What Makes This School Work?

By TED GUP WASHINGTON

MALCOLM X ELEMENTARY School is in the heart of Washington's seventh police district. It is known to some officers as "the jungle," because, as one black patrolman observes, "it's all about survival here." Across the street from the school is a graveyard, its iron fence mangled where a sixth-grader crashed a car he had hot-wired. Near an outside corner of the school is "the penthouse," where at night, under a mural of the U.S. flag and the words WE WANT A DRUG-FREE AMERICA, the crackhead prostitutes of Alabama Avenue sell themselves for $2 or $3. Every morning the school custodians splash bleach against the doorways to wash away the stench of urine. Behind the building are the projects -- public housing and empty lots. On the playground, thieves have carried off whatever of the jungle gym is not bolted to the ground.

This is a school with little going for it: no special government programs, no foundation grants, no major benefactors. It is not a magnet school, not a school for gifted children, not special in any way -- except for the extraordinary things that go on inside. America's abject inner-city schools may yet be rescued by a new commitment from Washington or by the bold reform movement gathering strength in the think tanks and universities. But in every city there are schools like this one that are not waiting to be saved, which offer a case study in how to make the most of nothing at all.

Malcolm X thrives on ideas, stubbornness and high expectations. Its teachers and staff are realistic about the lives students live during the 16-plus hours a day they are not under the school's protection and are aware of the lessons that must be unlearned. "They're not kids, they're really not," says Chester Earl Jordan, father of a five-year-old Malcolm X student. Jordan, along with others, patrols the neighborhood at night, a flashlight in one hand, and -- until recently -- a gun in the other. "If you sat down a third-grader and asked him how to weigh crack, how to bag it, how to load a 9-mm, how a beeper works, you're going to get first-rate answers right off the bat."

All but two of Malcolm X's 30 teachers are black. The classrooms feature pictures of famous African-American artists, scientists and writers, and there is a clear, though unspoken, sense of pride that it is blacks helping blacks reclaim this troubled community. But there are many teachers who knew little of the inner city before arriving here. "It was a culture shock even for me," says second-grade teacher Avis Watts, who was raised in the Virginia countryside, and whose parents taught college. Now she appreciates just how critical the school is to the children. "This is their lifeline really," she says. "They know they'll be fed, loved and everything else in this school."

Everywhere, there are lessons in contrasts. In Room 212, Gloria Sheila McCart ney's fourth-graders sing "the gospel train is acomin' " and drown out the incessant scream of sirens from Alabama Avenue. The rosebushes planted outside were hacked to bits by vandals; but inside, preschoolers nurse acorns in paper cups and watch for signs of growth. This is a neighborhood where a child could get stabbed over a pair of sneakers; but the students of Malcolm X Elementary dress in uniform, the boys in white shirts and red ties, the girls in plaid jumpers. "If we don't hold high expectations for these children," asks principal John Pannell, the son of a West Virginia school-bus driver, "then who will?"

Pannell and his staff understand what they are up against and bristle when students' standardized-test scores are compared with those of more affluent or suburban schools. Only 1 in 10 children comes from a home with two parents. Three-quarters live below the poverty line. Some come from shelters. In the morning, before school opens, 250 children -- half the student body -- line up outside waiting for a free breakfast. As the month wears on and parents' incomes run out, the line grows longer. Some children have not had dinner the night before and complain of a headache. "This is the only real meal that some of them get," says cafeteria worker Doris Tabbs -- "Grandma," as the children know her. She calls them her "babies" and often pays for treats from her own pocket.

Many at Malcolm X express a sense of desperation in trying to rescue the children. Frank Edge is a formidable 215-lb. former professional wrestler who works as a school security guard. Children follow him around the playground and through the halls, where he doles out lollipops and hugs in equal measure. But for Edge, this is no casual job. Before coming to Malcolm X two years ago, he was assigned to a nearby junior high. When students from the school were killed, it was his duty to walk the grieving mother or father to their child's locker and help them clean out the books, papers and gym shoes. How many died? "Twenty, maybe 30," he says, his eyes welling up with tears.

Edge's role goes well beyond providing security. "He's explained to my son how to be himself, how not to be a follower, to use his own judgment," says a grateful Sylvia Chavis, a single parent and mother of sixth-grader Terrence Cooper. Each of Edge's warnings is tinged with the memory of an empty locker or graveside service. His job too is not without risks. Last year three men opened the door of the school and leveled automatic weapons at him. "Hey, you," they hollered, paused for a moment, then left. Says Edge: "I never know if I'm going to come home at night or not."

No one understands the stakes at Malcolm X better than Earl C. At night he works as a federal undercover narcotics agent. By day he volunteers his time providing security and a reassuring presence at the school. Earl, a former Golden Gloves boxing champion, is rough-edged and straight talking. A father of six, he can also be a gentle man, and is often seen crossing the playground or walking the halls, a knot of adoring children at his side.

