Читать книгу The Immortality of Influence: - Cecil Murphey - Страница 7

When I see a life that goes in the wrong direction and it’s a young person whom I’ve had an opportunity to influence, I ask myself, “Could I have done more?”

I don’t know the answer. I don’t live with guilt over my failures, but I do have to live with the knowledge that I had the opportunity to do more and I failed.

That’s a heavy burden.

Of all the failures in my nearly twenty-year career in education, the one that hurts the most is the death of Willow Briggs. I was a teacher in 1994, when he entered fifth grade at Vaux Middle School. Willow was a good basketball player and the other kids admired him. Like many children in the inner-city schools, Willow came from a troubled background. In elementary school, he had been constantly reprimanded.

Willow was notorious for sucking his thumb (although none of his friends ever teased him about it), but he was amazingly mature for his age. That’s an odd combination, but there were few kids like Willow (or “Fu,” as most of his friends called him).

Some of his teachers predicted he would drop out as soon as he was able. Yet I saw something different about him and that’s what caught my attention: Willow could think. He was bright and his vocabulary impressed me. When he spoke, it was obvious that he had an excellent mind.

I tried to spend time with Willow because I saw qualities in him that could make him into an outstanding leader. I knew it would be difficult because Willow had so many things piled up against him. I wanted him to understand he had great potential and could train his mind and do something significant with his life. He had charm, charisma, and the ability to outthink the smartest adults.

Through our discussions and many one-on-one basketball games, we discovered I had taught Willow’s older brother. Because we connected there, he allowed me to be a positive influence in his life.

His major problem was that most of the time he used his superior ability in negative ways, and he often ended up in serious trouble. I needed to find ways to pull him out of his old habits and get him to focus on self-improvement. After thinking about it for several days, I took a chance and encouraged him to join the chess team.

I had organized students to play chess, most of whom were good students from elementary schools. Those with a good academic background easily became our best players.

“I got no time for games,” Willow said when I approached him with the idea of joining the chess team.

“It’s more than a game,” I countered. “It’s a real mental challenge. You have to be smart—really smart—to play well. I think you’re smart enough that you could learn.”

After I made several appeals to his bright mind, Willow agreed to try the game “and see how it goes.”

That’s all it took. Neither of us realized it then, but Willow would become our first outstanding chess player who hadn’t been academically successful before coming to Vaux Middle School.

Willow picked chess up quickly. Perhaps to his own amazement, once he understood the game, he excelled in it. In fact, he became a celebrity at Vaux because he was so good.

Willow was a year older than most of the other students in his grade because of his problems in elementary school. The other children had known he was a poor student, but they began to recognize a distinct change in him. By playing chess, he created a new “Fu.” Not only was he excellent in sports, but now he became more popular because everyone saw him as extremely smart.

I smiled whenever I saw the new “Fu” in action on the chessboard. He’d look up, smile, and go back to his game. The boy even smiled differently.

Teachers who had predicted he’d drop out were glad to hear of his achievements. One of them said to me, “I’m delighted to have been wrong.”

Because he was quick at picking up chess moves and committed himself to excellence, Willow had several mentors. Not only did he become a champion at chess, but his grades improved. He was like a different boy. For the next two years, chess became his focus. Willow left the wrong crowd and made definite attitude changes. I was proud of him—as proud of him as I had been of any student I had ever worked with.

I loved to talk with Willow. Because I saw that he had so much potential, I tried to paint a picture of a bright future for him; I knew he could accomplish anything he set out to do. At first, I assumed I was the first teacher who had ever talked to him that way but I wasn’t. As I learned, many other dedicated teachers had seen his potential and had tried to help him, but they got nowhere. I understood, because I knew most of his teachers and they genuinely cared about him and the other children.

Something about growing up in the inner city offers rewards for not listening to adults. Children get more respect from their peers and from some parts of the community for being defiant. I grew up on the same mean streets, so I know the hardships that boys face. Those influences can badly misdirect young people. I frequently told Willow how proud I was that he had changed.

During his three years at Vaux, Willow not only changed his behavior but also became a top student. He worked hard and even made up the year he was behind. He was able to graduate from middle school on schedule with his classmates who had moved ahead of him in elementary school.

