(Continued...)

There are two kinds of reply.
The more confident white
girl gets annoyed, looks away
from the black and shouts, “I don’t wanna
go out with you!” The more demure
girl will look at her feet and mumble
a polite excuse but ultimately say no.

There is only one response from the
black boy: “You racis’.” Many girls—all
too many—actually feel guilty because
they do not want to date blacks. Most
white girls at my school stayed away
from blacks, but a few, particularly the
ones who were addicted to drugs, fell
in with them.

There is something else that is striking
about blacks. So many of them seem to have
no sense of romance, of falling in love.
What brings men and women together is
sex, pure and simple, and there is a crude
openness about this. There are many degenerate
whites, of course, but some of
my white students were capable of real
devotion and tenderness, emotions that
seemed absent from most blacks—especially
the boys.

Black schools are violent and the
few whites who are too poor to escape
are caught in the storm. The violence is
astonishing, not so much that it happens,
but the atmosphere in which it happens.
Blacks can be smiling, seemingly perfectly
content with what they are doing,
having a good time, and then, suddenly
start fighting. It’s uncanny. Not long
ago, I was walking through the halls
and a group of black boys were walking
in front of me. All of a sudden they
started fighting with another group in
the hallway.

Blacks are extraordinarily quick to
take offense. Once I accidentally scuffed
a black boy’s white sneaker with my
shoe. He immediately rubbed his body
up against mine and threatened to attack
me. I stepped outside the class and had
a security guard escort the student to
the office. It was unusual for students
to threaten teachers physically this way,
but among themselves, they were quick
to fight for similar reasons.

The real victims are the unfortunate
whites caught in this. They are always
in danger and their educations suffer.
White weaklings are particularly susceptible,
but mostly to petty violence. They
may be slapped or get a couple of kicks
when they are trying to open a bottom
locker. Typically, blacks save the hard,
serious violence for each other.

There was a lot of promiscuous sex
among my students and this led to
violence. Black girls were constantly
fighting over black boys. It was not uncommon
to see two girls literally ripping
each other’s hair out with a police officer
in the middle trying to break up the
fight. The black boy they were fighting
over would be standing by with a smile,
enjoying the show he had created. For
reasons I cannot explain, boys seldom
fought over girls.

Pregnancy was common among the
blacks, though many black girls were
so fat I could not tell the difference. I
don’t know how many girls got abortions,
but when they had the baby they
usually stayed in school and had their
own parents look after the child. The
school did not offer daycare.

Aside from the police officers constantly on campus, security guards are everywhere in
black schools—we had one on every
hall. They also sat in on unruly classes
and escorted students to the office. They
were unarmed but worked closely with
the three city police officers who were
constantly on duty.

There was a lot of drug-dealing at
my school. This was a way to
make a fair amount of money but it
also gave boys power over girls who
wanted drugs. An addicted girl—black
or white—became the plaything of anyone
who could get her drugs.

One of my students was a notorious
drug dealer. Everyone knew it. He was
19 years old and in eleventh grade. Once
he got a score of three out of 100 on a
test. He had been locked up four times
since he was 13.

One day, I asked him, “Why do you
come to school?”

He wouldn’t answer. He just looked
out the window, smiled, and sucked air
through his teeth. His friend Yidarius
ventured an explanation: “He get dat
green and get dem females.”

“What is the green?” I asked. “Money
or dope?” “Both,” said Yidarius with a smile.

A very fat student interrupted from
across the room: “We get dat lunch,” Mr.
Jackson. “We gotta get dat lunch and
brickfuss.” He means the free breakfast
and lunch poor students get every day.
“Nigga, we know’d you be lovin’
brickfuss!” shouts another student.

Some readers may believe that I
have drawn a cruel caricature of black
students. After all, according to official
figures some 85 percent of them graduate.
It would be instructive to know how
many of those scraped by with barely a
C- record. They go from grade to grade
and they finally get their diplomas
because there is so much pressure on
teachers to push them through. It saves
money to move them along, the school
looks good and the teachers look good.

