| I find myself here, up after the others have gone to bed, trying to process my first semester of teaching. In so many ways, I feel discouraged and awestruck by what I did not accomplish. But in many ways, I glance at the journals my kids have been writing and I am overcome with an urge to hold each of them individually, to take them up, to transfer them to some new reality. I have two who will graduate this Christmas and I will miss them. Despite the daily difficulties and the frustrations, I find it nearly impossible not to feel overcome with emotion--mostly love and deep affection. The human experience is such a unique one and one we are all fortunate to live. There is indescribable beauty in this place, in this intangible and indescribable thing. There are places that leave one breathless and experiences that leave the cheeks wet with tears. And there are moments of such immense beauty that we feel we have lived a lifetime's joy in a single moment. And there is loss that leaves us feeling hollow, that can destruct who we once were and produce a product we no longer wholly recognize. I return to the thought I wrote over and over after I broke up with Mark nearly three years ago. The true beauty in this life is not in a picturesque sunrise, but with who it is shared. The true beauty in this life is in a connection made between two human beings that leaves each different as a result. Each of us is set hurtling at a high velocity in a certain direction the moment we are born. Those who most impact us, however, perhaps influence a single life choice that slightly angles the trajectory of our life and, as a result, changes everything. The influence of one upon another can not be overlooked. The influence of one beautiful heart and mind in a world in which there is too much cruelty is overlooked only by cynics who are too frightened to try, too frightened of failure or hurt to take a step into what they see as an overwhelmingly cruel world. Every day out here, I am reminded that life is precisely the way it is seen. We construct our reality. And we shape the way we live. Old news to some, perhaps, but one is never too old to remember that we all should, essentially, see the world with the innocence of a child. And, with the permission of a student, I am going to post his most recent journal entry. Perhaps it was powerful only because I know the student, but I doubt it. He is someone I have come to love deeply, to trust, and to pray with whatever power in my bones that he fulfills his potential. When asked the question, "what is the hardest decision you have had to make," he wrote: "What is the hardest decision I have ever had to make? That would be letting go of my sister when she had an accident that spared her life, if only for a moment. That was when I was twelve years old. I held her on my lap, her blood was coming out from her forehead and I tried to cover it but it wouldn't help. People there didn't help because they were completely shocked with my sister's wound. I could feel her squeezing my hand, but her eyes were closed and my dad's sisters (three of them) tried to get me away from her but they couldn't. I tried to tell them to help me, but they kept telling me that the ambulance was on the way. Finally, I lost her. It took four men to get me away from her. I left a lot of tears at that place of my sister's accident. That was the hardest decision I have ever made, letting go of my sister, but she is always in my heart. She was killed by her drunk friend. My sister's friends were all okay, only my sister and brother were injured..." Who am I, to be so blessed? Is it this white skin or the middle class background? Is it blind luck or is it God knowing if faced with the same difficulty, I would be broken in half? Somehow, I doubt there is any divine path laid before my feet, but some dice roll made at my birth, the combination of genes and blind luck, that landed me sitting in this heated kitchen with electricity and running water in the middle of a seemingly desolate desert, made beautiful by the spirit with which the people I teach live. I find, as with my experience in Africa, that I likely will be the one most changed by all of this and fervently pray that I may send a student or two into the world different for having known me. I think one of the reasons I have not been able to write here is because my heart breaks at least once a day. I find what I go through challenges my heart to the extreme, and then I remind myself that my students--most of them, anyway--have seen and experienced significantly more. In every action, word, and thought, I am forced to acknowledge my own privileged and pampered background. And at the same time, somehow come to terms with this desperate anxiety that there are seventy young people on the reservation who, during the work week, at least, split my mind in seventy different ways in an attempt to better understand how I can serve each of them. Maybe THAT is an example of true schizophrenia :). Anyway, I should have slept hours ago. Hours hours hours. Night. |
Thursday, December 20, 2007
I Must Have Won the Birthing Lottery
Saturday, November 24, 2007
The Forgotten
The real thing to do is simply to write. Write each day. Even if the words are incoherent and strung together illogically. Write even though you have nothing to say, write even when you draw a blank. Put the words down, see how they weave themselves, and wonder at the product. I think many people have the same thoughts, but those who are most successful have a natural inclination for where certain words should be placed. Place them here, replace one word with another, and an entire phrase can take on a different meaning. One word can have a clear, specific connotation that can be changed by the placement of a specific word in front or behind. Write simply because you can and it is evidence that you are here in this day, thinking and breathing, perhaps happy or sad, but here nonetheless.