As a seventh-grader in 1996—a kid who had played chess for less than two years—he was ranked number twenty-five in chess in the nation for his age and ability group after he played at the national championship tournament in Orlando, Florida.

Not only did Willow have the encouragement of teachers, counselors, social workers, and students, but also many people in the neighborhood volunteered to help in our programs, and they encouraged him. We made a difference in the life of Willow Briggs—we were proud of his achievements and proud of him.

At Vaux, we had kept him busy learning chess and teaching the game to younger students. We saw the best of Willow “Fu” Briggs come to the surface.

But that’s only part of his story.

After Willow graduated from Vaux Middle School, he went into high school. It’s unfortunate, but they had no chess program like the one he had been a part of in middle school. Willow had no community influence like the kind he had learned to rely on. Within a year, his grades went down, he skipped school frequently, and worse, he began to hang out with the wrong crowd again. Shortly after that, he got into trouble. He wasn’t expelled, but it was serious enough that he could have been.

From others, I heard Willow had lost his sense of direction. I didn’t see him during those months, but I often asked about him. By the time he was sixteen, the word in the neighborhood was that he often stood around on street corners—aimless and indifferent. He had reverted to the kid his elementary teachers feared he would become.

I regret only asking about him and not taking any action. Not snatching him off those corners was one of my biggest mistakes, but he was no longer one of my students. No one would fault me for my inaction. But I cared very much for Willow, and I didn’t do anything about it.

I had dozens of reasons for not maintaining contact with him. I’m not sure what I could have done or said, but every time I heard a report—and it was always negative—I felt deep sadness. He had so much to offer and the stories came back that he had drifted away from all the positive influence at Vaux.

Willow started high school two years before I became the principal of Reynolds Elementary School, which is only one block from Vaux. As a principal, I felt that I would have a bigger opportunity to influence lives, could start working with them in kindergarten and those early years. In that way, I could focus more attention on helping the children in our community. I reasoned that if we didn’t get the children on the right track during those formative school years, the rest of their schooling would be spent trying to catch up—and they rarely did.

One afternoon, Willow’s former classmate and a fellow chess player, Shaun Snyder, came up to me while I stood outside of Reynolds immediately after school was dismissed. I always tried to be in front of the school to make sure all children walked home safely, got on the right bus, or found their parents’ cars. At times, I helped stand guard when they crossed the street as they headed toward the high-rise project buildings that towered over our school.

I started to greet Shaun but something about his face made me ask, “What’s wrong?”

“I hate to tell you this, Mr. EL, but it’s—well, about Willow.”

“What about him?”

“He was murdered last night.”

“Murdered?” I repeated the word, unable to fathom what I had just heard.

As I learned from Shaun and heard later from others, Willow rarely went to school, didn’t work, and began to hang out on street corners with a bad crowd. The previous afternoon, Willow and his friends stood at the corner of Seventeenth and Jefferson Streets. A neighborhood kid came up to them and said, “This is my corner and I don’t want you here. I say who stays here and who doesn’t. If I come back and you’re still on this corner, you’re dead.”

In that area, rough kids claimed certain corners as their territory and they usually tried to terrorize any kids who hung around. Many times the bullies’ primary interest was to protect their drug turfs and to keep police attention at a minimum. I don’t think they encountered any resistance from other young people.

Willow’s friends left, but not Willow. I don’t think he believed the kid was serious.

Twenty minutes later that same kid came back. This time he walked up to Willow, pulled out his gun, shot, and killed him.

As the story unfolded, I don’t remember what I said to Shaun. I heard the story, but my memory of the remainder of that conversation is still a blank page in my life.

Willow is dead. Those three words are what I remember.

When I heard about Willow’s death, it was one of the saddest moments I’ve ever had. So much talent. So young. Now he was dead.

I excused myself and hurried back into the building, walked rapidly into my office, and closed the door. I kept asking myself, “Where had we failed him? Where had I failed him? What should we have done differently?” He wasn’t the first former student to be murdered, and—sad to say—he wasn’t the last. I started to cry. I still couldn’t accept what I had just heard. I felt guilty because I hadn’t been in touch with Willow. I kept thinking of the wasted life and what I could have done to prevent that waste. “I should have contacted him,” I said to myself several times.

