To All the Teachers Who Tried to Help Me
Iam here, sitting in prison when I should be out, following the inspirational teachings and high expectations of so many of my teachers who recognized my potential and believed I would accomplish many good things.
I have no doubt disappointed them and I am so sorry for that. But my life is not over and I intend, during my post-incarceration life, not only to fulfill their visions of me but ultimately to go far beyond them in my achievements.
In the meantime, let me share with you what some of my teachers did for me:
Mr. Harris actually was my first male role model. The first Black man I truly adored, admired, and looked up to, and wanted to please and be like.
Mr. Harris actually was my first male role model. The first Black man I truly adored, admired, and looked up to, and wanted to please and be like.
When I look in retrospect, Mr. Harris actually was my first male role model. The first Black man I truly adored, admired, and looked up to, and wanted to please and be like. He created an environment for me to learn and excel—that had as a foundation Black history, Black Pride, African culture, and education.
He implanted in me the idea that I had “unlimited” potential and told the youthful me that I could be the first Black President of the United States of America [I missed that one]. When I look back, he may or may not have truly believed this, but that was not as important as the fact that I believed it when he said it. That compliment filled me with pride, and now, as an adult, I understand its underlying message—that I was not limited in potential or achievement because I was Black, poor, and lived in the Public Housing Projects.
Never once did this man acknowledge nor speak to what others may have thought—people who expected so little of people like me who were existing in a place of hopelessness due to our socio-economic environment. And it is because of what he taught me and the pride he instilled in me that, in part, I am the man I am today. And because of his influence, I do not suffer from self-hate nor low self-esteem as so many do who come from the Hood (like myself).
In this sense, he was my first Father-figure. He inspired me in numerous ways, even though I was not conscious of it at the time and maybe was not ready to accept his words.
Mr. Harris was my teacher in South Central Los Angeles, located in the Pueblo Del Rio Housing Projects—known as The Pueblos, and home of the Notorious Blood Street Gang called the 52 Pueblo Bishops. For many of us, Mr. Harris was a Savior (sent all the way from Tennessee), but like the Black Jesus of Biblical times, we did not know his true worth–while he was in our presence.
Perhaps because of his own African roots, he taught us more than the basic curriculum. He taught us to speak English correctly. He was a role model because he spoke English with the same degree of perfection as any scholar. But because he was from Tennessee, we always laughed (because of his accent) when he taught us the specifics of grammar and composition. As an Teachers Who Tried to Help Me:
