I was thirteen going on fourteen and already sure of what I was going to be as an adult: an artist. For as long as I can remember, I have known that I receive a great deal of satisfaction and even feel a sense of “completion” from creating art. The year I turned fourteen, I found myself spending a great deal of time with my older brother and his best friend, a bona fide artiste who studied at a very faraway school that, despite its reputable art-immersion program, was known throughout my county, Prince George’s County, Maryland, as a “rough one.”
Even though the program accepted students based on potential for artistic growth as well as academic merit, the school itself possessed a high minority and underprivileged population and what appeared to be a lot of “troubled cases” flowing in from the nearby District of Columbia; infamous for being home to more than a fair share of “rough ones.” Regardless, I set my sights on making this school and this program the place I was to spend my high school years. I still vividly remember driving to the school with my mother on the evening of my audition; it was a very long forty minutes.
She repeatedly expressed her concerns for my safety, and as we drew nearer to the school and the landscape grew drearier, I began to silently harbor my own concerns. Coming from an area characterized by tree-lined streets and a generally safe suburban feel, my heart sank a little as we passed over rough unattended roads under row after row of muddy-orange streetlights.
But as soon as we walked into the school and mixed with the company of my potential instructors and classmates, we both let out a long, collective exhale: this program was undoubtedly tailor-made for me. The intense focus on disciplined artistic practice combined with the relaxed and familial atmosphere spoke to a very basic ideal I had created for myself. When it was time to leave, I was confident that my audition went well. My mother, ever supportive despite her wariness, joined me in optimistically anticipating the final verdict. In the interim, as part of a “backup plan,” I dutifully took the test required to attend another high school program of an entirely different genre: science and technology.
The school that hosted the science and tech program was my mother’s dream school— not to mention the dream school of every other parent of a middle schooler in Prince George’s County. It was centrally located, diversely populated, and known for churning out Ivy Leaguers. I could not have cared less. In the weeks following both entrance exams, while my mother not-so-silently expressed her preference, I soaked up tales told by my brother’s friend about what life would soon be like when we went to school and rode the bus together, about which professors were easygoing and which to avoid (I especially enjoyed hearing stories of one who was a Vietnam vet and occasionally suffered from combat flashbacks during class). . .
Finally, my letter arrived from the art program. I was so certain of my acceptance that I really didn’t leave any room for nervousness. Sure enough, the opening lines read something like: “We are pleased to inform you that you have met the requirements for acceptance into our arts program…” Fantastic, I thought; finally, I’ll have a chance to be surrounded by other kids just like me, doing what we all really really want to do. I felt right.
In my wildest nightmares I couldn’t have imagined what was to serve as the follow-up to those initial congratulatory words: “Unfortunately, due to our new implementation of efforts to desegregate public schools in Prince George’s County, we are no longer able to accept African-American students for this school year.”
What?
Can they even do that?!
To say I was devastated isn’t really saying too much when I think back on how I felt reading that letter (all fifteen times or so). My mother consoled me but of course didn’t hesitate to remind me that my acceptance into the science and technology program was imminent. She was right. In the next week or so I received my official acceptance into the more prestigious program and decidedly laid my dreams of being an artist to rest (never underestimate the fatalistic teenage temperament).
Although I was a little sour in the weeks immediately following my disappointment, I increasingly came to accept the way things turned out as the necessary course for progress. In the fifth grade I had begun participating in an academic program that took me from a mostly minority setting to one in which children from a wide variety of backgrounds and socioeconomic levels came together in ways I had never conceived of. When I thought back to what life was like before I was exposed to so many people so different from me, I became convinced that everyone needed to experience what it was like to be part of a whole that was composed of so many diverse portions. I was willing now to be a casualty for the cause.
Fast forward several years to the recent hot-button Supreme Court ruling, and I find myself for the first time hearing stories from all sides of the issue that are causing me to reflect on my experience and re-evaluate my feeling that such a topic should be so easily decided upon. Instead, I am increasingly aware of my disappointment and sadness over the fact that we still live in a nation where schools are so markedly different in terms of resources made available to both faculty and students. And more importantly, the fact that too many of our communities are still hampered by divisions based on race, class, religion, etc.
At the end of the day, I believe that the real debate is over equality, period. We can review our nation’s history and pat ourselves on the back for the obvious strides we have made in the name of progress, but at the same time, it would be naïve to see Utopia around the corner. I believe that people dedicated to promoting equality in education, and society at large, however, will be able to use this recent ruling as a constructive obstruction; one that will force the implementation of truly innovative and insightful initiatives that may not have been formulated otherwise.
——
Vivianne A. Njoku is an artist. She lives in Washington, DC.