The tears flowed, and I tried to stop them, but I couldn’t. “He shouldn’t have died. He shouldn’t have died,” I kept saying.

I don’t know how long I stayed in my office. My mind went back to the time we met, the early run-ins, the joy of watching him achieve, and the pride I had felt for him when he left for high school. By the time he came to us, many people had already written his story. At Vaux, we edited his story and changed the flow of events. Willow worked on himself and we saw drastic revisions in his life and we were sure his story would have a happy ending. For someone to tell me that the final chapter had closed on that young man’s life was some of the worst news I had ever received.

We had lost another child.

Another life gone—and one that had showed so much promise.

Another funeral, and another time to say good-bye.

I have attended many funerals for my students and former students, but I didn’t go to Willow’s. I couldn’t say good-bye. At times, I regret not having gone, but I could not force myself to go.

Many sleepless nights followed his death. “What did we do wrong? What more should I have done?” I couldn’t get away from those haunting self-accusations.

His death took place almost a decade ago and I still can’t forget him. Even today, I miss Willow “Fu” Briggs.

His murder was similar to what happened to nineteen other students at Vaux during my time there. But none of them ever touched me as deeply as the loss of Willow Briggs. That young man still lives inside me, inspires me, and influences me to touch many others so they don’t end up like him.

Did I fail Willow?

When I look at the facts and evaluate everything we did, my mind says no, but my heart says yes. Perhaps I should have contacted him, made more of an effort to see him, found ways to keep him involved in chess and school activities. I know that to dwell on what I “should have done” isn’t productive. I can never get beyond the sense that I personally failed to reach him. And this ongoing grief is more than just one boy named Willow. It’s Willow and nineteen other Vaux students who have been murdered in the inner city.

None of those deaths should have happened.

But they did, and they still do.

And when they do, it means our influence has failed.

I’ve often thought that if some of us had started a program at his high school—if I had gone there and offered to help them get a chess program going—he might be alive today. After his death, we initiated programs at several other high schools. That’s one good thing that resulted from the loss of Willow. After his death—and because of his death—we went to other inner-city schools and helped them begin chess programs to influence and change kids. We wanted to give the Willows of the inner city opportunity and hope.

Even now, I believe that if Willow’s high school had implemented a chess program or something to challenge his mind and stimulate him to achieve, he would still be alive. Maybe instead of being shot that afternoon, he might have been at chess practice, involved in a chess tournament, or in a room somewhere reading about chess.

Willow’s death, more than any other, has made me focus on the influence we have on our young people and how everything we do affects everything they do.

I’ve tried to find ways to help students stay off the streets. Since then, not only have we focused on programs to help students while they’re in school, but even after they go on to college, we try to continue to enlarge the sphere of positive influence. For example, many of our students went on to George Washington Carver High School for Engineering and Science. We started a chess program there with my former students, Demetrius Carroll, Earl Jenkins, Nathan Durant, and Ralph Johnson. We also had students who played in similar programs at Benjamin Franklin Learning Center High School, another magnet school¹ in the inner city.

After Willow died, I realized how important it was for me to influence people who could pass it on and positively affect others. For instance, I thought of my relationship with the teachers in our school. If I improved my relationship with them, they could improve the relationship with their students.

Today, I am more conscious of how powerful our relationships are with students. Prior to Willow’s death, there were times when I assumed that if I stayed at Vaux in a supportive role—as a teacher—that would be enough to help the Willows in the community. I was wrong. I needed to move on and become a leader. What I did was right. It was good; it simply wasn’t enough.

Perhaps I’ve been too hard on myself, and some have told me so. But I also know that the death of a boy I cared about changed my life. When I have discouraging days (and I have many of them), I start to think of the other things I could do with my life. “I don’t need to beat up on myself like this,” I say. But when I have calmed down, I know I can’t push the memory of Willow out of my heart. I believe God put that burden on me so I don’t forget—so I can’t forget.

