Love is sacrificial and often comes at great
cost. My parents taught me that through
their own sacrifices. It took me a while to
learn it, but once I did, it was a lesson I
have never forgotten. One doesn’t simply
live in my hood; you survive.
Yet not everyone can survive
growing up the Chicago way. It takes
a certain kind of toughness,
tenacity, grit. Some people fold,
others break; few survive. Survival
looks different to many people. For
a young Black male living on the
South Side of Chicago, survival
isn’t guaranteed. That’s why my
story’s atypical, and maybe by
sharing my story I can help other
kids my age too.
My life in Chicago was—I loved
Chicago. I still do. The
neighborhoods, the parties, the
music, my family, friends, enemies,
even the gangs, all had a part in
raising me. Everything about
Chicago—especially my old high
school, Mendel—shaped me into the
person I am today.
Founded back in the fall of 1951,
Mendel was run by the Augustinians.
It was named after Gregor Mendel,
who was called the Father of
Genetics. My old high school sat on
a luxurious plot of land nearing
forty acres.
During the spring and summertime,
Mendel looked like it had been
plopped down in the middle of a
plush forest. Green was everywhere.
Huge shrubs and sky-scraping
evergreens stretched for blocks,
encircling the monstrous
campus.
Bordering the prickly pines was a
continuous chain-linked fence topped
with barbwire that surrounded the
entire school. The never-ending
fence was about eight feet tall and
was so close to the trees that the
brush needles protruded out the mesh
gate. This made Mendel look more
like an impenetrable fortress than
an inner- city high school.
People constantly joked that I
attended high school on a college
campus. Mendel even had a pond smack
dab in front of the school’s main
building. It was rumored the pond
was originally made to look like the
capital letter P for Pullman. That
was the name of the school before it
was Mendel, Pullman Tech. I believed
the rumors were true because there
was an old, corroded patch of land
at the north end of the pond. It was
clear to me that this “island”
probably served as the hollowed-out
portion of the capital letter P.
Over the years, the apparently once
beautiful pond morphed into the
shimmering gray puddle that we were
stuck with.
During my tenure at Mendel, many
freshmen got dumped into the
school’s pond. It was almost like a
rite of passage for seniors to dunk
the freshman. Thankfully, I never
had the privilege of being dunked.
Neither did I attempt to drown any
freshman. Although, there were a
couple that I wanted to humiliate in
the waters of “Lake Mendel,” like
when Prince embarrassed Apollonia
in Purple Rain. But I
didn’t want to get suspended.
On either side of the main
building, where most of the classes
were held, were two other buildings.
The tan brick building to the left
was Mendel’s gymnasium and
cafeteria. That’s where all the good
grub, exciting hoop squad games, and
after parties went down.
The one on the right was the
school’s monastery. That’s where the
chemistry lab, the art classes, and
the band practices were held. Not to
mention where we would congregate
for Mass every week like clockwork.
Mendel was a Catholic college
preparatory school situated in the
Roseland community on the city’s
South Side. Unfortunately, my
neighborhood gained the notoriety of
being called the Wild-Wild or as
others called it The Wild Hundreds.
Not the kind of monikers you want
your community to be known for,
being wild.
Yet on Mendel’s campus, my crew and
I always felt safe. We were a city
unto ourselves, the students,
faculty, and staff. Within Mendel’s
“city” gates, both the teachers and
students strived for excellence.
That was their reputation way before
I got there. In fact, many of the
teachers at Mendel were once
students. That showed how special of
a place Mendel really was to have
former students come back there to
teach. The Mendel community had
always been a close-knit
family.
And in every family, there’s a
history that laid the foundation for
the future.
One of the things I loved about Mendel
was they didn’t have the same old
classes that every other school had:
English 101, Intermediate Algebra,
Geography. Boring! We had classes like
Life Skills, the private school’s
version of Home Economics. Life Skills
was taught by Brother Tyler. In that
class, we learned how to balance a
checkbook, create a budget, shop for
groceries, even change a tire.
