True Grit

I was uneasy today on my first day of volunteering at the Lacoochee Boys and Girls Club. I had been by to see it several times to donate stuff, and sometimes I do the drive by in this bleak neighborhood near the elementary school.
Noticing such deficits in how the kids are doing in math in the school, I have long wanted to do a hands-on algebra program there. But I could drum up no interest at the school (they are always consumed with FCAT procedures). So I took it on the road, just up the road, actually, to the boys and girls club.
Michael B. runs this place. To my mind, he's a saint, tall, handsome, black and with a beautiful voice I cannot imagine ever being raised in anger.
This club is located at the end of a neighborhood of small run down, hanging by a thread homes with yards full of the detritus of poverty. There are some large oak trees with chairs, benches and crates populating the beaten earth beneath. Everyone in the community knows what happens in these places, and it isn't a lovely community barbeque.
The clubhouse is a larger version of the typical houses, block construction, bare earth surroundings. But there is a nice playground structure and some picnic tables under a porch roof.
I enter and am immediately greeted by Michael and some of the kids. The after school snack of hot dogs is being served and I notice that the kids are of all ages from tiny to huge and they fairly represent the demographic of this community, African American, Hispanic, a few Whites.
My first impression of this place where so many kids (50-60) spend every afternoon is that it has no natural light, it's grim and grimy, and nothing is new and shiny. The tables wobble, the pool tables are patched with tape, the window blinds are splayed and disfunctional. Everything has the feel of being either half used up or resurrected from some sixties yard sale.
So, I am welcomed into the place where my visions of great math afternoons will happen. Michael has promised me a "helper", and she appears on cue. She's lovely and talkative and I know I'll like working with her.
Here, just an aside from Grandma. I have such a hard time with the modern names kids have! I simply cannot remember those names that are partially African, partly invented, have capital letters and apostrophes in strange places. Could someone really have the name 'Dimen'sha'? I probably heard wrong. So I hopefully toss my kushball at everyone, trying to elicit a name, any name, I can possibly remember. No use. Onto the meat of the lesson.
I arrange all the ten kids, ranging from about fourth grade through middle school, at the wobbly makeshift tables I have tried to balance with dice and I announce that there are only two rules: Bad behavior and you're out, no second chances. And you're out if you don't show up. The goal is to finish the course and then there will be a great field trip to see real professional math people somewhere. Their eyes brighten.
I pass out large envelopes with balance scales drawn on them. They write their names on them. I ask them to write the equal sign (hardly anyone knows what an equal sign is) in the center of the balance and then I pass out small blue 'risk' pieces I have pirated from our game at home. I hold up one of these and ask, "What is the name of this?" They look blank. "This is X", I say, "X is the mystery number!" And on and on I go telling them about how one side of the balance (equation) must equal the other side. I hand out dice to represent the numbers and I introduce the very first algebraic equation they have ever encountered in their lives: X+2=4. What is the value of our mysterious X?
"X equals 2", says David, a middle school student. He smiles, confident. Some of the other kids are scuttling around, diddling with their risk pieces, not sure what to do. Then we get into some more equations, and now everyone is paying attention, but I can see that plenty of them are not comfortable with addition facts and are working on their fingers. So be it!
One girl, whom I have known from other volunteering gigs and I wanted her to succeed, lost her chance by flinging dice at a boy across the table. "Time to go", I say. She leaves the room. They know the rules, and I have to be constant. Now everyone is really up for the next problem. We go on to several and with every success, the mood builds.
"This is fun!" say three of the kids. When they get the answer, they know! High fives all around. For this time the grim grittiness of this place is gone. I know that I'll be back next week.
When I am leaving the parking lot, several of the kids crowd around my car and I roll down the windows. "See you next time!" I say.
These kids, Michael, and all the folks who help out in the community are making a difference. Physical places don't look lovely, there is never enough money, but I know there really is enough love. I just hope that tea party politics will eschew mean spiritedness and policies that are just about "me" and realize that the safety net is full of children who are our future. We cannot pull that away.