I am sitting on a chair the size of a magical toadstool, knees propped up under a desk scattered with illustrative thesauruses and photos of sharks, gators, and stingrays—research, if you will. Mr. B’s third grade class sits cross-legged on the carpet, attentive. Minimal squirming. Arshon takes a seat in the author’s chair, clears his throat and reads from the sheet of paper shaking ever so slightly in his hand. “A long, long time ago, Rosa the Starfish had no arms.”
And we soon learn that the unfortunate Rosa gets herself lost and falls into the evil clutches of a mutated sea plant, who punishes our Rosa with what can best be described as an organic form of medieval rack torture. That is until—and Arshon smiles as he reads this—“A strong, buff crab named Arshon zooms out of nowhere and cuts the tentacles.” Rosa survives! She is a little worse for the wear, stretched in many directions, but happy to be alive. “And that is why starfish have arms.”
The carpet erupts into applause and the next student climbs to the author’s chair. These are “Pourquoi Tales.” The kids here at Broadway Elementary have spent the past couple weeks researching particular sea creatures and writing legends explaining why they look the way they do. This is where 826LA truly shines, enabling imaginative teachers like Mr. B to take on ambitious, inspiring projects and leverage the presence of tutors to ensure that each child finds success with their story. The results are powerful. One girl writes of a velvet crab who is shunned and relentlessly mocked by former friends. She sobs, cries, and wails as the days trudge on into eternity, and that is why the velvet crab has red eyes.
With the clock ticking, I race across town to Animo Inglewood where the junior class has begun work on their college essays. Next year, they will be the school’s first graduating class. I sit with a young man named Nicolas who stares at his blank sheet of paper.
“What do you want these admission people to know about you?” I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders—not disinterested—more apologetic than anything.
“What do you like to do outside of school?”
“Not much,” he says. “Hang out, I guess.”
“What do you do on the weekends?”
“Well ... Saturdays, I go to flight school.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m working towards getting my pilot’s license.”
For a moment, I can’t think of anything to say. Evidently, I fail to conceal my surprise, because he looks up, and a smile is starting to show.
“But they don’t want to hear about that, right?”
“How long have you been training?”
“Six years.”
“I think they’re going to want to hear about it.”
For the next half hour, Nicolas talks about flight classes, the papers he has written on flight systems, the history of the industry. He speaks with a passion that most kids reserve for PlayStation games, and we work to put this enthusiasm down on paper, outlining as we go. It plays out the same for all the classes. I talk with other tutors and find out that every student has an incredible story to tell—summer nursing programs; child psychology seminars; being the first in their family to graduate high school—99% of the challenge is unearthing the material. These kids are going places. They are infused with ambition and motivation, evidence that the blood and sweat of the dedicated Animo faculty is making all the difference in the world.
I feel the excitement of nervous anticipation every time I walk into Animo Inglewood, because I know something important is going on here. And when I leave, when I’m on the sidewalk yapping a mile a minute with the other tutors, I feel at peace, because I know there is nowhere else I need to be at that moment. The success of the Phil Jackson book project—and all it has led to—demonstrates that the strength and vast potential of 826LA will be realized, in large part, through its commitment to helping the ambitious schools that realize education must inspire students to reach for higher ground.