In Mrs. Epps class, My Own Biz, for
juniors and seniors, we learned how
to set up a business plan, learned
whether to become a sole proprietor
or an LLC, learned
how to invest in real estate, and
learned how to gauge if a business
would turn a profit or fold in the
first two years.
But my all-time favorite class was
Morality & Ethics, taught, oddly
enough by Mrs. Morales. Mrs. Morales was
a gorgeous, fiery Latina. My boys and I
loved Morality & Ethics class
because we could argue at the top of our
lungs when debating our point.
The way Mrs. Morales’ class worked
was she would introduce a topic at
the beginning of class. Then we had
ten minutes to come up with our
arguments as to why the topic was or
was not morally ethical and we’d
discuss the topic for the majority
of the class. During the last five
to ten minutes, Mrs. Morales would
give her supposition of the topic.
It was great. Sometimes she would
break us up into teams, other times,
she’d have us fend for ourselves,
individually.
But it was midterms; that meant we
had to write out our answers in
essay form. I had already zipped
through my exam and was daydreaming
about how horrible Christmas break
was going to be when the school bell
rudely interrupted.
I whipped my head around. A parade
of classmates passed my desk donning
their mandatory private-school dress
code attire. The girls in their
white, pink, or pastel blue blouses
with black or gray skirts. Guys with
our gray, black, or navy-blue slacks
and cardigans along with white or
pastel button-down shirts. We were
already looked at a bit differently
by our public-school friends for
going to private school so, most of
us felt that we were branded by
having to wear uniforms on top of
it.
Since Mendel’s inception, we had
been an all-boy’s school. Yet due to
increasing financial woes, we turned
co-ed that semester to expand
admissions, which made for a
pleasant experience.
The hallways suddenly smelled fresh
and perfumy. Guys didn’t beef as
much anymore because they wanted to
show how popular and cool they were.
The girls at Mendel were attracted
to a smidgen of bad boy. No one
really wanted an outright hoodlum.
And for some reason, even most of
the teachers seemed nicer once the
girls arrived.
We descended upon Mrs. Morales’
desk like a gaggle of geese being
fed Ritz crackers. I was last in
line to hand in my exam. I placed my
test on the desk and turned to
leave. Mrs. Morales’ accented shriek
stopped me dead in my tracks. I
looked back over my shoulder.
Mrs. Morales waved me over.
I huffed out a sigh and obeyed her
command. Her eyes peered at me over
the top of her wire rimmed glasses
as I approached. She waited
patiently for the last student to
exit.
“Thought about what we
discussed?”
“Some,” I answered respectfully
unenthused.
“Well?”
“I. . .I don’t know.”
Mrs. Morales sighed a deep sigh and
leaned back in her chair, “See the
nine o’clock news last night?”
“No.”
“There was a student, graduated
from Julian last year,” she sat up
again. “He wasn’t working. Didn’t go
to college. Just hanging around
taking the year to decide what he
wanted to do with his life, family
says. He was shot in the head
yesterday, died on the spot. You
know why?”
“Any number of reasons. Owed
somebody money, disrespected
someone, um—”
“No. He didn’t have a plan. You
only have one semester left, BJ.
What’s your plan?”
“I don’t know Mrs. Morales.”
“Armed forces?”
“No.”
“College?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Who has the money for that?”
“Get a scholarship.”
“A scholarship? Doing what?”
“I don’t care. Anything
Brandon.”
Mrs. Morales took a deep breath
turning her head slightly. She
removed her glasses. Looking up at
me genuinely, calmly, she said, “You
need to come up with a plan for your
life, BJ, or you’ll be the next
person shot ‘for any number of
reasons.’ Comprende?”
I nodded.
“Now, go on. You don’t want to be
late picking up Monica.”
Even though she dismissed me, I
knew she wasn’t finished with this
discussion by a long shot.
“Have a good Christmas,” I said
softly.
“Mm-Hmm, you too,” Mrs. Morales
replied scooping up the test papers.
I could tell by the way she banged
the exams on the desk straightening
them into a pile she was slightly
annoyed with me. I wish I cared more
than I did. Truth was, I didn’t know
what the future held for me. I
didn’t care whether I lived or
died.
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