In 1968, during my first year teaching in the South Bronx, the frequently absent Raymond walked into my junior high school English class holding a pistol, looked at me and announced: “Motherfucker; I’m going to blow your fuckin’ head off.” With all my 22 year-old wisdom, six weeks of teacher training and three months of actual experience, I responded: “My man, I have three options. One, I can go for the gun and one of us will probably get shot. Two, I can try to reach behind me for the telephone and call the police during which you may shoot me. Or, three, I could ask you to leave the room and go outside to get your fix. I’m going to continue teaching the class for five minutes and leave you the option. It’s up to you.” More

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