WHEN I WAS teaching back in Cleveland, I was always the only white woman in the room. So Chelsea was weird right from the start. The room seemed too bright. I was comforted by the sight of two black boys near the back. One was dark and rather handsome, with a head full of short dreads; his leg jiggled nervously and continuously. The other boy was caramel colored and considerably more relaxed, studying me with the same calm gaze as those of the rest of his classmates. Funny, how when I was their age, I never would have noticed if a room was mostly full of white people. But fifteen years in the Cleveland public schools had cured me of that. Now it felt odd to be in the majority, but curiously restful as well. Truth be told, that’s how I ended up here. I was hoping that a little of the neatness and prosperity and calm of the place would rub off on me.

“So, gentlemen,” I started, after writing my name on the board in the same blocky letters I always used. That felt the same, which was nice. “My name is Jana Hansen—Ms. Hansen to you—and I’m new here. My goal in this class is primarily to get you reading. Really reading, with a critical eye.” I paused. The boys’ expressions had not changed. “Don’t get me wrong. There will still be tests and papers. But mostly I want to know that you’re reading, and I want to know what you think about what you’re reading. Fair enough?”

A few muttered yeahs. I could see that they were trying to make sense of me—and not entirely succeeding. Best to press on. “Let’s start here,” I said. “It’s the first day. We don’t have an assignment yet—although don’t worry, you’re going to get one—but what I’d like to do right now is just read you one of my favorite stories.” I dug out my battered copy of The Complete Stories of Flannery O’Connor and flipped through it until I reached “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” “The grandmother did not want to go to Florida,” I read. By the end of the first page, I had them. I allowed myself a small smile. Nothing like a little gothic southern violence to draw in the young folks. When I finished, I looked up expectantly. “Well? Any thoughts? And tell me your names before you speak. It’ll help me learn them.”

The first hand to go up belonged to one of the smoother-looking boys in the class. “My name’s Max Harrison,” he said. “And I don’t really get what the story was about. I mean … they all seemed like stupid hicks to me.”