The dumping ground

Since I considered teaching my calling, my purpose in life, leaving the students who needed me the most was not an option. These were the students who did not pass the entrance test for the exam schools, the ones who failed to win the charter school lottery, or the ones who happened to be offspring of “dysfunctional’’ parents who did not have their acts together, as implied by one local university expert in reference to my school and other large city schools in a 2007 article in The New York Times.

My students did not gain access to those citadels of academic rigor, the charter schools and the exam schools that seemed to guarantee greater opportunity, or, in some cases, they were evicted from their celebrated, highly touted halls. How could I abandon the helpless dwellers of the “dumping ground,’’ while I ventured forth to explore the greener pasture on the other side? Who would be there to help those left so desperately behind — the students the charter and pilot schools had license to “disinvite,’’ those who were urged to move on and find another home?

My public school classroom frequently became a refuge for these rejected orphans. Harlan (not his real name) was a prime example why I believed someone had to stay and watch the children in the academic orphanage our public school had become. Harlan was scholastically homeless — he said he was politely asked to leave a popular city charter school for a behavioral issue: constantly talking in class. He was 14 when he wandered through the doors of English High School and found a home behind the sullied walls of the Blue and Blue, a home with a guarantee of no eviction, a transfer to another public school, maybe, but never a final severance. Our relationship was now permanently sealed by the regulations governing the Boston Public Schools.

Harlan told me his story as he worked in my garden in exchange for my pledged donation to his tuition for the summer program he was about to enter at Morehouse College. Harlan’s hopes of entering his first-choice college were shattered with a letter of rejection — the reason: his poor grade point average. However, with the assistance of some staff at English and many other concerned educators outside its doors, Harlan was given a second chance to hold on to his dream.

When he first entered English, Harlan could not believe what he saw; he had stepped into a world of contrast. He stared in wonder at those who wore hats in class, talked incessantly to classmates or to persons on the other end of their cell phones, and at those who honed their skills of disrespecting the classroom teacher. He referred to this transition as life-changing. He was impressed by what he saw around him and followed suit for the thrill of the adventure: his classroom chatter escalated, his attitude soured, his grades plummeted, and his stint at the charter school became a faded memory.

As he entered the 12th grade, the finish line of graduation loomed into sight and Harlan realized that he was now woefully behind in his academic credits. But, with the aid of many of the staff at the orphanage of English High — the ones who nudged, prodded and encouraged him — Harlan kept a flicker of his dream alive. He limped to the finish line, way behind the front runners but still standing. Today as I write, Harlan is a freshman at Morehouse College, still on academic probation but still in the race, still reaching for the dream of finishing the academic marathon and proudly bearing the label of a Morehouse man. So, have I ever considered teaching at a charter school? Never.

Junia Yearwood, a guest columnist, is a retired Boston Public Schools teacher who taught at English High for 25 years.