I often wonder what I would be without the words written here. Would I be the same person, with the same complexity, views, and depth? I think about my students and who they are without an advanced skill for any language. They cannot write their own feelings much better than they can spell their own names in cursive. What do they do with the toil of thoughts spinning in their minds? How do they express their desire to escape the reservation, to run with all their might from a life into which they were born? Without the correct words to say, how can one know to any extent one's deepest desires? Or is my language a crutch? Because I know the words perhaps I inhibit my own emotion, cutting the depth of it with the shallow words we have used to label emotion?
I have had such a difficult time writing about my experience and I keep writing that again and again as though it will change the fact that I have ignored this journal for the last few months. But the honest truth is that I do not know what to say. To some extent, I think a part of you has to shut down to do the job I am doing. How could I over analyze what I see out there without going slightly insane? If I didn't remove myself from it, if I faced it with full force like I did my college experience, could I bare to wake each morning? And so I do not write and I do not play the piano and I stare night after night at a movie and wake the next morning praying that I am doing some good in the middle of nowhere in a place I do not know, understand, and cannot pinpoint on any map that currently exists. It is a vacuum of thought because it can be nothing else. If I were to truly face the circumstance, I would be overwhelmed with something--loneliness perhaps--and utterly unable to tolerate my new reality.
Life is too quick. It is already November AFTER I graduated and I am in a whirlwind of "saving the world" through teaching. I am doing something through teaching. I am experiencing a part of the world I did not know existed nor could I imagine existing.
It is difficult to put into words the isolation of the place I live. Imagine driving for one hundred miles (two hours) from the biggest city you know and ten minutes outside of it, the landscape turning dry and brown, the dust collecting under your wipers as you drive, and the only thing in sight being a field of dry, brown tumbleweed. Imagine driving mile after mile without seeing a person, without passing a car, turning on streets without names that do not appear on maps and are often unpaved and quickly destroy any motor vehicle. Imagine being two hours from a grocery store, from a hospital, from "civilization." In so many ways, it offers respite from city bothers, but also teaches a lesson in the necessity of others. Even in a city, you are not entirely alone. In a city you can sit in a coffee shop of bustling people and feel their humanness. Out there you are crushed by the big blue sky, alone with the exception of one sane roommate who is equally stifled by the openness and insurmountable problems faced by the students in that area.
It is one thing to put it into words, to paint the brown landscape, and another thing to live. It is trying and tiring and terrifying and it is something I never imagined myself doing. There are so many words to describe it and none at all because no one who hasn't lived that far from other people can imagine it. A school that sits on a hill, not surrounded by a town, but isolated from everything and everyone. And I cannot understand how any school district or person in the world could be happy in that environment.
People need people to find contentment and there are none in Pueblo Pintado.
It is another country, one that is indescribable because it has no name and no one is from the place. The people are Americans but not treated as such. There is no town, no typical American activities. There is only a school and about a hundred lost children. And a school district and state that neglects the fact it exists. Even Teach for America, to an extent, has forgotten those of us placed there. We are and we are not. We exist and we do not. We are, essentially, forgotten.
I often wonder what I would be without the words written here. Would I be the same person, with the same complexity, views, and depth? I think about my students and who they are without an advanced skill for any language. They cannot write their own feelings much better than they can spell their own names in cursive. What do they do with the toil of thoughts spinning in their minds? How do they express their desire to escape the reservation, to run with all their might from a life into which they were born? Without the correct words to say, how can one know to any extent one's deepest desires? Or is my language a crutch? Because I know the words perhaps I inhibit my own emotion, cutting the depth of it with the shallow words we have used to label emotion?
