Looking up [On Hold]

Invisible signs

[A:N/ So this chapter is all new! Don't forget to comment, vote and follow!/]

When I got into Civics, I was met with a fairly good class that seemed to be having a class discussion. I was so surprised I nearly dropped my civics' book as I stopped in the middle of the doorway and stared. In the class of about thirty, only five were sleeping.

Also, there was no shouting and only half the class was using their phones. Shaking my head, I went to take my seat in the back of the room. These types of days usually only happened once every two weeks and usually gave me hope on my school and generation, that otherwise were too dysfunctional to get anything done.

Taking my seat in the empty back row, I was able to get the gist of what they were talking about: getting out of poverty. Many in the class seemed it was virtually impossible. Students quoted statistics such as how only 35% of people will even make it to middle class. A lot of them were constantly talking about the school-to-prison pipeline, that they felt like targeted mostly minority kids because of the zero-tolerance policy many urban schools had, like ours.

One boy even threw out how the government will spend $80 million on prisons and close up schools, all while turning a blind eye to police brutality. There were a lot of good arguments I found myself nodding my head to, but many featured a strong undercurrent of something I didn't like: despair and hopelessness.

Soon Mr. Banke, a short older man with gray hair and bifocals, focused his attention on me when he ran out of fresh meat, "Oh, Abrielle, perhaps you can add to the discussion," he said as twenty-five eyes instantly snapped to my face, "what do you think can help people get out of poverty? Laws, self-determination, what about you tell us, Ms. Jackson?"

My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of the water. Annoyed at the attention, I slouched lower in my seat. I knew no one in this class and I was sure no one knew me because all of them were staring at me as if I was a new specimen. But, that was the point, to not get not noticed. It worked, at least up until now. Cursing my luck, I tried to rummage through my mind for answers to his somewhat multidimensional question.

Just as I readied myself to answer the question, a dark-skinned boy with baggy clothes and a buzz-cut interrupted me, "Man, I already told ya, ain't nobody getting out of this hood, unless they Einstein or some shit," he said in a low drawl that was common in Goodrich and was instantly met with raucous laughter, "I mean face it, if you ain't balling or dealing, you stuck here."

Mr. Banke sighed tiredly as he took off his glasses, wiping them on his plaid shirt, "That might be your opinion, Devon, but I was talking to Ms. Jackson over there," he said as he put his glasses back on, blinking rapidly, "so, Ms. Jackson, what do you say?"

Taking my time to look over the threadbare room, I could empathize with Devon. It was a bare room with chipped white paint, with only three cheesy Garfield posters. The air was stale due to poor ventilation that made the summer unbearable and the winter freezing cold, like it was now, and the only computer was the one sitting on the old creaking wood desk that belonged to the teacher, and it honestly looked like it was bought in 2008. Most of the other rooms were the same.

"While I agree with Devon, I whole-heartily believe that it is possible to do great things, no matter where you are from," I told the class in a loud voice, pointedly not looking at Devon, "but, it does take a certain person to do it, so I honestly think what Devon said, not even trying, was the epitome of a cop-out."

Mr. Banke looked over me for a long while, while half the class looked at me in awe and the other half in bewilderment. Trying my hardest not to crack under the attention, Mr. Banke finally spoke up after a long silence.