By Derrick Brown (follow on Twitter @dbrowndbrown)
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HAB12 Performs In Homecoming Parade
There’s No Place Like the Home(Coming) Parade (1018 Words)
By Derrick Brown (Join Our Mailing List!)
I dream a world I may never see …
On my job I’m contained …
In these streets … I am free …
I can go where I want ‘cause they cannot see me …
I can go where I want … ‘cause I know I am me.
That was the mantra echoing through my mind as Homecoming Friday unfolded ... not inside my classroom … but out on the streets where the parade rolled … and the living history of our community revealed itself block by block.
The schoolday ended with small classroom miracles … AW, my “Lizard Liability” student, released her three geckos into the wild.
One came back home that night.
I cannot make that up.
DH, usually quiet, sat in my chair and spoke at length about his father, who
had recently passed.
In 4A, I played “Re’sume’
Say” and “Born(e)
Witness” for OJ, LM, and AD.
Their reactions reminded me why music remains my purest form of teaching.
OJ heard purpose in “do it for mi gente” and Langston Hughes’ “caged bird.”
LM critiqued the beat ... said it should hit harder, like her father’s favorite rap songs.
AD caught the bar “real eyes realize real lies and real disguise” and asked if it came from Tupac.
These young people are sharp, alive, searching, "capping", “reaching”, and “reaching out”.
I felt that.
But it was the parade that taught the deeper lesson.
HAB12 and I stopped at Food Depot for “emergency snacks” before the parade.
Doritos. Water.
Simple provisions for what would become a pilgrimage.
We ran into one of our school’s former morning news reporters, now in college.
She beamed when we recognized her.
I felt pride ... and hope ... as I introduced her to my daughter.
It is good for Hannah to see what possibility looks like … with familiar eyes and a familiar face.
I dropped her off at the beginning of the parade route ... in front of what used to be the annex of our old segregated Black school.
Then I drove to park near the end of the parade route ... at what is now the most segregated school in our district.
That irony was not lost on me.
It was the kind of irony that history likes to disguise as progress.
The street names even changed one block before the railroad tracks, a quiet cartographic confession of where culture and comfort begin to shift.
As I walked, camera in hand, I crossed those invisible lines.
The football stadium, once a gatekept space, stood open.
I saw Coach TC and Coach MB stationed as literal gatekeepers.
They offered me a parking spot … I declined.
I preferred to walk.
My walk was both reconnaissance and meditation ... an act of seeing without being seen.
Along the way, I met a couple walking “behind the stadium.”
We started with small talk about the weather, but it led to street names.
The wife said she was a cartographer.
The husband was an electrician.
I smiled.
“I’m an electrical engineer who used to make maps for a power company,” I said.
The serendipity felt divine ... a living Venn diagram of trades, maps, and connection.
Then came the familiar faces … football players I had taught (DY, DB, GT, BB) … graduates I had guided (RN1, RN2) … parents I had prayed for.
A 1976 alum who remembered the 1975 Black homecoming queen … whose sister attended my former church.
Each encounter was an ember of shared memory.
These were my people, even if the institution no longer felt like mine.
Further down the route, I passed through a dense cluster of colleagues ... smiles without recognition, eyes that slid past mine.
I did not stop.
I have learned that not every “familiar” is friendly.
Then I saw former (and current) students … CAH, CK, AO ... each offering warmth and acknowledgment that felt restorative.
I made it to the top of the hill near the police station … camera ready.
From there, I could see the entire parade ... floats, drums, dancers, and the slow-moving river of community.
The camera gave me access.
Nice cameras do that.
They open doors that language cannot.
For forty-five minutes, I went where I wanted.
Everywhere.
Current and former students greeted me with genuine affection.
HAB12’s
old school gave us shouts of love.
Even my
former evaluating administrator called my name from the route ... a
reminder that even “ops” love “photo opps.”
Bars.
By the end, I had seen everyone … The Class of 1980 … ingenious enough to “hide” (in plain sight) a campaigning city council candidate (and classmate) on the back of their “float” … DB, the student courageous enough to ask students “What would happen if I came to your house?” … the superintendent who shook my hand … but would not meet my eyes … the safety director (a former school resource officer) who greeted me warmly … the food truck run by LeOG’s daughter … the former neighbors who waved from their lawn chairs.
It was all there ... the living geometry of belonging and boundary, mapped across generations and streets.
When the parade ended, HAB12 and I walked toward the game … running into students who now fill my classroom (ZT … who attended HAB12’s elementary school … and has helped to coach her acting) … and HAB12’s former drama teacher (KH) ... good role models. LeOG and his wife ... embodied grace, humility, and gentleness.
RS, the alumnus (from the first graduating class of our former public charter school) … whose son now plays football.
PC, crowned Miss Homecoming, glowing with poise and purpose.
I introduced HAB12 to her.
ESG, from Final Exams (At Chipotle).
The night became an archive of intersection ... old and new … personal and public … pain and pride.
As the lights dimmed over the field … and the final cheers dissolved into night air … my conclusion felt simple, hard-earned, and true …
I belong best when I stop trying to belong at all.
I simply have to be.
To see.
To connect organically with mi gente.
That, I think, is the truest meaning of Homecoming.
It is not where you work.
It is not where they see you.
It is where your peace finally recognizes itself.
And still I rise.
Selah.(The "Follow The Leader (changED - Volume 2)" Audio and Video Album / Mixtape is also available at TeachersPayTeachers.com)
(The "changED (Volume 1)" Audio and Video Album / Mixtape is also available at TeachersPayTeachers.com)
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I am a “standup storyteller.”
I fuse rap, spoken word (poetry), oration (traditional public speaking), singing, and teaching into messages of hope, healing, and change that I write, direct, and produce to help people who help people.
Everything must change - and stay changED.
Tradition begins and ends with change.
Change begins with me and the renewing of my mind ... then continues through efforts to effect small-group discipleship (equipping others to equip others) with audiences that respect and embrace mentoring, mediation, and problem solving as tools of change.
I am the product of my mentoring relationships, peacemaking (and peacekeeping), and problem-solving ability.
My education began when I finished school.
After school, I enrolled in a lifelong curriculum that includes classes in ministry, entrepreneurship, stewardship, literacy, numeracy, language, self-identity, self-expression, and analysis / synthesis.
My projects execute a ministry that has evolved from wisdom earned through lessons learned.
I want to share this wisdom to build teams of "triple threat" fellows - mentors, mediators, and problem solvers.
We will collaborate in simple, powerful ways that allow us to help people who help people.
I now know that power is work done efficiently (with wise and skillful use of resources, interests, communication, and expertise).
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