Two years ago, in another quarter of town, he cornered a drug dealer, only to discover it was a baby-face 11-year-old boy. The child had a gun. Earl slid his own service revolver back into the holster, hoping to defuse the tension and thinking of his own son that age. After a few words, the child pulled the trigger, and a .32-caliber slug ripped through Earl's groin, coming to rest between the muscle and spine. Earl returned a single shot. The boy fell dead. "After I shot the kid, I rocked him in my arms," says Earl, his voice cracking. "I took something I can never give back. I went home three days later, saw my kids and burst out crying." The bullet still rests against his spine. "I figure if somebody had taken some time to spend with that kid, showed they really, really cared, this wouldn't have happened. You can't save everybody, but if you save 1 out of 200, then you've accomplished something. That's my whole purpose here."

Sometimes his methods are unconventional. Over the summer he took groups of Malcolm X students from the fifth and sixth grades to the District of Columbia morgue and pulled back the sheets on the bodies to show the children the ultimate product of violence and drugs. On one visit, the children viewed a corpse riddled with 11 bullet holes. The victim's mouth had been sealed with duct tape. One of the children in the group recognized the body as someone from the neighborhood.

Earl's message to the children is direct. "I tell the kids here, 'I'll be your best friend or your worst nightmare.' " Despite his supervisor's warnings, he often gets personally involved in his cases. Last year he arrested a woman for selling crack, then agreed to take the woman's three children into his own home for six months while she underwent a treatment program. He knows there are risks, both physical and emotional, that go with extending a hand to children. "I love all kids," says Earl, "but I trust them as far as I can throw the Washington Monument. Some of these kids have known only violence. It's like entering a lion's cage with steak in all your pockets -- you come out all chewed up." Moments later, he is comforting a fifth-grade boy who has fallen on the playground.

Like so many inner-city principals, Pannell seems forever on the verge of being overwhelmed, having inherited a school in turmoil. Says Pannell: "The only thing you can do is pray daily: 'Give me the wisdom to make the right decision.' " He is nothing if not pragmatic, accepting the largesse of corporate donors and government alike (he receives both Head Start and Chapter I funds), and espousing a mix of George Bush's "thousand points of light" and Lyndon Johnson's "Great Society." To encourage the children, he has set up an elaborate system of rewards for excellence in every category, amassing a treasure of parchment certificates and glittering trophies, medals and pins he hands out amid much fanfare. The outstanding student last year received a 4- ft.-tall trophy of walnut and brass replete with winged victories and a lamp of learning. "This is what the students need," says Pannell. "They need it tangible, and they need it immediate." Something appears to be working. Attendance rates, now running 93%, are finally expected to equal the district's system-wide average, and the number of school volunteers is steadily increasing.

But perhaps the centerpiece of his administration is his effort not merely to establish order and civility but also to make the school a place where children feel wanted. Even before the children enter school in the morning, assistant principal Michael Owens has them line up in neat rows, fingers pressed to their lips, calling for silence. "Don't we look pretty today?" he calls to them. "What kind of school is this?" he asks. "A school of love," the children answer in unison.

There is a constant question of discipline. Pannell has in essence deputized the entire school to assist in keeping order. Students discreetly report anything that seems threatening. When tensions rise or confrontation seems imminent, the diminutive messengers appear at his door and whisper into his cupped ear. That network has averted some fights and shortened many others.

More often than not, even reprimands are laced with compassion. At recess a six-year-old in an oversize coat takes his younger brother by the hand. He walks him from the playground to the rear of the building. The older boy takes out a green felt-tipped marker and writes FOKE YOU BITH across the back wall. Poor as the spelling is, the intended message is clear, and students alert Pannell. Within minutes the two boys find themselves sitting across from the principal. "You got your baby brother in trouble. Now pick up the phone and call your mother," Pannell tells the tearful older boy. It was a simple matter, except that in it Pannell saw a chance to sever the older boy's habit of including his brother in mischief. Down the road, says Pannell, it could save the younger boy from being an accomplice to something more serious -- a drug deal, even murder. Minutes later, the older boy was scrubbing his penmanship off the wall with a brush and a pail of detergent as tall as he was.

To repeat offenders, Pannell gravely passes out "pink slips." They have no intrinsic meaning other than the gravity with which Pannell presents them. "They're hot pink -- they mean they're in hot water," he laughs. Rarely does he or assistant Owens show anger. "We don't want to rule on fear," says Owens. "They get that out there," he says, glancing out the window. Besides, underneath, even the toughest of these children responds to a soft voice. Two boys who have been fighting are led into the principal's office. At first they appear steely-eyed and sullen. Then, under Pannell's tender inquisition, they begin to melt. One of the boys, a fourth-grader, sobs and rubs his tears with the end of his red tie. Pannell listens, adjudicates and gently chastises the two before sending them on their way.