I have had such a difficult time writing about my experience and I keep writing that again and again as though it will change the fact that I have ignored this journal for the last few months. But the honest truth is that I do not know what to say. To some extent, I think a part of you has to shut down to do the job I am doing. How could I over analyze what I see out there without going slightly insane? If I didn't remove myself from it, if I faced it with full force like I did my college experience, could I bare to wake each morning? And so I do not write and I do not play the piano and I stare night after night at a movie and wake the next morning praying that I am doing some good in the middle of nowhere in a place I do not know, understand, and cannot pinpoint on any map that currently exists. It is a vacuum of thought because it can be nothing else. If I were to truly face the circumstance, I would be overwhelmed with something--loneliness perhaps--and utterly unable to tolerate my new reality.
Life is too quick. It is already November AFTER I graduated and I am in a whirlwind of "saving the world" through teaching. I am doing something through teaching. I am experiencing a part of the world I did not know existed nor could I imagine existing.
It is difficult to put into words the isolation of the place I live. Imagine driving for one hundred miles (two hours) from the biggest city you know and ten minutes outside of it, the landscape turning dry and brown, the dust collecting under your wipers as you drive, and the only thing in sight being a field of dry, brown tumbleweed. Imagine driving mile after mile without seeing a person, without passing a car, turning on streets without names that do not appear on maps and are often unpaved and quickly destroy any motor vehicle. Imagine being two hours from a grocery store, from a hospital, from "civilization." In so many ways, it offers respite from city bothers, but also teaches a lesson in the necessity of others. Even in a city, you are not entirely alone. In a city you can sit in a coffee shop of bustling people and feel their humanness. Out there you are crushed by the big blue sky, alone with the exception of one sane roommate who is equally stifled by the openness and insurmountable problems faced by the students in that area.
It is one thing to put it into words, to paint the brown landscape, and another thing to live. It is trying and tiring and terrifying and it is something I never imagined myself doing. There are so many words to describe it and none at all because no one who hasn't lived that far from other people can imagine it. A school that sits on a hill, not surrounded by a town, but isolated from everything and everyone. And I cannot understand how any school district or person in the world could be happy in that environment.
People need people to find contentment and there are none in Pueblo Pintado.
It is another country, one that is indescribable because it has no name and no one is from the place. The people are Americans but not treated as such. There is no town, no typical American activities. There is only a school and about a hundred lost children. And a school district and state that neglects the fact it exists. Even Teach for America, to an extent, has forgotten those of us placed there. We are and we are not. We exist and we do not. We are, essentially, forgotten.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
The View from Churchrock
I sit in the crevice at the top of massive Churchrock and stare enviously at falcons playing in bursts of wind. Stretching my arms out, I vividly remember being eight and convincing five of my girl friends that if we could find light and large wood to attach to our arms, we too would soar when the wind was right. Given a few more years experience, the conviction died, but the yearning for that freedom--to gracefully float on wings--has not.
Out here, I remember myself. On the trail, I recognize the voice I have known for twenty two years and feel the familiar rhythmic pounding of my heart. When I return to town, I will think of the grading and the massive challenge I sometimes embrace and other times fear. Here, in the middle of the desert, sitting on a rocky ledge with the dog nuzzled against my leg despite the heat, I revel in the dream of an eight year old girl.
This is the calm of primal man, in a place and a state of mind for which he has been programmed.
Images of my kids and my classroom and the two weeks that have already passed creep into my consciousness. I think of the vocab test I graded hours earlier and how the average was a 66 and only one student received a 100. Something went wrong with my teaching, not their learning. A 66 is too low, even if they didn't study. This is the one certain truth of my life now--constant critical analysis of my every action, my every word.
