I made a promise. I gave them my word that I’d complete two years with the program. After that, never again” He grimly replied. The amount of integrity just emitted was beyond my limitations for the night, radioactive perhaps.  I had not anticipated words to be delivered with the contrition I had received them from this man.

“Shit, sucks to-“ Shit, Drew Brees just made a play and it’s under review. This could be the God Damn game. I broke from the conversation while pack leader corralled a circle of women. My gaze widening into the television set with hopes the Saints would break their two-game losing slump.

The referee trots to the center of the field, opens his mouth to give the verdict- BOOM! A hand slaps right in between my shoulder blades. My arms flail back for a split-second from the impact of the blow. This can’t be an accident. No one bumps into somebody this hard unintentionally. There was a purpose to this strike- a message I was being sent. Before I could gather my balance, the same hand that struck me pulled me in tightly by the right shoulder. I could feel each callus from the hand forcing me closer to the perpetrator- each callus a pillow, but the hand almost touching from the top of my shoulder to my elbow- is this person wearing a fucking catcher’s mit?!?!

“Are you fuckin’ Dino’s brother!?” a baritone voice bellows  to my left. “Ah- wha-what?” I respond in all respects, the bar so loud, this gentlemen speaking in a pitch that matched the DJ’s bass, I couldn’t make out a single syllable he was saying. “Dino’s brother?!?!?” He bellows again. This man is on a mission. I still couldn’t make out what he was saying, but turning into him was like turning towards your father for the first time as a toddler. The man was a giant. Short in stature, but his features absolutely huge in relation to everyone else in the bar. He would have no problem managing an NFL running back to the ground, he would give a pro-wrestler and career ending injury, he could quite break my arm right off with his drunken choosing. This man is a reckoning. Anyone choosing to physically oppose him would put himself in discreet jeopardy of losing his life or having to suffer multiple broken bones in the process of eeking out an unlikely victory. 

I've seen how these things work out- I've watched the treachery of drunken bar brawls end in skulls slamming against the sidewalk, internal bleeding, ambulance speed racing through the night to rescue some unnecessary violence spilled onto the streets outside some bar in some town over some bullshit.There would be no fashion or finesse in this situation if I didn't look this man in the eye. 

I turn toward face of the inaudible voice. Breath wreaking of dark booze, a bomb-shell cougar to his side, and a few other friends staring me down at the bar, I had to think of something quick. “Ahhh, no” I said. I had no clue what I was speaking to, but I figure to deny whatever this gargantuan gentlemen might be accusing.

“Really, you don’t know Dino!?!?!” he laughed. I could hear him now. “Ha.. no, no clue” I timidly smiled back. “Hey, you Dominican?!?!?!” he asked.  “Uhhh, no. I have an uncle in the Bahamas though” I shouted over the bar speakers. “Alright! Alright! I thought you were this motha fucka, Dino’s brother!!! I was gonna punch you right in the fuckin’ mouth y’know!” he confessed with a celebratory smile, almost relieved he wouldn’t have to deal out a mandatory ass whooping to the guy he thought I was. “Oh… Ha… Nope, not me. I’m in town from Minnesota. Couldn’t be me.” Still holding a nervous smile.

Our conversation continued onto complex subjects such as the ominous state of the Vikings and the potential bright future of the New York Giants. After bidding adieu, I returned to the Teach for America crew still corralled around Lucia, and exhaled a sigh of reluctance at the topic of discussion being once again Teach for America. It is memorable to stand toe-to-toe with another human being that admits they were going to punch you in the face at first sight of you, rather than to discuss how much you hate your job. Later that night in a taxi cab en route to the Fat Cat, the driver asks me if I'm related to ex-Major League Baseball  player, Moises Alou… again, Dominican. Alas, I am not. We chat in Spanish for the rest of the car ride, the least I can do for the deflated excitement he faced thinking I was related to baseball greatness. Whilst avoiding getting pummeled by the biggest hands I ever did see, the amount of reintroduction required to be racially ambiguous in New York City is enjoyable… when visiting.