One of the things I struggled with was that I had left Vaux; Reynolds Elementary School was only one block away, but it might have been five miles. Whether I liked it or not, moving to Reynolds meant that those former students would have to make an extra trip to see me. They had been accustomed to coming to Vaux, not only to see me but also to talk with teachers who had been there thirty or forty years. Many teachers who went to teach at Vaux never left until they retired. The students appreciated that dedication and felt close to them. They knew those teachers cared. They said they came to visit so often to say hello or to play chess, but I think they also came to get additional doses of influence. One of those sources—and I was only one of them—had moved a block away.

My transfer to Reynolds meant those former students would have to take an extra step. Most of our young people wouldn’t do that. If I had called them, they would have come immediately to see me. Most of them didn’t take the initiative or reach out for support.

They hadn’t learned early in life that even when we get knocked down, we can still get back up. They hadn’t figured out that facing setbacks are growing pains, part of maturing, and learning to become successful. I like to tell students, “What knocks you down makes you stronger and prepares you for the next obstacle.”

I currently work with the CEO of schools in Philadelphia, the After School Activities Partnership (ASAP), and several other wonderful organizations that were developed to help change how students are educated outside normal school hours. It is the best way we know to help keep them alive and moving ahead to attain healthy goals.

One of my major goals is to start chess programs in every Philadelphia school. Even some of the most skeptical have admitted that such programs help to save the lives of young people. If we had instituted similar programs ten years ago, Willow might still be alive.

Yes, Willow is dead. I didn’t save him, but I can help to save others. I now use his story as a testimony for how he came from failure and used chess to become a success.

His death has brought about a number of changes. For example, we’ve started a program for children of incarcerated and deceased parents. We encourage college students and graduates to return to the inner city and volunteer with enrichment programs. Also, the America’s Foundation for Chess, headquartered in Seattle, Washington, has begun implementing a national chess curriculum in second-and third-grade classrooms around the country. When we have accomplished this challenge—and we are committed to this cause—more than 9 million elementary school kids in our country per year will learn the benefits of good decision making, problem solving, and conflict resolution.

Will we succeed? That’s not the question. The question is: Don’t we have to try? What will we do to help our inner-city, suburban, and rural kids become successful? If we implement and sustain these programs, I’ll feel that Willow’s death will have had a purpose.

As I look at my students, I often think, “These children are alive. They have a chance to stay alive and to make a difference in the world.” Because of Willow’s death, we’ve saved many children. Through his death, God has taught me that I have an awesome responsibility to care for other children. I can also have a tremendous and powerful influence on our young people, and as long as they are alive, I have the opportunity to challenge them to change.

I don’t think every day of Willow and other kids we’ve lost, but I think of them often. Some days I’ve felt as if I can’t handle it anymore. “I’m so tired,” I say, or I pray, “God, please remove me from this responsibility. I can’t do it anymore.”

That’s when an image of Willow comes into my mind. I remember the many photos of Willow. Or I see him the first week of school when he still sucked his thumb. In some ways, he was just a baby. I often think about his many chess battles with players who were much older. I can close my eyes even now and see him bent over that chessboard, his eyes taking in the whole board, trying to figure out the next two or three moves. Then he’d become aware of me, look up, and grin. “This is easy, Mr. EL,” he’d say before he again concentrated on the board.

“This is easy, Mr. EL.” I always remember those words and that child’s face. The memory reminds me that he had overcome many odds, and we at the school had helped him make significant progress. We pulled back too soon—and the reality is that we had to pull back because he went on to high school. Besides, there are always other children who need attention, affirmation, and encouragement.

Every year we get students who can’t read or who read far below grade level, but they can improve. Smart is not something they are; it is something they can become. They can’t pull themselves up without help—our help.

Yes, I think of Willow often, but I decided to learn from that young man’s death. I’ve looked at my influence on the children and I’ve considered the influences that have affected my own life. As I think of the powerful, lasting impression of certain individuals in my life, it makes me even more committed to be as strong an influence in the lives of children as I can.

I want to be able to prevent more deaths by learning from the failure to rescue Willow. In this instance, I’ve used the failure as motivation. When I saw the success of the chess program and the triumph of Willow and others, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. I didn’t realize that I needed to find ways to continue to build on that success, a system of sustainability, so those students could continue to feel successful.

