Miss Coggio’s students give her lessons in New Haven gangs and in growing (up, and older). Meanwhile, readers’ debate continues raging about the Independent’s teacher/ diarist’s decisions about when to allow students to leave the room; click here to add your comment.
Oct. 25, 2005
Ramon got arrested last night for stealing. I don’t know all the details, but that was the word first thing in the morning. Yet I saw him at school today. I called down the hallway that I heard what happened, and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at me. Ramon is involved with a gang. He wears his initiation scars like gold medals.
In Advisory today, my students got into a great conversation about gangs in New Haven. I know nothing about gangs. Never grew up with them, never knowingly have seen gang activities, nothing. I know nothing. But wow, do my kids know gangs.
What’s interesting about New Haven is that the gangs here, according to my students, have nothing to fight over except respect. What an interesting concept. It seems to me that fighting over respect is a counter-intuitive and counter-productive activity. But the kids swear that respect is what matters in the —Àúhoods of New Haven.
We talked about repping (representing) today. “I rep the Ville,” one girl said. “I rep the Tribe,” another responded. The Ville and the Tribe are virtual enemies; they are also two different locations in the city. I don’t know what that means for the two students in my classroom. They are friends at school. But on the streets?
I asked three of my more talkative students today to write to me about what it means to rep, because I don’t understand the math of it. I can’t wait to read their responses. Maybe I’ll post them up here.
The moment I walked into school today, one of my students greeted me with, “Hi Shorty.” All of my kids make fun of me because of my height. Not a day goes by that I don’t hear something about being short, being from Smallville, looking 12 years old, sitting on phone books to drive my car, needing to wear high heels to look average height. In reality, I’m really not that small. So maybe I’m a whole lot shorter than a whole lot of my 14-year-old students, but what’s the big deal?
So this one particular student, Ashley, greeted me this morning with a “Hi, Shorty” (Actually, she calls me “Shorty Doo-wop.” I don’t even know what that means.) She and her friends gathered around me as I walked in the door, coffee in hand, bag over shoulder, sopping wet from the walk from my car to the school doors.
“You know, Miss,” Ashley said, “you and I are actually the same size.” (We stood next to each other yesterday in class and measured.)
“I know!” I replied. “So why does everyone make fun of me and not you?”
And as I turn my back, she said, “That’s because I’ll keep growing. You can’t grow anymore. You’re in your thirties.”
I nearly puked. My instant, involuntary reaction to her comment was to drop everything in my hands (except for the coffee) and gasp. I grabbed my chest, fell back against the wall. It was as if I’d been shot. And it was a dead-serious reaction. I kind of snapped back into reality a moment later and played it off as if I’d been joking, but hell no. That reaction was for real.
I know Ashley was joking; she knows full well I’m 26. But for some reason, that comment hit me unexpectedly hard. I’ve been thinking about age a lot recently and wondering at what point it’s okay to be thinking about it. I don’t ever want to be the person to dwell on getting old.
Maybe I’ve been concerned about age recently because a long time ago, when I was in high school, dreaming about getting older, I told myself I’d be married at 26. I wanted to be a young mom. I wanted to have a good career, a home, and a loving (and handsome, of course) husband. Ten years ago, I wanted to be married by now. How thankful I am that my high school wishes didn’t come true! Marriage is nowhere on my radar, much to the disappointment of my mother. (When my parents remodeled our home when I was twenty, my mother told me that they chose to expand the size of the garage “just in case grandchildren want to ride their bikes indoors.” No pressure there.)
So maybe the discomfort I’m feeling these days is that these quiet expectations I set for myself a decade ago are proving not to be what I want at all. Most of my friends are married or engaged, having babies all over the place, or trying to anyways. There’s something exciting about being where I am now — “young (regardless of what Ashley says), no ties to anyone or any place, ready and able to go anywhere at anytime (as long as I can find a cat sitter.)
I’m not going to lie, though. As much as I’d like to believe I’ll be happy like this forever, it’s not true. I’m afraid of being “in my thirties” without a place I call home or a person to be next to me (not that that person necessarily will be my husband). But I know I’m not going to rush it. That I know for sure.
So, Mom, you’re probably going to have to wait a little while for the garage to be filled with the grandkids’ bikes. I’ve got a few things to do between now and then.