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By Dr. Sandra Young
Program Director for the English Major
Liberal Arts Division Chair, College of Arts and Sciences
pring is a season of
new birth, warmer
weather, and in America’s public
schools, standardized testing.
Several springs ago I was a high school
English teacher. The day arrived when all 10th graders across
South Carolina would take the first of a series of tests called the
HSAP (High School Assessment Program). At my high school
where 99 percent of our student body was African-American
and most of the students were eligible for free and reduced
meals, this acronym spiked fear in students and teachers alike.
We knew we were a low-performing school: our standardized
tests scores for the past few years were extremely low. No one
wants to belong to a low-performing school. They drag down
the mean for a district’s more affluent schools and prompt
district administrators to eye the principal, teachers, and
students with suspicion and resentment.
I wasn’t teaching 10th grade that year but I had a 10th grade
homeroom. I understood very well the pressure the test
presented to all of us. We were prepared — administrators,
teachers, and students had been planning and practicing
for this test for months. We even partnered with Americorps
that year and brought in 15 young college grads to help.
We deployed them as one
deploys members of the
military, sending them to
classes where they worked
one-on-one with students
needing extra attention in
math, writing, and reading.
Test Day finally arrived.
“We need to pray, Mrs.
Young,” announced Chaunte, the unofficial class leader. She
was a petite, brown-skinned girl who nonetheless carried
herself as if she were in command. “If we’re going to pass this
test, we need all the help we can get.”
“Yeah,” piped in another student. “We should pray.” Their
request made sense. They lived in Charleston, a large tourist-
driven community, but often referred to as “The Holy City” due
to its large number of churches. This was certainly the case in
the area surrounding our high school. Representing several
denominations, they faithfully served the least of these — the
indigent, the elderly, and families who did not have the means
to send their children to schools in better neighborhoods.
“Can you lead us in prayer?” Chaunte asked me. They knew I
was a believer and that my husband was a local pastor.
I hesitated. I was employed by the State of South Carolina. As
a state employee, I knew I was authorized to do a lot of things
outside of teaching. I could comfort, console, and reprimand.
I made phone calls home. I kept hand lotion (the good stuff)
and Vaseline in my desk drawer and provided plenty of Kleenex
during flu season. I stocked one of my cabinets with extra
pencils, pens, and loose leaf paper for the forgetful student
or the student who simply could not afford to purchase them.
I even listened patiently when they nonchalantly recited the
misfortunes of “so and so” in an effort to gain some advice for
themselves. But I could not lead my students in prayer. That
one action could cost me my job. “I can’t lead you in prayer,”
I explained carefully. “If I do, I could get fired.” Their faces fell
and I could see that they interpreted it as yet another blow,
another rule that worked against them when they needed
someone to cut them some slack. And then I added, “But
nothing can stop you from praying for yourselves.”
Chaunte looked at me.
“OK,” she said, almost defiantly. “We’re going to pray.” The other
students dutifully climbed out of their seats and formed a large
circle in the front of the room. Without being prompted, they
grasped the hand of the person beside them. One lone male sat
stonily in his seat, refusing to move. Chaunte glared at him.
“Jarod, get over here right
now!” she ordered. Jarod
reluctantly got out of his seat
and took the hand a student
offered him.
They bowed their heads and
repeated the Lord’s Prayer
in unison. As I joined them
in reciting it aloud, I noted that many of them knew it by heart.
And then they sat down quietly.
The proctor arrived and we began the test. As they sat in
straight rows, number two pencils in hand, I marveled at how
this group of young people had enough sense to realize that
when the stakes are truly high, we should ask God for help.
And then I marveled at how privileged I was to be able to teach
students who didn’t come from the finest homes and weren’t
headed for the coveted spot of valedictorian, yet nonetheless
clearly understood that God existed and that He cared.
As they bubbled in their test booklets what they hoped were
the right answers, I silently gave God thanks that prayer had
come back to school.
S
“I marveled at how privileged I was to be able to
teach students who didn’t come from the finest
homes and weren’t headed for the coveted spot of
valedictorian, yet nonetheless clearly understood
that God existed and that He cared. ”
– Dr. Sandra Young
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CIU Today
www.ciu.eduTHE DAY PRAYER CAME BACK TO A PUBLIC SCHOOL