You & I
June 1, 2020
I spent the year after college teaching in a low-income, all-Black school. I started making art largely because of that experience—because I wanted to make an impact and knew creativity would most allow me to do that.
I haven’t always known what that impact looks like, but this week, the words are pouring out of me. I can share my story.
As I watch the outpouring of emotion across the nation about George Floyd, I can’t help but think about my students and how injustice doesn’t start with grown men—it starts with kids. It starts with systems like education that have failed generations of Americans, especially Americans of color.
I don’t pretend to know the experiences of my students. I will never know what it is like to be them. But my year of teaching gave me a glimpse.
This week, I wrote a poem—for you and for my students. I hope these stories give you a glimpse, too.
You and I
By Stephanie Kirkland
You and I are very different.
Me—pale, easily burned.
You—a beautiful shade of coffee.
I grew up far from here,
In a zip code that has only grown
In demand and popularity.
(It’s a “good school district,” people say.)
Meanwhile, your town is slowly dying.
The county seat, the town where your parents
And your parents’ parents lived their entire lives.
The birthplace of Coretta. Home of one of the
Oldest schools for Black children in the nation.
Home to two colleges, a place where the famous
Dr. King preached at Jimmie Jackson’s funeral.
The place where the march from Selma
to Montgomery was first discussed.
And yet, your town is dying.
Dwindling by the day.
I met you right after college.
I was sick of the world
Revolving around me, and
I wanted to do something
That was about you.
They told us to listen,
That things are complicated
And we wouldn’t always understand.
Listen, educate, empower, believe.
We were going to places that the rest of the world
Had given up on, to places where no one else
Wanted to go.
You all looked the same. I noticed that
None of you looked like me.
How is that still possible? I wondered.
The thing is—you taught me.
You taught me that high school kids are, well,
Just kids. You goofed around and
Picked on the teacher, just like
The jocks at my school did, but in
The “good school district.”
School was boring, and you needed
A laugh. (I’ll admit: Sometimes
I laughed, too.)
But you were also different
Than the kids that I went to school with.
You were more jaded, harder.
Two of you were pregnant.
One 16, one 14. But you were there,
Getting your work done and
Trying your best to get
A leg up on life.
Many of you didn’t try at all.
You put your head down
On your desk. You never
Brought a pencil to class.
Worksheets and assignments
Left blank.
You frustrated me for the longest time.
“Don’t you know this is important?”
I would say to you. “Don’t you know
That you need an education
To go places?”
Mostly, you ignored me.
But I learned.
Sometimes, you put your head down
Because you were hurting.
You hadn’t eaten, and your stomach
Was killing you.
One day, you told me:
“It isn’t going to matter anyway.
I’m just going to end up
Fixing cars with my dad.
What’s the point?”
My heart broke.
You didn’t believe
You could do anything else.
Some of you were
Cautiously optimistic.
You sat at the front of the class.
You went from having a D to a B in math.
You came to tutoring. You started
Studying for the ACT as sophomores.
But you also got frustrated.
You knew the cards were stacked against you.
You knew you were behind. You knew that
Everything would always be harder for you.
Men and women of color from rural Alabama.
You were poor, but also not poor.
Your parents worked hard.
Multiple jobs that didn’t pay much.
They cared about you so much.
“Help my baby go places,” they would say to me.
And I tried. Really I did.
But the system was stacked against us.
We were forgotten. Left to our own devices.
Our school was funded mostly by property taxes.
(As are most.) But as I said, your town was dying,
And property wasn’t worth much.
Your county spent $950 per student in 2017.
Across the state, in Shelby, $2,600 per student.
“But good education isn’t just about money,”
People said. “Plenty of good schools don’t have money.”
I wanted to scream. We couldn’t even buy
Books for you. But we were expected to make do.
You were expected to pull yourself up and achieve
The American dream. And yet you weren’t even
Given a book to take home and study.
In fact, you never had books.
So by the time you got to me,
You were already behind,
And many of you had given up.
Because the hurdles were too
High to jump over.
It was easier to pretend
Not to care than it would have been
To admit you needed help,
And to spend the last few years
Of your childhood working your ass off
To get to the place where
You already should have been
In the first place.
Who could blame you?
The world had given up,
So you did, too.
I carry your stories with me.
Stories deeper and darker
Than even these.
Stories that are not mine to tell.
Teaching broke me, and as
Guilty as I felt about leaving, it was
All I could do to survive.
Years later, I thought
About you, the girl who sat
In the front row. You who came to
ACT tutoring religiously. I wanted
To see how you were doing.
You made it, undoubtedly.
I Googled your name, and
When I did, I found out
That you had died.
“Of a sudden illness,”
The newspapers said.
Exactly one month before graduation.
Part of me wonders if you
Committed suicide.
I suppose I’ll never know.
What I do know is that
The system crushed you.
It made you feel like
Nothing was ever
Enough, and you’d
Never make it.
And unfortunately,
The system was right.
Today, when I see stories
Of Black men and women
Being targeted because of
The color of their skin,
I think of you.
Denetria.
I think of Mia.
I think of Rashad.
I think of Jasmine.
I think of Toni.
I think of Jamal.
I think of Timberland.
I think of Curtisha.
I think of Tanisha.
I think of Quenterica.
And I hope you
Made it out.
But I know you
Probably didn’t.
I hope that one day
The system will break
Like it broke you and me.
You and I are very different.
But also very much
The same. I just wish that
Everyone else could see that.