Many of these children should have been
failed but the system would crack under
their weight if they were all held back.

How did my experiences make me
feel about blacks? Ultimately, I lost
sympathy for them. In so many ways
they seem to make their own beds.
There they were in an integrationist’s
fantasy—in the same classroom with
white students, eating the same lunch,
using the same bathrooms, listening to
the same teachers—and yet the blacks
fail while the whites pass.

One tragic outcome among whites
who have been teaching for too long
is that it can engender something close
to hatred. One teacher I knew gave up
fast food—not for health reasons but
because where he lived most fast-food
workers were black. He had enough of
blacks on the job. This was an extreme
example but years of frustration can
take their toll. Many of my white colleagues
with any experience were well
on their way to that state of mind.

There is an unutterable secret among
teachers: Almost all realize that blacks
do not respond to traditional white
instruction. Does that put the lie to environmentalism?
Not at all. It is what
brings about endless, pointless innovation
that is supposed to bring blacks up
to the white level. The solution is more diversity—or put
more generally, the solution is change.
Change is an almost holy word in education,
and you can fail a million times as
long as you keep changing. That is why
liberals keep revamping the curriculum
and the way it is taught. For example,
teachers are told that blacks need hands-on
instruction and more group work.

Teachers are told that blacks are more
vocal and do not learn through reading
and lectures. The implication is that they
have certain traits that lend themselves
to a different kind of teaching.

Whites have learned a certain way for
centuries but it just doesn’t work with
blacks. Of course, this implies racial
differences but if pressed, most liberal
teachers would say different racial
learning styles come from some indefinable
cultural characteristic unique to
blacks. Therefore, schools must change,
America must change. But into what?
How do you turn quantum physics into
hands-on instruction or group work? No
one knows, but we must keep changing
until we find something that works.

Public school has certainly changed
since anyone reading this was a student.
I have a friend who teaches elementary
school and she tells me that every week
the students get a new diversity lesson,
shipped in fresh from some bureaucrat’s
office in Washington or the state
capital. She showed me the materials
for one week: a large poster,
about the size of a forty-two inch
flat-screen television. It shows
an utterly diverse group—I mean
diverse: handicapped, Muslim,
Jewish, effeminate, poor, rich,
brown, slightly brown, yellow,
etc.—sitting at a table, smiling
gaily, accomplishing some undefined
task. The poster comes with
a sheet of questions the teacher is
supposed to ask. One might be: “These
kids sure look different, but they look
happy. Can you tell me which one in
the picture is an American?”

Some eight-year-old, mired in ignorance,
will point to a white child like
himself. “That one.”

The teacher reads from the answer,
conveniently printed along with the
question. “No, Billy, all these children
are Americans. They are just as American
as you.”

This is what happens at predominately white,
middle-class, elementary schools everywhere.
Elementary school teachers love All
of the Colors of the Race, by award-winning
children’s poet Arnold Adoff.

These are some of the lines they read
to the children: “Mama is chocolate …
Daddy is vanilla … Me (sic) is better …
It is a new color. It is a new flavor. For
love. Sometimes blackness seems too
black for me, and whiteness is too sickly
pale; and I wish every one were golden.
Remember: long ago before people
moved and migrated, and mixed and
matched … there was one people: one
color, one race. The colors are flowing
from what was before me to what will
be after. All the colors.”

Teaching as a career
It may come as a surprise after what
I have written, but my experiences have
given me a deep appreciation for teaching
as a career. It offers a stable, middle-class
life but comes with the capacity
to make real differences in the lives of
children. In our modern, atomized world
children often have very little communication
with adults—especially, or even,
with their parents—so there is potential
for a real transaction between pupil and
teacher, disciple and master.

A rewarding relationship can grow
up between an exceptional, interested
student and his teacher. I have stayed in
my classroom with a group of students
discussing ideas and playing chess until
the janitor kicked us out. I was the
old gentleman, imparting my history,
culture, personal loves and triumphs,
defeats and failures to young kinsman.
Sometimes I fancied myself Tyrtaeus,
the Spartan poet, who counseled the
youth to honor and loyalty. I never had
this kind intimacy with a black student,
and I know of no other white teacher
who did.