My juniors and seniors read at first and second grade levels. And yet, in many ways, they have the maturity of adults. Essentially, I teach adults basic reading. But I yearn to do so much more than simply teach the words. I want the kids I meet to believe that they have a voice and an opinion. I want them to see the value of their thoughts and to know how to trust their instinct. But first, they must have thoughts of their own. Right now, whatever I say goes. I want them to challenge me, to argue with me, and to give concrete evidence for their case. And God how I want them to prove me wrong.
Pueblo Pintado is not an easy place to live and it is only the dog and the teaching that help me from running back home. I feel isolated and lonely one hundred miles from friends. I feel stranded with a bridge that washes out, a couple miles of dirt road, and groceries two hours from home. Even surrounded by others, I sometimes suffocate in the open skies and land.
And then I remember, most importantly, that if it is not comfortable for me, it is not fair for my students. I complain because I am uncomfortable, but at least I have books to escape into and stories that preoccupy my thoughts. Many of my kids do not even have a fictional escape, let alone running water. And so it is the kids that keep me coming because this is a matter of justice and because Shannon asked me to help her study for her ACT. It is a journal entry that I get from Watson with insightful thoughts about global warming and fears for his future. It is the student who comes in to tell me with a smile on his face that he finally understands what I mean about his own voice, that in his history class they learned about "indians", he actually felt angry for the first time.
I realize, sitting alone on a ledge of red rock, that two years of isolation means little when I have twenty two so filled with love, support, and kindness. What a marvel it was to be read to and told stories every night before I slept. And what a privilege simply to come home and know food and my family waited every evening. My world--even surrounded by what feels like chaos--will always be safe for the remaining sweetness of younger years.
In understanding this simple fact,--that we can carry one kindness our whole lives--I understand the true importance of what I am doing in what sometimes seems a hopeless situation. Those who offer good in this world hold the ultimate power of reaching into a dark place, dropping a single, glowing seed, and watching it blossom into hope.
And sometimes , hope is enough to overcome tragedy. For my kids, I hope it is enough to free them from feeling lost in a culture that no longer provides them with an identity, to free them from abusive homes, and from the pang of feeling their lives are stagnant, unchanging, and predictable.
As I climb down the steep slab of sandstone, I remember that for me, the hope of flight is enough. It is in the thought, the very imagining of the thing, that I now find my freedom.
Out here, I remember myself. On the trail, I recognize the voice I have known for twenty two years and feel the familiar rhythmic pounding of my heart. When I return to town, I will think of the grading and the massive challenge I sometimes embrace and other times fear. Here, in the middle of the desert, sitting on a rocky ledge with the dog nuzzled against my leg despite the heat, I revel in the dream of an eight year old girl.
This is the calm of primal man, in a place and a state of mind for which he has been programmed.
Images of my kids and my classroom and the two weeks that have already passed creep into my consciousness. I think of the vocab test I graded hours earlier and how the average was a 66 and only one student received a 100. Something went wrong with my teaching, not their learning. A 66 is too low, even if they didn't study. This is the one certain truth of my life now--constant critical analysis of my every action, my every word.
My juniors and seniors read at first and second grade levels. And yet, in many ways, they have the maturity of adults. Essentially, I teach adults basic reading. But I yearn to do so much more than simply teach the words. I want the kids I meet to believe that they have a voice and an opinion. I want them to see the value of their thoughts and to know how to trust their instinct. But first, they must have thoughts of their own. Right now, whatever I say goes. I want them to challenge me, to argue with me, and to give concrete evidence for their case. And God how I want them to prove me wrong.
Pueblo Pintado is not an easy place to live and it is only the dog and the teaching that help me from running back home. I feel isolated and lonely one hundred miles from friends. I feel stranded with a bridge that washes out, a couple miles of dirt road, and groceries two hours from home. Even surrounded by others, I sometimes suffocate in the open skies and land.
