One phone to a high school counselor changed the trajectory of my life forever.
I am anxiously sitting on the couch in the living room. It was after 4 pm. Though spring had arrived, there was still a slight chill in the air. Thankfully, my crowded three-bedroom apartment protected me from the elements.
In an attempt to hide my nerves, I put on the best Disney Princess voice my fifteen-year-old self could muster as I gripped the wireless house phone. I needed this phone call to succeed. My future as a young, ambitious black girl depended on it.
On the other end of the line was a high school counselor from Lake View High School, a public school located in the moderately wealthier side of Chicago. I called this man because his school sent me a rejection letter. Sadly, Lake View was not the only one. All of the high schools I applied to denied me.
Even though I had a strong will and a firm heart, being rejected from these institutions crushed me. I cried routinely in my bedroom, refused to talk to anyone, and sank into a deep depression. No one could get me out of my funk, not even my mother. Instead, I angrily lashed out, “I’m not a failure like you.”
Neither of us took my attitude well.
Despite the tears and angst, something told me to give the counselor a ring. I did not know what encouraged me to do it. Perhaps it was the desperation that bubbled up inside me each passing day, knowing that my designated neighborhood high school was considered one of the worst schools in Chicago. Maybe it was the guilt I felt for screwing up my grades the previous year in school. It could have also been the anger I had toward my messy family. Regardless, I needed to talk to that man and convince him to change his mind.
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This was not my first encounter with the high school counselor. Several months before the call, the educator visited my grade school. A bit stoutly but sweet, the middle-aged man stood in front of our majority black classroom and told us about Lake View. He noted the school's renowned art program, its excellent English teachers, and, most importantly, its diverse student body.
As a dorky black girl from a working-class neighborhood, Lake View High School sounded like an oasis. Not only would I receive a well-rounded education, but I could take art classes or join a club or two or three and even interact with people outside of my race. A prospect that was shockingly rare in Chicago, despite it being a "progressive" metropolitan city.
“At that moment, I needed that man to remember me. I needed him to see me.”
And so, I decided to impress the high school counselor. Within a couple of minutes, I quickly drew a caricature of the cheerful man and handed him the sketch. It was something I did for every visitor, despite the chagrin of my classmates.
Once the visitor left our classroom, one of the male students turned around from his desk, and mockingly called me, "Lame.”
Whatever, I thought. At that moment, I needed that man to remember me. I needed him to see me.
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"Hi, my name is Phylecia Thompson," I said brightly on the phone. "I'm one of the students from Ms. Witherspoon's class.”
"Ah. I remember you," the counselor replied.
This conversation was a make it or break it moment for me. I had already called two different schools, and neither one of them cared about my situation. No matter how hard I pleaded my case, they only saw me as a nuisance. Hopefully, this counselor would see me for who I am — a young, ambitious black girl with potential.
Maybe it was the drawing or the fact that a fifteen-year-old girl called him without any support, but something motivated the counselor to give me a chance. He said, "Why don't you come up to the school, and I'll see what I can do?"
For the first time in a long time, I genuinely smiled.
Several weeks later, I proudly marched up to Lake View High School with my stepfather in tow and officially became a student.
Thanks to that phone call, I got that man to see me.
I’ve changed the name of the teacher to hide her identity.
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