The Long Walk, by Jim Routhier

I was eleven years old when it happened. I never saw it coming.  One minute, I was what I thought was a typical inner-city 6^th grader, and now I was being escorted by the vice-principal to my counselor’s office. 

It had started as a regular school day. I was in my first year at Cleveland Middle School. I would attend grades six through eight here, and then it would be on to high school. Cleveland Middle School was slightly smaller in size than my previous school, K.B. White Elementary. It somehow made the transition to a new school easier, since the smaller new pond made me seem like a larger fish when I entered it. At least, that’s how it felt. Being a smaller school, I soon learned my way around it. With teachers that I liked, I quickly began to feel as comfortable as an eleven-year-old can at school.

Arriving in the morning, I grabbed the needed books from my locker and went to morning homeroom. Once finished, it was onto my first class of the day, English. Everything went as expected until my first afternoon class, mathematics.  I liked mathematics class, not for the subject but because the teacher, Mr. Berger, was one of the “cool teachers.” He was a young teacher, probably just out of college. He somehow made learning math seem fun, and he was always joking with his students.

He was in the middle of yet another joke when the door opened, and the school vice-principal, Mr. Jackson, entered. Mr. Berger stopped mid-joke, as Jackson quietly crossed the front of the classroom. When he approached Mr. Berger, he began whispering to him. I could not make out what they were saying, but, they were close enough to me that I could overhear an occasional word. I felt a chilling shiver come over me when I distinctly heard Mr. Jackson say my name. I momentarily panicked; what had I done? My mind raced as I tried to recall if I had done anything, committed any act that warranted Mr. Jackson’s attention. In those few moments between hearing my name, and the two of them approaching the front of my desk, I could not recall anything that would even begin to need the vice-principal’s involvement.

As the two of them approached my desk, Mr. Jackson looked unsure whether the student he was looking for was me or the student sitting in the row to my left. As much as Mr. Jackson liked to pretend he knew us all by name, he couldn’t be expected to know all those names and faces. He waited until Mr. Berger spoke to me before directly fixing his gaze on me rather than the floor between the two rows.

Mr. Berger explained quietly that I was to accompany Mr. Jackson. I nodded, now terrified and confused.  I slid out of the chair, quickly gathered my books and followed Mr. Jackson out of the classroom.

So, here I was following Mr. Jackson to an unknown location and for an unknown reason. We walked in silence, quietly making our way to the first floor, in what seemed like an endlessly long walk. I realized quickly that we were heading towards the school office. We entered the office, and I followed Mr. Jackson into the office of the 6^th grade school counselor, Mr. Sobczak.

After informing Mr. Sobczak that he would shortly return with the others, Mr. Jackson departed, closing the door behind him.  In the next few minutes, I was joined by two other 6^th graders, both of whom I knew.

Brian Sims and Johnny Johnson were both friends of mine from elementary school. We got along well, and hung out when we could during the school day, but we only had a couple classes together this school year.  I quickly tried to think if there was anything that the three of us had said or done to get ourselves into trouble, but again I could not recall anything.  If anything, we were considered to be among the “good kids” of the school.

After returning with Brian, Mr. Jackson closed the door and sat down in the only remaining available chair in the office. It was Mr. Sobczak, another one of the “cool teachers,” who finally explained to us the reason we were being pulled from class and brought together.

I felt a simultaneous sense of relief and disbelief when Mr. Sobczak explained the reason for our meeting. Each of us was being offered, pending the approval of our parents, the opportunity to be a part of a pilot program that Detroit Public Schools were implementing regarding students in Advanced Placement classes.  It was then that the link among us three boys became clear to me. The classes we shared were all AP classes.

The opportunity would be that each of us would, upon completion of the 6^th grade, be promoted directly to the 8^th grade. We would skip the 7^th grade entirely. The change would mean some extra effort on our part, it was explained, especially in the beginning until we got up to speed.

We were each given sealed envelopes, addressed to our parents, with instructions to give the letters to them. I returned to class with the envelope in hand. I remember carefully putting the letter away, but the rest of my afternoon was a blur. When my last class ended, I dashed to my locker, grabbed the books I knew I would need for homework (and the letter), and started my walk home.

I floated home that day. I’m not entirely sure whether my feet ever touched the ground a single time between school and home. I was a latch-key kid, so I was home alone until mom returned from work. The three hours until then seemed to last twelve.

When she finally did arrive home, we greeted each other, and I thrust the letter into her hands.   Almost simultaneously, I assured her that it wasn’t anything bad; I had not done anything wrong.  She ripped the envelope open and quickly read the enclosed letter. It explained the offer and invited my parents to a meeting to explain the details.

The conversation around the dinner table was lively that night. It began with my mother in favor of my participation, and my father opposed. He based his opposition on his concern that it would mean my being inserted into a different social circle, and into classes that were even more advanced. My mother was in full support of it; her initial decision was based almost entirely on pride. She could boast about a son who skipped an entire grade! What an accomplishment it would be for her. She considered the other factors as well, but for her, it was an easy sell.

Back and forth the discussion went, through dinner and into the evening. My father launched arguments in opposition and my mother shot them down, one by one. In the end, my father capitulated, but at least my mother let him feel like he had his say. Given that she ruled our household, it was a fait accompli from the moment I handed the letter to her.

Two nights later, we attended the school meeting. It was held in the auditorium, of all places.  Brian and Johnny’s parents were there, as well. The parents sat together in the front row of seats in an otherwise empty auditorium, while Mr. Jackson and Mr. Sobczak explained the offer, and what it would mean if the parents accepted it.

In the end, Brian’s parents declined, mainly citing the same concerns my father had raised. Brian would continue to the 7^th grade in the fall, while Johnny and I would go on to the 8^th grade.  Sadly, my father was right about the change to my social circle. Johnny and I were soon spending time and making friends with the 8^th graders with whom we attended class. We had little opportunity to interact with Brian, and our friendship eventually came to an end. I was eleven years old and in the 8^th grade, and it had started with a long walk down a middle-school corridor.