And then I remember, most importantly, that if it is not comfortable for me, it is not fair for my students. I complain because I am uncomfortable, but at least I have books to escape into and stories that preoccupy my thoughts. Many of my kids do not even have a fictional escape, let alone running water. And so it is the kids that keep me coming because this is a matter of justice and because Shannon asked me to help her study for her ACT. It is a journal entry that I get from Watson with insightful thoughts about global warming and fears for his future. It is the student who comes in to tell me with a smile on his face that he finally understands what I mean about his own voice, that in his history class they learned about "indians", he actually felt angry for the first time.
I realize, sitting alone on a ledge of red rock, that two years of isolation means little when I have twenty two so filled with love, support, and kindness. What a marvel it was to be read to and told stories every night before I slept. And what a privilege simply to come home and know food and my family waited every evening. My world--even surrounded by what feels like chaos--will always be safe for the remaining sweetness of younger years.
In understanding this simple fact,--that we can carry one kindness our whole lives--I understand the true importance of what I am doing in what sometimes seems a hopeless situation. Those who offer good in this world hold the ultimate power of reaching into a dark place, dropping a single, glowing seed, and watching it blossom into hope.
And sometimes , hope is enough to overcome tragedy. For my kids, I hope it is enough to free them from feeling lost in a culture that no longer provides them with an identity, to free them from abusive homes, and from the pang of feeling their lives are stagnant, unchanging, and predictable.
As I climb down the steep slab of sandstone, I remember that for me, the hope of flight is enough. It is in the thought, the very imagining of the thing, that I now find my freedom.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Tse Yi Gai
I got the opportunity to go to Tse Yi Gai—the school I will be teaching at for the next two years—early this morning. After leaving I-40 to drive North, all the homes and random businesses on the side of the road disappear. For a hundred miles there is nothing but dramatic red cliffs contrasting with an enormous blue sky and white clouds. I know I expressed a lot of hesitation about my placement, but I truly believe there are not many places in this country where I could have this experience. As we were returning from my school, we spotted a group of wild horses skirting the desert. So much of my time in New Mexico feels like a dream. Sometimes I cannot believe that I am here. I have an even more difficult time believing that this place has existed seven hours south from where I grew up in an upper middle class suburbia.
My high school appears without warning, materializing out of nowhere. After driving several miles on a battered dirt road (worse than most I saw in Africa), the car crests a hill and just over it is a brand new school that appears to have been transplanted from a wealthier neighborhood in the suburbs. Excited to see the school in such good shape, my roommate Lauren and I approach it with enthusiasm only to be disarmed by the interior. Because the contractor skipped important steps, the pipes that run in the ceiling of the school froze and caused 14000 gallons of water to leak onto the floor and destroy the three-year-old floor and ceiling. There are two weeks before the school year begins and they have not begun the repairs.
Perhaps more daunting is the realization that the “brand new” school is simply an empty vessel. The library is stuffed with empty bookshelves gathering dust. My classroom is equipped with a brand new white board and a large television but no books—not a single textbook or version of the novels I read in HS—not a single version of 1984, Farenheit 451, or To Kill a Mockingbird. Desperately eyeing the principal’s desk for a curriculum, he told me his policy on it was “fairly loose.” Thus, I am expected in the next two weeks to create three separate curriculums (9th, 10th, and 11th grade English) without a single set of classroom books. On top of this, the average reading level of my kids is about fourth grade.
Having listed a variety of concerns, let me say that after teaching high school students in Houston’s fourth ward, I have no doubt that resources are simply an excuse for kids not to succeed. Over the next few weeks, I will be researching grants and petitioning big book sellers for more money. In the mean time, I will use every resource available to me—particularly teachers I have known who have influenced me—to figure out how to get these kids caught up.
Even having had such a positive experience with my nine kids at summer institute, I am terrified to go out to the reservation. There are clearly cultural differences that exist, and I feel that I will be treading lightly for the next several months. Even so, I approach the next two years of my life with excitement and awe at the opportunity to be a part of a truly powerful national movement.
