Global High

(page 2 of 2)

The changes at Crawford are gradually spreading across other San Diego schools, where minorities now constitute the majority. Karen Rogoff witnessed these changes as a Crawford student and teacher. When she attended Crawford in the mid-’60s, it was a white, middle-class school with a rather large Jewish minority. Her parents were Polish Jews who had survived the Holocaust. They rushed to assimilate, but their heavy accents branded them as immigrants.

“When I graduated from Crawford High in 1967, it was about 95 percent Caucasian,” Rogoff tells her present students. She became a teacher at Bell Junior High in Paradise Hills. She loved teaching but didn’t always feel comfortable. One day, a student rudely interrupted a lesson on the Holocaust: “Mrs. Rogoff, you’re going to hell for not believing in Jesus!”

In 1993, she was offered a teaching position at Crawford High. She hadn’t set foot on campus in 25 years, and it had become an inner-city school.

“I was in shock!” she exclaims. Moslem girls covered head to foot peered through eye slits. Blacks and whites were holding hands. “I needed to learn the rules. Just saying their names was a challenge.”

It took her years to adjust. At first, she isolated herself, alienated by languages she did not comprehend. She wanted to scream or run away, but she stuck it out. Gradually, she became curious about her students, and curiosity turned to fascination.

“I had an epiphany!” she says, writing the word on the chalkboard. “Before, I felt different. At Crawford High, everyone is different. Here, I can truly be me.”

Now students are nodding in agreement.

“The first day of grade school, my teacher sat me next to a girl with yellow hair and blue eyes,” offers a Hmong girl. “I couldn’t understand anything. At home, I cried hysterically. One day, the girl shared paste with me. She became my friend.”

Each day is a journey. At home, many families speak their native tongues. At school, kids are thrown together. Making that first friend is so important. Gradually, they emigrate from their parents’ culture, become San Diego-ized. This causes stress.

“My parents don’t understand why I’m dating an Asian,” says an African-American. “I plan to marry outside of my race.”

This comment doesn’t cause a ripple, although it would have raised eyebrows a generation ago. Crawford looks like a mini United Nations. You may hear squabbling, but undiplomatically honest kids get along better than most diplomats haranguing the General Assembly.

What does diversity taste like?

“Caviar!” answers a senior. “You don’t know if you’ll like it until you try it.”

“The media makes us look like FOBs,” complains a Laotian girl. FOB stands for “fresh off the boat.”

Bigotry is the flip side of tolerance. “When I was in grade school, people called me ‘gook,’ says a Vietnamese boy. “But I was racist myself, because my parents said blacks were troublemakers and Mexicans couldn’t be trusted.” Classmates frown, listening intently. “My thinking changed when I started hanging out with different races,” he rushes to explain. “Race doesn’t determine who you are.”

A white girl chimes in, “During my first day, I walked into the bathroom and found Somalian girls talking in their language and washing their feet in the sink. They looked up at me and saw my confused look. I have learned that the things people do are not dumb just because I don’t do them.”

“Who wants to live in a society in which everyone is the same?” asks one Hispanic guy. “A world without diversity would be a sad world indeed.”

A girl with African-American and Apache roots feels sorry for kids in suburban schools who fear diversity. “They won’t have their epiphany for a long time.”

“Don’t hate me before you know me,” says a Somali girl.

Says another: “Race doesn’t matter. Personality does.”

“If you’re culture-blind, you’re missing so much of who the person is,” says teacher Cindy Page, giving a new twist to an old expression. Page is like a second mother to many refugees.

“Please distill your thoughts to one word,” I ask students. Words spill out: Culture. Education. Set an example. Respect. Be friendly. Open-minded. Aware. Accepting. Patient. Interpersonal skills. Understanding. Trusting. Determination. Helpful. Perseverance. Strength.

Listening, I have an epiphany: These “underprivileged” youths are privileged to attend this Global High. They are at the leading edge of America’s integration into the global community. They are living San Diego’s future, today.

It is not a wholly peaceful world. Fights break out; people take sides. But the fights are usually about personality, not race.

What lessons do they teach? It’s okay to be different. When you’re thrown into a new school, hang out with people who speak your tongue. But when someone offers you paste, take the invitation to friendship. Humor is a universal language. When one group rules, others feel excluded. When all are different, one can be oneself.

Crawford may score below average on some achievement tests, largely because of language barriers. But verbal test scores are rising, and the students are advanced in human literacy. Their communication skills are valuable assets in a global marketplace.

As students gather peaceably around the flagpole, I wonder about their future. Will they acquire the skills and economic power to help guide our community into this 21st century? Or will these bright-eyed students be shunned? Will the doors of opportunity open, or will they be trapped in dead-end jobs?

I wish I were more hopeful. Outside Crawford’s gates, differences aren’t always tolerated. If the doors of opportunity slam in their faces, the brightness will fade from San Diego’s cheeks, and our future in the global economy will dim.

The view from the flagpole is not black and white but a color field of impressions on a pointillist canvas. Up close, contrasts are heightened. But from a distance, their faces add up to a compelling portrait of San Diego’s future.

As I head north across the Great Divide of Interstate 8 toward La Jolla, Crawford High disappears into smog. In sprawling suburbs, money buys distance from people who are different. It’s an old story: density and diversity versus space and uniformity. Yet loneliness howls in the hubcaps of fleeing commuters. Pink stucco developments shut spiked gates against the tide of demographic change. Yet locked in gated communities there is a yearning for the “other”—to taste the caviar of diversity.

And then I remember the words of Jawahir Mohamed, a rainbow-robed Somali role model. Jawahir’s eyes twinkle like desert stars beneath her midnight-blue scarf. She laughs: “If you want to travel to Asia, Africa and South America, save your money. Just come to Crawford High!”

Do you like what you read? Subscribe to San Diego Magazine »