The Meanest Thing Someone Ever Said To Me

A gust of wind hummed softly down Grand, the final breaths of the hurricane resonated upon Brooklyn. She mercilessly had her way with Queens, shut down electricity to the largest borough in New York, but Williamsburg would have none of it. Helen and I walked Grand on my last night in New York. No one had carried me through this trip chalk full of cancellations and unexpected adventure more than that of Helen. We’d been friends for the better half of a decade meeting at the Purple Onion studying at the U of MN, and by some unlikely series of events, we’ve remained friends since. Helen let me crash on a foam bedding at her apartment while I settled in town. We kept each other company throughout the past week of cabin fevered rainy days,  credited to our love for music, beer, and conversation unveiling vulnerability. Sharing your worst fears, shittiest past happenings, and untold stories with someone will eventually bring you closer to them in spirit and friendship… as it has for Helen and I.

Neighborhoods forced upon themselves with the MTA shut down, streets gridlocked in cars fending for their spot by way of four-block lineup to the gas station, ATMs thoroughly dried of every dollar- I felt I’d done and seen it all this past week; Harlem to Connecticut, friends past and present, artists and DJs from 6-digit incomes to no-digit incomes. My mind was going into a blur and could only think of one thing: sushi.

“What’s the place called again?” I asked Helen. “Hirachi- Hobachi…” she answered. We’d know it when we saw it, I figured. Still blocks away, we chatted up our favorite subject: relationships. As it came about, Helen told a story that brought her to a stutter. Usually we tell each other arcs and tales of our experiences in friendships, relationships, family, etc. Something was different about this time. Helen had ventured down a road, peeling back the layer of a memory she didn’t want to revisit.

“It’s cool, you don’t need to tell me” I handed her the least awkward out I could think of, even though it was still damn awkward. “No- No, no. I’ll tell it”, she persisted… and then stopped again. It was like jumping the high dive for the first time. Once she stepped off the board, there was absolutely no coming back. I felt nervous for her.

She spilled the story. It was horrible, not the story but what the happening in the story. Helen had told me one of the meanest things anyone’s ever said to her. Although it had been years since Helen experienced these hurtful words, her face welled with tears at the thought of it. “That’s fucked up” crossed my mind to comfort her, but everybody says that shit when someone starts to expose their heart right then and there.

“That’s fucked up…” I said. “It just hurts y’know- it fuckin’ hurts.” Helen went on.  “Have you forgiven this person for saying this to you?” I asked. “Fuck no! Hell no” she declared.

“I’ve seldom experienced anything more powerful than forgiveness”, somehow came aloud from my streamline of consciousness. “Might be something to look into”.

I then thought about all the hurtful words that have been dealt my direction. I’m in the business of spoken word, written word- I’m in the business of language, so for me to be viscerally shaken by someone’s word- well, it’d take something pretty damn strong.

We sat for sushi. “When people say something, or even write something, with the intent to maim your emotions… you have to understand the source. If Person A were to shout to Person B across the street, “Hey you’re a fucking prick bastard son of a bitch” and we happened to pay witness, who would we be staring at?” I said. “Person A, the person that shouted the insult” answered Helen. “Correct. It’s classic. A maneuver we master in elementary school, and engrain into our psychi throughout adulthood. If someone says something- well, it must have some merit to it, right? Again, we should concern ourselves with the source… it’s shitty, we exacerbate what’s been said by collapsing stories about ourselves on top of it. Our self-esteem shakes to pieces, and we’re left with a horrible feeling at the pit of our stomach- the intended result of our culprit… Mind if I tell you the meanest thing that’s ever been said to me?” I asked Helen. “No, not at all” she replied.