I learned that I need to find a way to continuously be a part of students’ lives. I want to make such a powerful impact that they’ll hear my voice when they make decisions. I’ve had powerful voices in my life. Sometimes I can hear those strong female influences in my life as a child, like my mother or Marsha Pincus, who did so much for me when I was in high school. Or I can hear Dr. Deidre Farmbry and Michael Robinson, from my high school days and early career as an educator, saying, “Believe in the unthinkable and impossible for yourself and your students.”

Those who helped me have also influenced thousands of children. Not only do we need more teachers and parents like them, but each of us needs to learn how much more we can do. Because I have responded to their influence, I hope that, through me, students can also hear those other, powerful voices, and say, “I can make it.”

I saw the same things in Willow those teachers saw in me. He was not only smart but extremely creative. He read below grade level when he first came to Vaux School. He was like nearly 50 percent of the children in our nation’s elementary and middle schools. Within two years, that young man went from a near-nonreader—the boy some predicted wouldn’t even make it through middle school—to finish as one of the top twenty-five chess players in his division in national chess tournaments. I vividly remember his teachers, many of whom were new to Vaux School, working hard with Willow. They were a big factor in his success there.

“I’ll make you famous,” was one of the first things I told Willow. If he would commit to playing chess and helping to improve the image of the school and community, I promised to make him a star. My words came true. Willow was the first student to be featured in a major newspaper article on our chess team. His face appeared on the cover of the Philadelphia Inquirer.

To this day, I remember the headline on the front page of the local section that appeared in 1996: A SCHOOL MOVES BACK TO CHESS. Below that was a photo of Willow staring at a chessboard. He became the poster boy for our program.

With Willow, we developed a great chess program. Years earlier, the school had won seven consecutive state and national chess championships. We were on the way to winning others.

At Vaux, the children became accustomed to playing chess every day after school, and it became part of their culture. The students never had to ask, “Is there chess practice?” It was a way of life. Sometimes on Saturdays, students played chess at school, in my home, or at the local community recreation center.

For the first weeks after his graduation from Vaux, Willow came back regularly and played chess against some of the younger kids. I wish I had been there to encourage him. Maybe I should have told him how important he was to those younger kids. With no chess program, it’s easy to see why he lost focus. He didn’t commit a crime or cause problems. He was simply a boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Willow’s life and death motivated me then and continue to motivate me more than a decade later. I don’t want to miss any opportunity to help. I failed—or at least I feel I did—and I don’t want it to happen again.

I am determined to let other people know about the importance of their words, their personalities, and their opportunities to impact the young. I want them to understand the privilege of working with people who care about them; and I urge them to take advantage of those opportunities.

My compulsion—my mission—is to work with teachers and leaders whenever and wherever I can. Increasingly, I realize how important it is to recognize the influencers, to honor and reward them. They are the ones out there fighting the biggest battles. They struggle and some days they feel inadequate and wonder if they’ve accomplished anything. Too often they don’t realize how important they are or how they have changed the lives of young people. I know because I missed that opportunity myself.

One of the most common problems I’ve encountered is that although most givers understand how to give joyfully and sacrificially, they don’t allow themselves to receive appreciation and honor from others. Because I want to push parents, teachers, and other influential leaders, I often say, “Accept this recognition. Allow me to build you up and recharge your engine because you’re working hard and giving generously.”

The true essence of leadership is service, and many leaders understand that. The best leaders don’t look for rewards and recognition; they need them anyway. We all need to be appreciated, and no one ever gets enough recognition.

I’m always touched when young people let me know that I’ve made a difference to them. Like other givers, I’m learning to say, “Thank you,” without embarrassment.

Our children don’t realize the power of their influence on people like me. By their words of appreciation, they unconsciously challenge us to do more. Their responses have helped me move beyond the loss of Willow and other students.

I know that all of us in leadership roles have faced failures. We have known at least one Willow—maybe not someone murdered, but certainly someone of outstanding ability who was lost to the world. It’s hard on us when we see the potential and then it is lost.

When that happens, we feel we’ve failed. Perhaps we have. But the one thing our failure can do is challenge us to be more open, approachable, and sensitive to those others who could so easily be lost—and will be lost without our influence.