A TEACHER ASKS, AND ASKS AGAIN, "WHAT'S 420?'

ON APRIL 19, in my last section of ninth-grade public speaking class,
which I teach at a private school in Oakland, I heard one student say
to another, "420, don't forget."

My ears pricked up. I asked, "What's 420?"

I looked from student to student but no one looked up. I waited. One
student finally said, "It's nothing, Ms. Flaxman. Don't worry about
it."

That's when I started to worry.

Because I am in only my second year of teaching, teenagers often see
me as more of an older sister than a disciplinarian, so I teased, "I'm
going to find out you guys, and when I do, watch out!"

Still, no one would look me in the eye.

After class, I approached some kids I thought might know something and
asked again, "What's 420?"

One of them told me not to worry.

"When an entire class turns bright red and falls silent," I told him,
"I worry."

He put up his right hand. "I do not know what 420 is." But there was a
twinkle in his eye.

Kids are sneaky. They have to be; they're not allowed to do most of
the things they want to do. I knew there was something to 420, and I
wanted to find out what it was. I went home that night and told my
fiance what I had overheard.

"Do you think it's something they do at 4:20," I asked.

He shrugged.

"Maybe it's someone's birthday."

We both laughed at that; a birthday party seemed too innocent,
considering the reaction of my class.

I sat at the table chopping vegetables, pondering.

What if 420 meant that four people do 20 shots of vodka in four
minutes? That a group of kids would gather at 4:20 in the morning to
board a bus for Vegas? I tried to think of what else had happened on
April 20, but all I came up with was Waco, Texas, and the Oklahoma
City bombing, both of which happened earlier in April.

I was puzzled. While we ate dinner, and for the rest of the night, I
worried about what my students might be getting themselves into the
next day.

The next morning, I asked again, "What's 420?"

I didn't expect an answer, but one student surprised me. "It's the day
we smoke the magic flower," she said, and then quickly added, "Not me!
I don't do that."

I lifted an eyebrow.

"Really!" she said.

"Who's thinking about doing it?"

"No one, really. It's just something to talk about."

This sounded like both the truth and the lie to get the teacher off
your back.

I kept my eyes open all day, but April 20 was an average school day.
Nothing unusual of any kind. I looked but did not find any of the
typical signs of pot use: no bloodshot eyes, no outbursts of the giggles.

At around 2:30, as the school day neared its end, I let out a sigh of
relief; 4 / 20 had come and gone without any major disruption.

That's when Sabina, a 10th grader in my study hall, ran in with the news of
the massacre in Colorado: "Twenty-five students have been shot and the
killers are holding the school hostage!"

I didn't believe her. I turned on the television in my classroom and
caught the tail end of the sheriff's briefing.

"It's so scary," Sabina said. I nodded, speechless. I felt confused,
off balance. I had been worrying all day about the wrong thing, but
how could anyone anticipate this?

The following week, I spent my free time reading about the murders,
and wondered: Did the boys' parents know about their violent
tendencies? Did someone at school miss something? Would I have missed
it too?

The answer to the last question is, probably, yes. The only reason I
was able to ask questions about 420 was that a student slipped and
said something in front of me. I caught it, asked an appropriate
question, and my students' faces and body language gave them away.

But if a student has a secret, and is good at keeping it, then there
really isn't much a teacher or parent can do. All the metal detectors
in the world cannot detect a troubled child behind a cheerful face.

Along with the stories about Columbine came reports of what "420"
meant to students across the country before the Columbine shooting.
There are 420 different chemicals in pot, and the Los Angeles Police
Department uses the number as a code for drug busts. April 20 is the
day kids around the country get together to smoke marijuana.

So I was right to think that on April 20 some of my students might do
something they're not supposed to do. But my fiance was right about
April 20 too. That date IS someone's birthday - Adolf Hitler's.

But even if I had gotten it right, had learned what 420 really stood
for, I wouldn't have been able to stop anything. The only thing I
could have done was what I DID do: Talk to my students.

I grilled them about 420 when I knew they wouldn't tell me the answer.
I grilled them to remind them that someone knew that something was
going on, and that someone cared. I hoped that the mere idea that Ms.
Flaxman might know or disapprove of something might keep my students
out of trouble.

In the end, that's all any mentor, parent, teacher or friend can
do.

Examiner contributor Jessica R. Flaxman, a freelance writer in San
Francisco, teaches English at a school in Oakland.