My high school appears without warning, materializing out of nowhere. After driving several miles on a battered dirt road (worse than most I saw in Africa), the car crests a hill and just over it is a brand new school that appears to have been transplanted from a wealthier neighborhood in the suburbs. Excited to see the school in such good shape, my roommate Lauren and I approach it with enthusiasm only to be disarmed by the interior. Because the contractor skipped important steps, the pipes that run in the ceiling of the school froze and caused 14000 gallons of water to leak onto the floor and destroy the three-year-old floor and ceiling. There are two weeks before the school year begins and they have not begun the repairs.
Perhaps more daunting is the realization that the “brand new” school is simply an empty vessel. The library is stuffed with empty bookshelves gathering dust. My classroom is equipped with a brand new white board and a large television but no books—not a single textbook or version of the novels I read in HS—not a single version of 1984, Farenheit 451, or To Kill a Mockingbird. Desperately eyeing the principal’s desk for a curriculum, he told me his policy on it was “fairly loose.” Thus, I am expected in the next two weeks to create three separate curriculums (9th, 10th, and 11th grade English) without a single set of classroom books. On top of this, the average reading level of my kids is about fourth grade.
Having listed a variety of concerns, let me say that after teaching high school students in Houston’s fourth ward, I have no doubt that resources are simply an excuse for kids not to succeed. Over the next few weeks, I will be researching grants and petitioning big book sellers for more money. In the mean time, I will use every resource available to me—particularly teachers I have known who have influenced me—to figure out how to get these kids caught up.
Even having had such a positive experience with my nine kids at summer institute, I am terrified to go out to the reservation. There are clearly cultural differences that exist, and I feel that I will be treading lightly for the next several months. Even so, I approach the next two years of my life with excitement and awe at the opportunity to be a part of a truly powerful national movement.
Friday, July 13, 2007
For David
“I won’t do the extra work, Miss,” says David as I hand him the extra essay assignment, “I spend every night with my homeboys.”
“Maybe you can spend twenty minutes on it tonight,” I say. In my second day enthusiasm, I add, “Your writing is impressive. I think we can really improve over the course of the four weeks.”
The following day my enthusiasm is smashed by the realization that none of my students have turned in the homework. Mulling over this hurdle silently as my students file out at the end of the period, David approaches the desk.
“Miss,” he whispers, assuring Ernesto does not hear what he is saying, “I brought this for you.”
Without thinking, my jaw falls agape and I mutter, “You did?”
Trying to cover my shock, I put on the best teacher face I can and ask him to put the assignment in the basket.
Over the course of the weeks, David turns in five extra assignments and revises each of them. On the last day of class, he bashfully approaches the desk.
“Miss,” he says, “I brought you something.”
I grab the paper crumpled into a ball from his hand and wish him a safe and enjoyable summer. Returning to the quiet of my dorm later in the afternoon, I remember the ball in my pocket and try to unravel the maze of creases.
“Dear Miss, My mom and I used to read together before bed. I always waited for her to get home from work. She died six years ago and I stopped. My homeboys and a lot of bad things replaced her. But Miss, since your class, I started reading again. My mom used to pray each night that I could finish high school and now, because of you and the other new teachers I think I might get through. Your class was the closest to family I remember from a long time. I wish you best in Mexico and remember to keep telling people to read. I think you are right when you say it teaches living better. I will miss you.”
“Maybe you can spend twenty minutes on it tonight,” I say. In my second day enthusiasm, I add, “Your writing is impressive. I think we can really improve over the course of the four weeks.”
The following day my enthusiasm is smashed by the realization that none of my students have turned in the homework. Mulling over this hurdle silently as my students file out at the end of the period, David approaches the desk.
“Miss,” he whispers, assuring Ernesto does not hear what he is saying, “I brought this for you.”
Without thinking, my jaw falls agape and I mutter, “You did?”
Trying to cover my shock, I put on the best teacher face I can and ask him to put the assignment in the basket.
Over the course of the weeks, David turns in five extra assignments and revises each of them. On the last day of class, he bashfully approaches the desk.
“Miss,” he says, “I brought you something.”
I grab the paper crumpled into a ball from his hand and wish him a safe and enjoyable summer. Returning to the quiet of my dorm later in the afternoon, I remember the ball in my pocket and try to unravel the maze of creases.
