By Jim.henderson (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

It was my second year of teaching. Fatima's brothers were late. They should have been at school 15 minutes ago, to pick up their little 7-year old sister.

I didn't mind waiting with her, but it was getting dark, and certain janitors kicked us out at 5:00, so that they didn't have to be responsible for teachers in the building.

No one answered when I called the house. I figured the boys must be on their way, and so Fatima and I set out for the projects she called home.

We crossed St. Ann’s Avenue and cut across St. Mary's Park. I shivered. And not from the cold. St. Mary's Park was this massive park across the street from the school, which in another neighborhood would have been a school's treasure. But this was Mott Haven, Fort Apache, the precinct known for the highest homicidal rate in the country . The teachers knew St. Mary’s Park only as a place where rape, murders and drug deals happened regularly.

But Fatima was leading, and I was not so young as to not know whom was protecting whom. Fatima’s face was known in this neighborhood. Mine was not. I followed her.

The older boys outside of the projects scowled at me when they called out to Fatima. Fatima hollered back at them, and we took the elevator up, while I wondered if they would have something to say to me when I returned alone.

Fatima’s brothers were at home, caught up in some activity I’ve long forgotten. They didn’t seem surprised to see her, nor did they offer any explanation or word of thanks.

I hugged my 2nd grade student, and exited the building, starting the trek to the subway, chiding myself for breaking so many rules. A white teacher with a black student. A teacher alone with a student. Leaving the dark school with a kid whom I only hoped would have someone to look after her when I got her home. Thinking myself invincible in a barrio where most white New Yorkers will never venture.

I wonder how Fatima experienced that night. Was she worried about why her brothers were late? Did she realize that she was the one providing safe passage that night, or did she generalize that adults are always the safekeepers? Was she excited for her teacher to see where she lived, or was she embarrassed that no one came for her? Was the park a place with fond memories of the BIG ROCK, or did she know the rumors?

Does she remember our walk at all?

“In the South Bronx, where does the trail lead? From the house, around the apartments, past a metal gate, under a dry cleaning line, with a sunrise walking beside. To a store on the way to school. Where does the trail lead? Through St. Mary’s Park, past the gigantic colorful rock, beside big dogs, bulldogs. To PS 27, the school that is 100 years old. In the South Bronx, the trail leads out of PS 27x, past the ice cream truck with it’s “Ding-a-ling-ling,” past the smell of garlic on pizza, to a house over the hill. In the South Bronx, the trail leads home.” –Class 2-304

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