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The Heart of Meyzeek By Anne Marshall Photos by Mickie Winters Sharonda O'Bannon-Morton is a math teacher with a knack for numbers and a unique gif for connecting with kids. A blue minivan slides into an open spot in front of Meyzeek Middle School in Louisville's Smoketown neighborhood. It's a sunny August morning. Sharonda O'Bannon-Morton pops out of the driver's seat, throws two bags over her shoulder. It's about 7:30. Te frst day of school. She's running late. An ankle-length black-and-white-striped skirt ripples from her hurried steps across the courtyard, into the front doors. Ten, she's spotted. "Ms. O'Bannon! Ms. O'Bannon!" A small boy jumps up and down so vigorously his glasses bounce. About a half-dozen former students fock to hug her waist, a forearm. A few giggle uncontrollably. Meyzeek's glossy, speckled linoleum hallway is a high-trafc red carpet for this tall African-American 45-year-old. She hops in place with the kids. Te huddle erupts in laughter, some inside joke about summering in North Korea. O'Bannon-Morton smiles so wide her cheekbones hoist up like weights on a barbell, squeezing her eyes behind black-framed glasses. Ask kids what Ms. O'Bannon (as she's commonly known) is like and they immediately smirk. Ten squirm. If they're sitting in a group, their eyes wildly dart with an expression of — What should we say? What should we say? Ten out it bursts: "Crazy." One former student ofers this memory: "She called me a criminal. And called another student an alien. She hit me in the hallway for fun," he said, laughing. "It was great!" Tat's the stuf kids love to share, the insider antics of Ms. O'Bannon, a Moses among math teachers who can split up a fght just by walking toward it, a comedienne who peppers lessons with British accents, foot-stomping laughter or a sarcastic, screechy "What??" that reminds kids of the Madea movies. Her popular response to a raised hand? "Stop harassing me!" It cracks students up every time. What tickles 11- to 13-year-olds can't be taught in the hours of professional development teachers must slog through. Neither can O'Bannon-Morton's far less obvious, more magical qualities. Former students — men in their 20s — soften into lovable 11-year-olds when they see her. When she tosses a question to a student in the cacophonous lunchroom — "How was your weekend?" — personal details emerge: separated parents, a fractured relationship with mom. O'Bannon-Morton unlocks kids. With class starting in minutes, she tears herself from the pack and heads for her room. Now in her 15th year of teaching mostly seventh58 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 11.13 grade math, O'Bannon-Morton has moved to sixth grade. She's taught all the curricula in this building, so sixth grade isn't new territory, just smaller. At fve feet 11 inches, O'Bannon-Morton dwarfs the nervous guppies, some who measure no more than sneakers, calves, backpack and a head. Her sandaled size 11s charge upstairs to the second foor. While the wiry frame of her youth now carries more weight, the former college basketball player still moves like she's hustling down a 94-foot court. In the sixth-grade hallway, administrators direct students to their classrooms: "219 this way! 220 that way!" Fingers twirl locker dials, creating a sound similar to rain on a tin roof. Locker doors slam shut. Students scurry away. It's a diverse mix in the hallways, nearly every race commuting together. About half the school's roughly 1,100 kids travel from all over the city and suburbs as magnet math, science and technology students. Te other half hail from Smoketown and surrounding neighborhoods like Shelby Park, the same area O'Bannon-Morton grew up. She took her frst steps in an apartment across the street from Meyzeek, practiced her rebounding at the Shelby Park courts — even met her husband while washing her car near the park. Once in her classroom, O'Bannon-Morton surveys her frst group of kids sitting quietly at two-person tables. A girl with a thick, sandyblond braid sits in her plastic chair bouncing her right knee. "Well, they kicked me out of seventh grade. I think they feel like ya'll need to get traumatized," O'Bannon-Morton jokes. N o one can relate to kids like Sharonda O'Bannon-Morton. I hear that from close to two dozen co-workers, friends and students. In middle school, relationships are crucial. Plucked out of elementary school and shufed into a new building, the social pecking order scrambles. Kids who lack support and traverse this hormonal minefeld alone can stumble into rebellious behavior or academic apathy. If middle school kids don't like a teacher or they think a teacher loathes them, it's a battle. "If teachers would build a relationship with students, you could get them to do anything," says Venetta Parmley, a 27-year teaching veteran and close friend of O'Bannon-Morton's. "But most teachers spend time trying to have power over them."