“Ok…” I had to figure out how I was going to say this. I’d never told anybody this before- I mean, folks have said some crazy shit to me in the past, but this had taken the cake by a long, long shot. “Well, here it goes…

… I was in Mexico with my girlfriend, Consuela, at the time. We had been together for several months and had already taken on a pattern of breaking up and getting back together, arguing like we were fighting for child custody (hence, we had no children), and trusting each other as far we as we could throw one another. Yes, it was a relationshit, but here we were in Mexico. Aside from the bad, there was an immense amount of good to Consuela and I. She had the ability to go calm under pressure and make a decision out of her best reason. I admired her at the moments most would panic. However, there still lay the eye of the tiger layered deep beneath the surface, Consuela could unleash a heat unbeknownst to hell. At the precipice of her anger she would just… walk away. Didn’t matter if it was a family dinner or hanging out in a remote city on a road trip… she’d just walk away. Her ability to dissociate, and my ability to emotionally shut down made for a vendetta. In the end, I’d swear we were sleeping with one another under the code of “keep your enemies closest”. I digress, we were trying- she was a dreamer, I was/am a hopeless romantic. For what it was worth, we were in Mexico.

I flickered through my book of scribbles, verse, prose, and things not to forget. “Read me one of your pages” Consuela asked. Usually I laugh at the person, give a uber-serious comedic stare, and not read them anything from the book. Consuela was different. She was a talented writer, and had a genuine interest in what I was translating from my brain to pen to paper, so I took pride in sharing any current work with her. I read her a page. “Now, you read me a page from your book” I asked. Consuela was always writing in her journal. I’d never had an interest in it, but figured to return the favor while we passed the time in a 20^th floor hotel room in Cancun.

Consuela paged through her journal to a random spot… her face fell for a split second- “What is it?” I jutted. “Noth-nothing” she claimed. Something was up, this wasn’t like Consuela to emote hesitation… ever. “Umm, so ya gonna read it?” I egged on. “Not this one. I really can’t” she dodged. “How ‘bout this one- ok here we go”, Consuela read me an excerpt from her journal. It was nice, pretty, civilized, everything she’d have the universe believe she always was and is. We adjourned to get ready to go out for the night. I finished up writing, Consuela took to the shower… leaving behind her journal wide open on the bed.

My eyes pulled away from the verse I’d been focused on for the past hour. What the hell had she written that she couldn’t share? Consuela had never been the type’a gal to go gunshy. She’d curse out a war veteran if she felt it was justified. She’d relayed nearly every ugly inch of her past to me, or at least I thought. Dammit man, get the idea of out your head! Opening that book can do no God damn good!

I did it. Creasing open the page she’d forbade herself to read, I noticed “father” of all the words on the page. “Toussaint tells a sob story about the absence of his father throughout his childhood. I think it’s just to pin himself as the victim and create some kind of sympathy for himself. Honestly, I believe he’s afraid of his father because he subconsciously knows he’s going to end up just as shitty a father as him, if not worse.”…

…

…

…

And there it was. The meanest thing I’d ever paid witness to that had been put out into the universe. Sure people have thought worse, said worse behind closed doors, written worse in books out of sight… but that was the worst my attention had ever paid witness to. “Holy Shit, that bitch is cold as ICE!!!” I thought to myself. I went numb, and then apathetic, and then to logic; well, God forbid I ever have children with this woman, she’d frown upon my every move- well, if I can’t have children with the gal I’m with based on the fact that she thinks I’d be a terrible father, then I could never marry her- shit, if I can’t see myself marrying her, what the fuck am I doing in Mexico with the chick?!?!?- oh, that’s right. Christ, I gotta get outta here… details aside, we broke the day we returned to Minneapolis. With that said, that… was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me.

I know what you’re thinking “Oh, but it wasn’t said, it was written”- dammit, in my book it’s the same accountability. If you’re gonna write it, you should accept responsibility like you said… aloud… with a megaphone… directly in the ear of the listener.

The thing with hurtful shit people say is that you learn to forgive them. The anger turns to disappointment toward them… and you move on. The word, the action, the source of the malicious intent has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the person producing it.” Helen picked up her jaw from the table. “Waaaaoooooow (high pitch Fran Drescher voice), that’s rrrrreally fucked up!” Helen gasped. “I know” I smiled. “Forgiveness, though. You might wanna put some thought into that” I concluded before we dove into our sushi as if we’d been starving for the past two days, then to galavant Brooklyn ‘til the wee hours of the night.