One Lesson I Can’t Teach

The State of the Union last night inspired me as an educator. I showed my students some of the statistics the President shared with the nation. They were stunned when I told them that, statistically, out of my 12 Civics students, 3 would not graduate.

Via whitehouse.gov and its Powerpoint presentations during the SOTU

These are some figures that keep me going at my job. I’ve admitted to people recently that I’ve considered quitting a number of times this year, but I stay because I want to whip my students into shape and make them see their potential. For the last few weeks, I felt that I was finally seeing that potential.

And then comes today, which dropped another bomb on my head, and made me feel helpless here. According to Peer Health Exchange, ”One in five sexually active teenage girls becomes pregnant every year.” That one happens to be in my Spanish class. This is not a girl who hid in the back of my class. She’s the star. She’s the brightest, most intellectual and dignified student I have. She’s acts like adult, even if she really isn’t. And at my school, that’s a huge achievement.

My girlfriend, Mimi, is a reproductive and women’s health advocate. Her work has opened my eyes to issues I had never considered before: the violence committed against women and girls, the abysmal state of maternal health care in most underdeveloped nations, and the dire need for comprehensive sexual education worldwide. These are international issues I mostly associate with third-world punchlines — Sudan, Ethiopia, etc. But when these issues slap you in the face here, in the US, it leaves a mark.

Pregnancy in my high school is celebrated. I mean, how can you not congratulate someone when they reveal that? I hesitantly congratulated Phoebe when she told me the “good” news privately after class. “Yeah,” she sighed. “Thanks, I guess.” I was taken aback; most students would have already chosen a name and a wardrobe, and would be counting down the days until they could take maternity leave from high school.

“Aren’t you excited?” I asked.

“Mr. Pepper,” she said. “I’m too young. It’s too soon.” I couldn’t agree vocally, but my eyes did the talking.

“Well, at least you have your boyfriend for support,” I conceded. He was older and employed.

“Mr. Pepper,” she repeated, quieter. “I don’t even know if it’s his.”

Phoebe could be destined for great things. She could be a writer. She could be a community organizer. She has people skills and intellect and curiosity and a sharp wit. She works at McDonald’s to make money on the side. She’s unusually blunt with her teachers, telling them regularly that she needs more work. I hope she can keep up now, with morning sickness and fatigue.

I drove home with my housemate, a second-year teacher. I told him about Phoebe. “Oh yeah, get used to that this semester,” he said knowingly. “Last year, 50-60% of the graduating girls got pregnant before the year ended. Since then, I think almost all of them have kids.”

Teenage pregnancy in this region usually results in a grandparent adopting most of the responsibility while the new parent trying desperately to cling to childhood for a few more years.

I see a vicious cycle here, where young women with potential to change a region and a way of life become stuck because they’re too far from the nearest Walmart to buy condoms or they’re too embarrassed to go to the gas station to get them for fear of seeing an aunt that lives down the street.

I want to be the teacher with a basket of condoms on my desk, the one who encourages students, every day, to be careful, but more than that, to be smart. Students are going to have sex. All I want is to give them a little education on the matter.

But here, as an educator, that’s impossible. And that breaks my heart.

For more information, see these websites. Please link to more if you know of them.

• Peer Health Exchange
• Planned Parenthood
• Advocates for Youth
• Facts on Sexual Education in the United States

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