Pushout by Monique W. Morris Page B

committed to juvenile hall five times by the time we spoke in 2013. In our conversation, she admitted that she was afraid to leave juvenile hall because she was uncertain about where she would go or what her future might bring. Though she was often perceived as a “bully” because of her size—she was a larger girl—Mecca believed that she was actually the victim of bullying. For Mecca, “bullying” was part of the hyperpunitive learning environment in confinement. It was a condition that affected her learning because it was coming not just from students, but also from teachers.
    â€œI don’t want to be in school in jail. . . . School in here is, well, you’re just still locked up. School on the outside, it’s just better. They got more education. Like the teachers, they’ve got more background about them. The things they’re teaching . . . it’s just better,” Mecca said. “I hate school in juvenile hall. I feel like they’re too hard on us. Like, we get stereotyped. I feel like every time I come in here, we’re doing the same thing, and I don’t come in here, back to back.”
    She offered specific observations about what made school in juvenile hall different than district schools, in her experience. “The school in here is different than the school you usually go to. On the outs, you have partner work in school. You can talk. If you’re stuck, you can ask for help. But in here, it’s almost like if you ask for help, they fuss about wanting to help you, and then you just don’t want to ask for help. It’s going to become a big argument and you’re going to get kicked out. In juvenile hall, nobody reallywants to sit in their room all day, so you really don’t want to get kicked out of class. And then there’s the bullying.”
    Nationwide, 28 percent of students in grades six through twelve have experienced some form of bullying. 42
    â€œOnce, we were doing math in class, and they were teasing me because I didn’t know my multiplication,” Mecca continued. “Instead of trying to help me, they teased me. . . . I had a teacher in here, she called me ‘retarded’ in front of everybody because I asked her for a calculator for my test!”
    â€œWhat?” I asked. “How did this happen?”
    â€œWell,” Mecca said, “a girl asked [the teacher] if she could have a calculator, and the teacher said no, and [told her] that the only reason I had a calculator was because my IEP said I could have one. 43 The girl said, ‘Well, how do I get an IEP?’ The teacher said, ‘Oh, you have to be retarded.’ So then I told her, ‘I’m not retarded. I just got a learning disability!’ Then the teacher said, ‘Say another thing, and I’m going to suspend you.’ I was like, ‘How are you going to suspend me for sticking up for myself?’ So . . . it’s not only the kids. Teachers do it too.”
    Just as in district schools—as discussed in previous chapters—Black girls are confronted by teachers who argue with them, avoid answering their questions, and label them as “difficult” for standing up for themselves or others they believe have been treated unfairly. However, while students perceive this relationship to be problematic, they also want to be engaged by their teachers, to be loved by them.
    â€œThings could be different in here if the teachers would actually teach us,” Mecca said. “It’s not just this unit. It’s all the units. Teachers want to just sit down and give you work when you come in. ‘Oh, do this work, stop talking,’ this and that, and you’re like, ‘Damn, when I finish the work I have nothing to do, and now you’re telling me to stop talking! And now you’re focused on discipline.’ Then I’m getting sent out of class. They need to focus on teaching the kids,