Moments later, two girls appear at his door, agitated and hoping he can help them avert a fight. One is a stocky third-grader, the other a fourth-grader with limpid brown eyes and cream-colored skin. "She called me a whore," said the older girl. With agonizing patience, Pannell unravels the dispute. The girls are friends. The day before, the older girl invited her friend home for the first time. There the younger child saw her friend's house was in disrepair, that the outside door was battered and punctured by what she thought were bullet holes. At school the next day she told friends about the house and the broken door. The older girl, insulted and hurt, fired back that at least her mother had a house and wasn't so poor she had to live with a man to gain a roof over her head. Pannell listens calmly, then convinces the two that they should make up. They disappear down the hall skipping and laughing.

But a serious fight brings automatic suspension. "This is not punitive, it's protective," Pannell told parents at a back-to-school night. His concern about weapons was evident. "I'm pleading with you as parents to check your children before they leave home," he told them. Last year a young boy brought a 13-in. butcher knife to school. Students saw the blade in his jacket pocket and reported it. The knife was confiscated; the child was suspended.

Pannell and his staff offer a constant refrain. "What is the rule?" he asks. "No hitting, kicking, fighting or other types of negative, violent behavior," answer the students. Even among Malcolm X kindergartners, tempers can flair into serious combat with little or no provocation. In the community around Malcolm X, fighting often escalates in an instant. "There are no more fisticuffs," says Pannell. "It's maiming, stabbing, shooting immediately. This is the kind of learned behavior, the environment in which these children are growing up." At Malcolm X, the short-term objective is to intercede and present a peaceful resolution. The ultimate goal is more ambitious. "Too many black males are being killed every day," says Pannell. "It's necessary that we put violence prevention into our everyday curriculum. We have to do something to stem this tide of violence."

But for some the lesson in avoiding violence comes late. Psychic scars have already made them casualties of the street. "I'm afraid my day is going to come, that I'm going to get killed one day," says a fourth-grade boy. Two members of his family were shot to death, and police advised him not to discuss the shootings for fear the killers would return for him. Recently he witnessed a neighbor gunned down as well. "I saw the fire come out of the gun," says the boy. "It hit him in the head, and he fell out." He is struggling to rise above the fear that is around him. He is still very much a child, and school is the one bright spot in his life.

Despite their exposure to violence, the students demonstrate a remarkable resilience. Crystal is a bright-eyed 13-year-old with fine, long braids and an irrepressible smile. She deeply appreciates what Pannell and others at the school are trying to do to stem the violence. Two years ago, her brother Leonard died from a gunshot wound in the chest while standing in front of his grandmother's house. She believes Pannell's words and those of her teachers can make a difference, though it will do nothing to ease the loss of her brother. "I wish we could do it all over again," she says, "so my family could hear this."

Drugs have taken a toll among the parents. Problems of abuse and neglect are undeniable. But there are also many parents deeply involved in their children's education who defy simple stereotypes. Pannell speaks of a concerned father who routinely called him from the Washington jail to speak with his daughter and ask how she was doing in school. The child, a fourth- grader, was an honor-roll student. Since his release from jail, the father has been a frequent volunteer at the school.

On a recent parents' night, scores of parents came to school to meet with teachers and discuss their children's classwork. Among them was Virgie Heath, a 33-year-old single mother who recently lost her job and who last year spent six months in a shelter for the homeless. She did not finish high school. "I want my baby to have the best," she says. "He loves school -- reading, math, everything." Last year her son Ernest made the honor roll.

Tyrone Woods and Debra Tracy were also at the school that evening. Woods, who wears a gold earring in each ear, admits he was no choirboy in his youth. "Coming up as a child, it was bad. I was terrible," he said. "I came from a one-parent home, and I didn't want that for my children." Now, as a father, he is strict -- a stickler for homework and keeping a neat room. What does he teach his eight-year-old daughter Doree? "Responsibility and respect for her elders, as well as her peers," says Woods, a postal-service employee. He is unabashedly proud of Doree, who gets all A's in third grade. Says Woods: "I can honestly say my daughter will have a great future." Adds Tracy: "This is a school you can be proud to send your child to."

No one at Malcolm X speaks of miracles or underestimates the challenges these children still face. But for Debra Tracy and so many other parents at Malcolm X, the most valuable instruction their children receive -- in self- esteem, nonviolence and dignity -- may not appear in any book. They are lessons offered by an entire school community -- principals, teachers, security guards, cafeteria workers, volunteers -- that has transformed a dowdy building in the inner city into a sanctuary of hope. Theirs is a lesson other schools should be eager to learn.