Gang Violence

Like all things that start wars, it was beautiful. This was no ordinary soccer ball. The tessellation of metallic silver and luxurious purple hexagons begged to be corner kicked. And every day, during the mid-morning and lunch breaks, students play with this wondrous ball on the soccer field adjacent to my classroom.

Now, by soccer field, I mean a 20' x 20' patch of grass that flanks the side of my classroom. The kids go out there and take turns kicking the ball at the side of the building: their imaginary goal. They always use this Helen of Troy of soccer balls.

Today, I was sitting at my desk grading papers, and the seven students politely knocked on my window asking if they could play soccer. I waved them through like usual. But minutes later, something was amiss. They were missing their ball. Apparently, it had be left outside during the mid-morning break. But where was it now?

I helped them search, and at the exact same moment, like an over-dramatic movie scene, the seven students and I spotted it. The neighboring school, with whom we share the large open field, had our ball. Between the five boys, a ray of purple metallic essence attracted my eye.

At this point, my seven students were pissed. They were itching to bum rush these rivals. But I quickly shepherded my kids back inside, telling them "it's just a ball."

I should have taken my own advice, but I just had to be the heroic leader.

Without my posse of seven, I walked alone to the other school leaving behind the safety of my own turf. At first, the hooligans were only about two inches tall on the horizon, but as I approached, my nervousness and their height grew. One boy, no more than 12 years old, towered over me.

"Excuse me fellas," I said, unable to see their faces back lit by the sun, "but I think that's my ball."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

"Because that's my silver and purple ball." I was trying to defend myself from mere children.

"Nah, man. It's ours."

What a bold-faced lie! That was my fucking ball! And they stole it, and were now lying to a teacher.

"It's my ball. Please return it. You took it from outside my classroom." I could feel my face flushing red from the sunlight and the pressure. I was behind enemy lines. My "teacher" status of privilege and power were worthless.

"Nah, man. It's ours." I saw his eyes drift down to my school crest on my shirt, and I saw the glint of disrespect. It was like were flashing our gang signs. I wanted to find a teacher and explain the situation. But there were no teachers to be found. Apparently I'm a teacher, but I didn't feel like it.

1:10. I had to get back to my class. I could keep arguing and maybe get fired for being tardy to my own class, I could grab it from them and risk having an all out gang lawsuit, or I could retreat. I chose to walk away defeated. I had let the five 12-year-old street toughs dominate me.

I know it would have been wrong to start a fight, but I dragged my feet through the dirt on the way back, nursing the bruises on my ego. I felt inadequate as the leader of my gang. I had let my homies down, and I have to live with that.

Gangs are one scary mother.