It was April, nearing the end of school, and the air hung low while the tensions ran high. The humidity outside made sweat bead up on my top lip and my clothes feel like I was wearing a wet diaper. And while I tried to start each day fresh and dressed to the 9’s, I ended these muggy days as barely a 3.8.
Lunchtime is always hectic at a large urban high school, and on this day at Crockett High School, as an Assistant Principal, I was outside patrolling the back of the school. Only seniors were allowed to leave for lunch, but of course we knew that was a rule followed by few. Complaints had come in from teachers hearing cars spinning out from that back parking area by the tennis courts, along with loud music and the occasional waft of smoke; cigarettes and other smokables.
Crockett high school is a beautiful campus and backs up to Garrison Park, a neighborhood park with baseball fields and a swimming pool. Unfortunately, some students liked to take long lunches or skip classes and hang out in the park where nothing, but no-good shenanigans would take place.
On this particular day, the SRO, School Resource Officer, had suggested that two AP’s be on the lookout for a late model, rusty blue chevy, with three male, non-students, inside. It had been reported that these guys were trying to pick up girls from that parking area behind the school. It had also been reported that they were blasting their music with loud, low bass thump, thump, thumps, disturbing classes while they waited for the girls to come out.
Another female AP, Ms. Wilson, and I were positioned in that back area by the park. We walked around, turning under-classmen back toward the school, while keeping an eye out for our rusty blue chevy. As we circled around, we spotted our three guys, parked under some trees, music thumping and a faint smell of marijuana floating through the air. They didn’t see us as we lurked behind the dumpster.
“Officer Smith, we spotted the blue chevy,” I whispered over the radio.
“10-4. I’ll be right there,” the SRO answered.
When he arrived at the dumpster, the SRO, Ms. Wilson, and I made our plan of attack.
“The bell rings in 4 minutes, we should wait until the bell rings then nab them just as the girls are approaching the car,” Ms. Wilson said.
“No, it might be too crowded with kids coming out for lunch. Besides, they’re smoking joints right here on school property. We should call for back up,” I suggested.
And before we could finalize a plan, all hell broke loose.
Two girls came out of the back door of the school three minutes before the bell rang and were looking left and right for the car. The blue chevy boys saw the girls and turned up the thump, thump music and put the car in drive.
Without a real plan, the SRO, Ms. Wilson, and I sprang into action. The SRO took off toward the opposite end of the drive to set up a road block. Ms. Wilson and I waited by the dumpster because the car had to come down that way to turn around and get out of the driveway. As the car approached, we stepped out yelling for the car to stop.
“Hey guys, stop right there,” I yelled, and I saw out of the corner of my eye, the girls start running toward the park. I heard Ms. Wilson say, “Well s!*#”, and take off running after them. Now, Ms. Wilson was a tall, big boned woman, dressed in a smart looking, purple colored knee-length shift, wearing mid-heeled espadrille sandals, so this was no track star chasing the students, but her commitment to the challenge was unmatched.
I knew I had to get this car to stop, so I stepped in front of it.
“Are you crazy lady? Get out of the way,” one of the boys yelled.
“Hey man, let me see your school ID,” I told the driver, knowing full well these three hooligans were not students.
“We’re just picking up my sister,” he said as he started to turn the car away from me.
In a reflex action, I grabbed his arm, which was hanging out of the smoke filled, thump, thump, rusted blue chevy. “Stop!” I yelled and for some unknown reason, he did.
I still had my hand on his arm even as the car slowed and finally stopped, and as I glanced down at his arm I saw a yellow band on his wrist with “WWJD?” And I lost it!
“What would Jesus do?,” I hollered at him. “What would Jesus do? Not smoke pot and pick up underage girls!!!” I hissed. “Jesus would definitely not do that.”
“Let go of my arm, lady, you’re crazy!” And the car started to go.
In a split second, I knew I had a decision to make. I couldn’t hold on to his arm and run beside a speeding car, but for some reason I didn’t let go of his arm. I started to jog beside the car and then finally let go as he tried to roll the window up. When I suddenly looked up I saw a police car parked, blocking their exit. (Not a minute too soon.)
I don’t know how she did it, but Ms. Wilson brought the girls back to campus and we called their parents. The boys went with the police, and the smoke filled, rusted, thump, thump blue chevy got towed. April turned into May and school was finally out, but not before I had a little time to reflect on that yellow wrist band.
Maybe our wanna be thug/pot smoker had a devil and an angel sitting on his shoulders. On one hand he wondered, what would Jesus do, and on the other he just wanted to live his best life out on the streets. It’s definitely a conundrum as old as the ages, and it was definitely one day in my life as an assistant principal that I will never forget.
Sittin' Ugly Sistahs 