Searching for Hope: Life at a Failing School in the Heart of America

2. I Never Would Have Thought He Would be a Dandelion

+ + + 2 I NEVER WOULD HAVE THOUGHT HE WOULD BE A DANDELION. Sgt.JohnBarrowandIwerewalkingdownahallwaymidwaythrough third period of the school year’s first Friday when he got a call about a group of students who had been caught in the upstairs gym. The seven boys were skipping class and acting suspicious, another officer announced over the police radio. The day before, two students had been expelled for having oral sex in a nearby locker room. But the voice on the radio made clear to Barrow that he wouldn’t make it through this first week without a much bigger mess. “Let’s go,” he said. Barrow had just finished giving me the first of many lessons he would deliver throughout the school year, lessons learned from more than a dozen years spent patrolling the halls of Indianapolis Public Schools (ips). He called this one the “Dandelion Theory.” It’s based on the idea that you sometimes have to pluck out one troublemaking student so that the others can thrive. “I want my grass to be perfectly green,” said Barrow, an army veteran with a shaved head and a huge smile. “That means I want every kid in here to graduate and be happy. But if I never would have thought he would be a dandelion. 11 there is one dandelion, I can’t ignore it. I have to pull it out, or before long we’ll have a lawn full of weeds. It’s like cancer. Trouble spreads if you don’t watch out for it and do something about it.” As Barrow talked, I nodded and took notes. In just three days at the school he had become one of my favorite human beings on the planet. He’d grown up in Indianapolis, playing football at another local high school, and returned to his hometown after thirteen years in the army. Tall and stocky, with a loud laugh and a friendly voice that could turn deadly serious when necessary, he gave much more to the job than was required. When things were calm, he spent nearly every minute trying to build relationships with Manual’s students. He knew many of them needed a friend and a role model, someone to talk with. He also knew that many of the kids would one day be in trouble and that any goodwill built up today could pay off later. His mission was a serious one. But his methods were often deceptively lighthearted. He was in a constant verbal jousting match with many of the students. “Hi, Erin,” he said to a girl earlier that morning. “Welcome back. What’s this, your sixth year?” She smiled, waved him off like a pesky big brother, and kept walking to class. More students passed by. “How’s your brother?” Barrow asked one. “Tell him I said hello.” He recognized a girl who’d been a constant troublemaker the previous school year. “Just once I want to see you carrying a book,” he said, loudly. “Just once. Please. Will you please do that for me? Once?” Success at Manual is about small victories. So a bit later Barrow broke into a big smile when the same girl walked by him and cleared her throat to get his attention. “You’ve got a book in your hand,” he shouted, even louder this time. “Hallelujah!” Then he spotted another student and quickly got serious. Barrow had heard that the boy wouldn’t be playing football despite being a good player the previous year. The coach of the school’s desperately undermanned team had asked Barrow to check on the boy, knowing they’d built a relationship the previous year. “Son, why aren’t you playing this year?” “I don’t have my court hearing until September 10,” the boy said. “I have early curfew till then. I can’t practice late or play late.” The boy walked away, and Barrow shook his head as he returned to work. As he moved down the hall, students said hello and reached out to shake his hand. Each time, he offered them an elbow bump instead. He was a big, tough guy with army training and a gun at his side. But he was terrified of the germs on 12 searching for hope so many unwashed hands. He wasn’t, though, the least bit hesitant to interact with them. Once, as we talked, I told him he...