That when she goes outside the sun hides and the clouds cry."  Every fight I broke up between boys at school involved insults to someone's momma. As the culprits stood before me, facing two day automatic suspension, I would begin the useless conversation.
"Why'd you hit him?" "He said yo momma." "Yo momma ugly?" "Mz. M!" "I mean it. What happens when your mother goes outside. Does the sun hide? Does it rain?" "No." "Does he know yo momma?" "No." "What's yo momma gonna do when she hears you were fighting in school instead of learning?" "My momma said if any one disses me or her, I can fight 'em." Oh great, I think. "Well, I guess she knows that fighting in school is automatically 2 days out." I pull out the dreaded form and begin filling it in. The begging starts and the tears flow. "My momma gonna kill me, Mz. M. She said I ain't supposed to be 'spended no more." The same momma that told you to fight is gonna beat you when you get suspended, I nearly say it aloud, but he won't catch the irony. If I'm lucky, I'll get through the conference with the mother without needing security. She's a young single mother who hated school and got into fights when she attended- before she dropped out in 9th grade. This is her oldest child. There is one in Pre-School down the hall, one in the expensive stroller she's pushing, and one on the way- all with different daddies. Her hair is done, her nails sparkle, and her clothes cost more than my yearly clothing allowance. Her boys have the newest sneakers and they better not get them dirty, and if we didn't have uniforms, they'd be wearing the latest Sean Paul Jeans as well. She doesn't work and welfare makes sure her babies daddies send her something every month or they go to jail as deadbeat daddies. And the daddies know they better bring the money for those sneakers and game systems if they want to stop by her house. She's here to confront and protect her oldest baby from being treated unfairly and he's embarrassed by her- as if she should know how to act in school and chooses not to. The daddies are always easier to deal with. They glare at the boy, yes ma'am me, and promise me that the boy won't do it again. But they don't threaten or insult me or tell me that it's my fault her child is in trouble. We talk about school rules. "You know the rule about fighting, right?" "Someone disses my boy, he know he better deal with it and not bring that crap home." "But if he fights in school, he will be suspended." "Someone say somethin' bad 'bout me, he know what ta do," she insists. "I ain't raising no sissy." "But there are other ways of dealing with disrespect besides fighting," I begin. I've had this same talk countless times with young mothers. They need to raise street-smart kids. I need to raise  school-smart kids and there is nothing in common with our needs except our desire to have the child succeed. I talk about the importance of school for making dreams come true and how you can't do that if you're home. I talk about how telling someone when you need help solving a problem isn't tattling. Johnny took Sammy's pencil and didn't give it back so Sammy got mad. It didn't have to be a fight. No one had to diss anyone's mother. They just needed a little help resolving the conflict before it got to the pushing and shoving and punching part. I needed her to tell her son that fighting in school had lifetime consequences. But school hadn't been a safe place for her. She didn't have someone who taught her to resolve conflicts before they exploded. She didn't have someone who fought with her about the important things- like dropping out, practicing safe sex, and keeping her dreams alive. She didn't understand that the language of the street interfers with the language of school and that in order to be successful, her son would have to maneuver in both worlds, fluent in both. "If Johnny fights in school, he will be suspended," I say again. I glare at Johnny and he drops his head. He knows his mother is wrong, but he hates knowing that, and he wants to glare at me for making his mother look bad. As they walk out to the waiting car, she raises her hand and smacks him hard across the face. "Don't make me come up here to your school over some foolishness. You hear me?" Three days later, Johnny and Sammy are clowning in the hallway after lunch- all is right between them. I stop and chat with them briefly. Johnny shows me his new prize. "My momma bought me new pencils while I was 'spended. They smell like fruit, Mz. M. Smell." I sniff at the pencil in front of my nose. "So next time," I begin, "how are you two going to keep from fighting?" Johnny has the answer ready. "I give him his pencil when he asks." Sammy nods. "I don't say nuttin' about his momma."  One of my eighth graders watches the exchange and shakes his head. Later he pops into my office. "You know they gonna fight again, right, Mz. M. They can't walk away from a fight."
"But they'll think about the consequences the way you do," I reply. We've had this same conversation since he was in fifth grade and he still gets into fights- he just does it off school grounds most of the time now. "Boys fight," he retorts. "Boys who fight die," I say, pushing the newspaper headline at him. Another gang fight resulted in two teen deaths. "Not always," he says. "Mz. M, you can't save all of them." "I don't want to save all of them. Just mine!" He waves as he leaves the room. "We're all yours. You just won't admit it. Outta here. Peeps waitin' on me." There are consequences for disrespecting someone- in both worlds- and we tend to gloss over them, but it still hurts and it still costs. The difference is how you pay. And it's not just in the school rooms any more- look at the way we treat those who think differently from us. Some times it feels like a losing battle. | 