Teaching can be fun. For a certain
kind of person it is exhilarating to map
out battles on chalkboards, and teach
heroism. It is rewarding to challenge
liberal prejudices, to leave my mark on
these children, but what I aimed for with
my white students I could never achieve
with the blacks.

There is a kind of child whose look
can melt your heart: some working-class
castaway, in and out of foster homes,
often abused, who is nevertheless almost
an angel. Your heart melts for these children,
this refuse of the modern world.

Many white students possess a certain
innocence; their cheeks still blush.
Try as I might, I could not get the
blacks to care one bit about Beethoven
or Sherman’s march to the sea, or
Tyrtaeus, or Oswald Spengler, or even
liberals like John Rawls, or their own
history. Most of them cared about nothing I
tried to teach them. When this goes on
year after year, it chokes the soul out
of a teacher, destroys his pathos, and
sends him guiltily searching for The Bell
Curve on the Internet.

Blacks break down the intimacy that
can be achieved in the classroom, and
leave you convinced that that intimacy
is really a form of kinship. Without
intending to, they destroy what is most
beautiful—whether it be your belief in
human equality, your daughter’s innocence,
or even the state of the hallway.

Just last year I read on the
bathroom stall the words “F**k
Whitey.” Not two feet away, on the
same stall, was a small swastika.

The National Council for the Social
Studies, the leading authority on social
science education in the United States,
urges teachers to inculcate such values
as equality of opportunity, individual
property rights, and a democratic form
of government. Even if teachers could
inculcate this milquetoast ideology into
whites, liberalism is doomed because so
many non-whites are not receptive to
education of any kind beyond the merest
basics.

It is impossible to
get them to care about such abstractions
as property rights or democratic citizenship.
They do not see much further than
the fact that you live in a big house and
“we in da pro-jek.” Of course, there are a
few loutish whites who will never think
past their next meal and a few sensitive
blacks for whom anything is possible,
but no society takes on the characteristics
of its exceptions.

Once I asked my students, “What do
you think of the Constitution?”
“It white,” one slouching black rang
out. The class began to laugh. And I
caught myself laughing along with them,
laughing while Pompeii’s volcano simmers,
while the barbarians swell around
the Palatine, while the country I love,
and the job I love, and the community I
love become dimmer by the day.

I read a book by an expatriate Rhodesian
who visited Zimbabwe not
too many years ago. Traveling with a
companion, she stopped at a store along
the highway. A black man materialized
next to her car window. “Job, boss, (I)
work good, boss,” he pleaded. “You
give job.”

“What happened to your old job?”
the expatriate white asked. The man replied in the straightforward
manner of his race: “We drove
out the whites. No more jobs. You give
job.”

At some level, my students understand
the same thing. One day I asked
the bored, black faces staring back
at me. “What would happen if all the
white people in America disappeared
tomorrow?”

“We screwed,” a young, pitch-black
boy screamed back. The rest of the
blacks laughed.

I have had children tell me to my face
as they struggled with an assignment. “I
cain’t do dis,” Mr. Jackson. “I black.”

The point is that human beings are not
always rational. It is in the black man’s
interest to have whites in Zimbabwe but
he drives them out and starves. Most
whites do not think black Americans
could ever do anything so irrational.
They see blacks on television smiling,
fighting evil whites, embodying
white values. But the real black is not
on television, and you pull your purse
closer when you see him, and you lock
the car doors when he swaggers by
with his pants hanging down almost to
his knees.

I have been in parent-teacher conferences
that broke my heart: the child
pleading with his parents to take him
out of school; the parents convinced
their child’s fears are groundless. If you
love your child, show her you care—
not by giving her fancy vacations or a
car, but making her innocent years safe
and happy. Give her the gift of a not-heavily black
school.

Mr. Jackson now teaches at a majority-
white school.