David Franks looked around the table. Everyone else looked very uncomfortable, despite his efforts to put them at ease. They were picking at their lunches, even though they had all ordered delicious items off the menu - and he was picking up the tab.
His guests were the principal at Frederick Douglass High School, three of the counselors from the school, the chairs of the mathematics, science and English departments, and the Reverend Billy Brown, from the Mount Olive Baptist Church.
"So," he began in the modern fashion, "as I told you all on the phone or in email, I represent a charitable foundation that exists to help single mothers break the poverty cycle. I need your help finding a candidate for a scholarship." That evoked a mix of reactions from his guests. Some of them made excited "ooh" noises at the prospect that one of their young charges might be eligible for a scholarship. Some of them rolled their eyes, muttering, "We've heard this one before." And two of them, including the Reverend Billy, started to get angry.
Reverend Billy spoke up first. "Wait a minute. You come down into black Atlanta, loaded down with your white man's guilt and a lotta white man's money, to try to lift some of our black sistas out of their lives of misery? You don't think we can do that ourselves? We are a community. We don't need you!"
The principal said "Shh! Reverend Billy, let's hear what the man has to say" - but one of the counselors muttered "Amen, Reverend."
Franks had expected this reaction, and he had already decided to use the nuclear option to deal with it. "Okay." He said. "I'll find another school that can help the Foundation spend its money - maybe up in Powder Springs. Lunch is on me. You stay here and enjoy it. I'll pay the bill on my way out the door." He picked up his phone and his tablet and stood up, pushing his chair back.
Before he could take a step, the women in the group were hissing at the Reverend to "keep your mouth shut" and to "let the man talk", while the principal half-rose from his chair at the other end of the long table, reaching towards Franks and saying "W-w-wait, don't go yet. The rest of us want to hear what you have to say."
Franks froze, and silently looked deep into the eyes of everyone at the table. He had already determined that if he saw antagonism or opposition in any of them, he would in fact leave. After a long 60 seconds, he sat down again.
"Now, then. Twenty-five percent of your students drop out every year. This is not the fault of the school; I understand that. Of those twenty-five percent, half of them are girls who are teen mothers. Ten to twenty percent of the girls who graduate in any given year are either pregnant or already have children. Many of these graduates and dropouts are girls who were planning to go to college, but because of the challenges of teen motherhood, they are forced to abandon that dream.
"When they drop out, they are still officially your responsibility. Unofficially, you already have enough to do, just keeping the roof on the school, and therefore many of these girls fall through the cracks. When they graduate, they are officially no longer your responsibility. However, most of them graduate totally unprepared to raise a child or get a job --"
The counselors started to protest.
"-- in spite of all of your admirable efforts to train them and prepare them for the Real World."
The counselors were mollified.
"I need your help. The Foundation wants to start something new. We are prepared to offer a full four-year experience at a nationally-ranked college or university to a single mother. If, after two years, it looks like she is making progress, we will make the same offer to two more single mothers - and two years later, to four more single mothers, doubling it every year until our accountants tell us that we are at the limit of the Foundation's endowment.
"The problem is, a white man prowling around in a black neighborhood, looking for and asking about single mothers, is asking for trouble --"
This brought smiles to all of the faces at the table. Some of them tried not to smile, but their mouths betrayed them.
" -- so I need your help identifying likely candidates. At this point, I'm not interested in academic qualifications, extracurricular activities, or any of the usual bullshit." He leaned forward, placing his palms on the table. "I'm interested in any girl who was college-bound, who could have made it, who deserved a shot but had to give it up for the baby. Those are my criteria."
One of the counselors interjected, "Then you're looking for someone who's no longer at our school."
Franks nodded. "That's right. You probably thought I was going to ask about your current student body. No, I'm asking for your help because you know all of the former students."
The Reverend Billy Brown spoke up, thoughtfully this time, "So why am I here?"
"Reverend Billy," said Franks, "you know these kids on a personal level. You know their families. You know their situations. You may be more acquainted than these educators with some likely candidates."
The math department chair spoke up. "Who decides who gets this scholarship?"
"The Foundation decides," was Franks' reply. "It's their money, and so they get to decide how to spend it. There is no application process. There is no bureaucratic waiting period. What I need from you is names. Right now. If you don't like these terms, then I'll just go up the road to McEachern High School and see if there's some upper-middle-class white girl who got herself in trouble and who needs a little help."
Franks stood silent once more. Speechless, the group looked around at each other, and then they started talking animatedly. In less than ten minutes they had come up with a list of over 20 girls' names, whittled it down to four, and then they spent the next 30 minutes telling Franks everything they were permitted to tell about the girls, their high school careers, their families, and their current situations.
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