Forbidden Places

I alerted my principal, vice-principal, and the head of custodial staff that I was asking my students to go to places in the building that were otherwise off-limits. 

It was right before final exams, and I had squeezed in an assignment for my two 10th-grade classes: a creative nonfiction essay I called “Forbidden Places.”

“Choose a space in our building that’s off-limits to students,” I directed my morning class as I handed out the assignment. 

All eyes were on me.

“I printed it out for you in case anyone asks you if this is legit.”

Noting their unusual attentiveness, all of them chins up, I added, half-jokingly, “and DO NOT use this assignment as an excuse to act badly.” 

“The success of the assignment depended upon my ability to navigate any staff and administrative misgivings, but, more importantly, on the relationships I’d built with my students . . .”

The success of the assignment depended upon my ability to navigate any staff and administrative misgivings, but, more importantly, on the relationships I’d built with my students—I felt I could trust them.

Some students chuckled and this was enough to break the silence. One student, drawing an imaginary line between her and her friend, asked, “Can we go to the same spot?”

I didn’t want duplicates and pointed to a purple memo pad. “One person, one space. You can sign up here.”

Two hours later, when I announced to my afternoon class that I was assigning an essay, they had already heard about it. They were eyeing the purple notepad at the front of the room, poised to get out of their seats and claim their spot as soon as I finished talking. 

“Once you have a space,” I announced, “sit still in there, percolating, then spend five to 10 minutes doing some stream-of-consciousness writing.” 

I had given them topics and questions to consider:

• Take pictures (with words) of your space: What colors are the walls? Is the door scratched? Where is the light switch?
• Describe the vibe in the room.
• Describe the smells and sounds in the room.
• Who is allowed in this space? Who is not?
• What is your history with this space? For example, do you pass by it every day?
• What do you feel about not being allowed in this space?
• What are you feeling about gaining access to it?
• How is this experience like another experience?
• What stories do you know about this space?

My 10th graders had already written several creative nonfiction compositions in the form of personal essays, but I had given them prompts such as, “Who is the happiest person that you know?” in anticipation of our reading of Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God and a discussion of self-actualization, or, “Describe a time when you felt unjustly treated” to prepare for Weisel’s Night. We wrote about food memories, proudest moments, and gift-giving, among other topics.

This time, however, they were to develop their own insights, their own “controlling idea” in the lingo of the New York State Regents exam, which they would challenge in June.

I was anxious to see what they came up with.

The inspiration for this assignment came from a professional development workshop about Culturally Relevant Education led by Dr. Jevon Hunter of Buffalo State College. He encouraged his urban students to “take up and claim community space,” adding that such experiences could be transformative and restorative, and I wondered how I could replicate this idea for my rural students.

Olean is the largest city in New York’s Cattaraugus County, just an hour and half drive south of Buffalo and a 15-minute drive from the Pennsylvania border. Although citizens of outlying communities regard Olean as a “city school,” its population only nears 13,600 residents. 

However, the high school is no rural, one-room schoolhouse. The original three-story building, built in 1936, has had numerous additions to accommodate Olean’s fluctuating population. The 1965 class boasts 365 graduates, but like many towns in the Appalachian region (Olean is considered the northern tip), the population has decreased. In June of 2025, the graduating class was just 107 students.

With each renovation, more and more spaces became off-limits to students, more and more spaces “forbidden.”

My overarching goal was to encourage students to utilize figurative language and imagery to compose themes inspired by self-awareness and self-reflection . . .

My overarching goal was to encourage students to utilize figurative language and imagery to compose themes inspired by self-awareness and self-reflection, and the results were far beyond my expectations. 

Madison observed that a ladder in a storage room was symbolic of her desire “to be vulnerable” and “open up.” She created a dialogue between the ladder, representing dark thoughts, and the light peeking beneath the door, ultimately concluding that “growth is painful” but “full of excitement.” 

Kyle wrote a metaphor about a messy custodial closet, reminding him of “tough” athletic competitions with noise in the background while “inside was quiet.” Jay used the English department bookroom to reflect on her desire for wisdom and her compulsion “to remain reserved and humble.” 

Keona composed a particularly moving essay. She began, “The sweet and savory smells of cooking used to be my lullaby. It crept under my bedroom door like a whisper.” She chose the principal’s office and happened to visit it on a Wednesday, when just across the hall, a teacher was manning a concession-stand selling popcorn for one dollar a bag to help fund various extracurriculars. Keona linked her childhood memories to the faint smell of popcorn, writing: “Maybe this is what growing up is like: finding the empty echoes of home in strange places,” and a haunting line, “Maybe it’s learning that comfort can be found in unfamiliar places rather than people.”

“Maybe this is what growing up is like: finding the empty echoes of home in strange places.”

Most of the essays conveyed self-awareness and self-reflection. Marc, brainstorming from the top of a metal fire escape, wrote, “I used to be more adventurous just a few years ago.” He related his need for adventure to his creativity, concluding that “creativeness comes from my desire to learn new things and explore.” Francine wrote an essay about the experience of moving to different towns, the clutter of a storage space making her long for things “old and stationary.” Meg spent her brainstorming time in a staff room bathroom. She described the space as “dirty, with tiles missing, mold blackening the grout lines, rust stains in the sink,” and she “was punched with a horrible flashback” of an old apartment she lived in when she was a child. She reflected that this particular memory “would not make me stand in front of it” and concluded that “some memories should just remain memories.”

But I soon learned that this project wasn’t just about my students. Before I sent them off, I had made arrangements with Andrew, a custodian and former student, to unlock doors for my students when he had a few moments to spare from his duties.

“Was this too much?” I asked after. I was concerned because I realized—too late—that the assignment fell in tandem with spring award ceremonies and concerts, which always put additional pressure on custodial staff. However, Andrew kindly met my students and unlocked doors for them, staying for the five to 10 minutes I asked them to experience the space.

He hesitated, cocked his head, and replied, “I was willing to do it, but I was hoping not to get into trouble with the higher ups.” 

I hadn’t considered the necessity of administrative approval from the point of view of custodial staff. I was taking advantage of my unique situation of teaching in a small school where I was well known. I became conscious of the power dynamic that said no spaces were off limits to me, as they might be in other schools, in other districts. In other schools, this assignment wouldn’t work, or it might need to be reimagined to fit the community. I thought back to my inspiration: Dr. Jevon Hunter’s students had taken used shared and community space, while I had encouraged my students to explore the forbidden. Maybe an assignment such as this had less to do with access and permissions, and more to do with allowing students to define their relationship to a space.

Maybe an assignment such as this had less to do with access and permissions, and more to do with allowing students to define their relationship to a space.

I apologized profusely, but Andrew reassured me that he was enthusiastic about the project, proudly admitting, “I think I’ve now been in every space in the building.” Then he added, “Do you plan on doing this again next year? I’m willing to suggest cool places.”

My eyes brightened, reassured by his response. “Like where?”

“Do you know where the gym used to be, on the second floor, overlooking the cafeteria? It’s now a storage space. Do you want to see it?”

“Yes! Of course I do!”

He led me to a narrow closet, unlocked a door at the back of the room, and advised me to watch my head as I ducked under a wall while descending three steps. 

“Wow. So cool,” I uttered as I first noticed the faded triangular markings of shuffleboard on the hardwood floor.  

Andrew led me along a corridor, using his phone flashlight as we dodged some ductwork, and commented that my assignment made students more curious about what’s behind the scenes: “As a former student here, I never thought about people like me, the maintenance staff.”

I had planned that experiencing forbidden places could lead to self-awareness, but I had not considered that this project could lead to awareness of all the people who have a role in the school’s operation. But of course: place and people are linked. 

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When everyone was done with their final drafts, I took small groups of my students to tour the forbidden places. 

One student had asked for access to the roof. Olean High School is in the center of the city, on top of Sullivan Hill, so I could only imagine the specular view he described in his essay.

About half a dozen students and I accompanied John, another custodian who had embraced this project, on the tour. We followed along the staircase leading to the “penthouse,” a brick room that opened onto the roof. It was so narrow that to ascend the steep steps I had to hold onto the stair rails with my elbows bent. 

We were safely away from the edge of the flat, tarred rooftop, but I reflected upon the risks involved in taking students to forbidden places. Any sort of creative writing is in itself a risk: students write about unpredictable topics, often revisiting painful experiences in their quest to process them. Certainly, there is something to be said about the predictability of other types of writing—practicing the argument essay from previous state exam prompts, for instance—but when predictability nestles up to complacency, it, too, is dangerous.

I joined my students in peering above the tops of prodigious maple trees and telephone poles, taking in the panromantic, breath-taking, beautiful view of the valley and the city below, and that moment—sublime, silent, communal—stays with me still.

All student names have been changed.

Featured photo by Le Tran Hoang Oanh on Unsplash.