“Dear Miss, My mom and I used to read together before bed. I always waited for her to get home from work. She died six years ago and I stopped. My homeboys and a lot of bad things replaced her. But Miss, since your class, I started reading again. My mom used to pray each night that I could finish high school and now, because of you and the other new teachers I think I might get through. Your class was the closest to family I remember from a long time. I wish you best in Mexico and remember to keep telling people to read. I think you are right when you say it teaches living better. I will miss you.”
Saturday, July 7, 2007
A Little Hope
In itself, Teach for America has been an experience that has changed me and my perception of the world. I have had the opportunity to meet and converse with intelligent and passionate individuals who hate to see the status quo maintained. These are the youth of America who are willing to put their life on hold to mend a problem of inequity and to do so with startling commitment. I trusted the individuals I will be working and living with moments after having met them. Despite differences, the commonality of our vision is powerful enough to eliminate the small talk that usually accompanies new friendships. The issues we discuss are deep and troubling, and yet we do not let them eliminate talk towards a solution, instead of talk that begrudgingly admits the problem is huge.
Today I had the opportunity to travel to the Houston Space Center. Exhausted from planning and teaching I had to convince myself to go, but will never regret the decision. Only hours after the experience, it is difficult for me to recall what was so enchanting about today, other than to say that for the few hours I was in the museum, I was allowed the luxury of again seeing the world through my child eyes. Although it may sound preposterous, what I saw in that building reminded me of the capability of man. Throughout college, I studied the worst of mankind and very little of the best. While there were notable individuals, I lost all faith that mankind as a whole can collaborate on any one thing, come together and develop something beautiful. Eight years under our current administration and what I know of men working together is war, conflict, fear, and hatred. What I know of mankind is the atomic bomb and the genocide in Africa. What I know of mankind stripped me bare of my idealism and faith that, as a species, we are capable of extraordinary beauty.
There is something about the moon project, about the dire human need to escape into space and explore unchartered territory that brought tears to my eyes. In one mission, thousands of our greatest minds come together to pre-plan for every possible disaster and to explore and discover new ideas. Forty years ago, the idea that men would land on the moon seemed ludicrous and many people doubted the reality of the dream. Kennedy pushed, though, and Nasa responded. The people who worked on the project believed that persistence could create something nobody had seen before, and in just a few short years, the voyage to the moon was successfully realized.
This may be a strange way to explain regaining my faith in humanity, but today I sat in their high definition theatre with my chin agape, remembering how I saw the world twelve years ago. I saw a world badly battered and bruised, but I still believed in men enough to believe we could do better. I believed in the power of the mind and the power of persistence to change something daunting into something beautiful. I believed in the power of creation, of creativity, to overcome dire circumstances. I believed that I had the power to make this world better. And today, I got a reminder of that perspective. Human ingenuity at its best. Human beings collaborating on projects bigger than themselves. Human beings driven by curiosity and exploration. Humans pouring their lives into discovery instead of warheads.
Today was a reminder of possibility. Life is choice. We chose to make our path startling and beautiful or to accept the world the way it is. There are no limits, though. I will write it again, to be sure that I can later remember. There are no limits. No limits, either bad or good, to human genius. Realizing this is holding the power of the universe in my hand- it is the power children own until their perception of the world becomes too dark to fathom such potential truly existing. Causes are only lost if we convince ourselves they are. All else is buried knowledge yet to be discovered. All else can be uncovered through a desperate commitment to unfolding the secrets of the universe.
We can revive a sick world and an apathetic population. We can overcome the most daunting tasks. We must learn, somehow, to do so together. And we must remember to see the world again through the eyes of a child.
The word I have been searching for is hope. I now have reason to hope again. And while NASA may be the silliest catalyst for hope, I remember yet again the calling I felt as a young girl to try to realize the potential beauty I saw in every component of life that should have left me quaking with fear.
Today I had the opportunity to travel to the Houston Space Center. Exhausted from planning and teaching I had to convince myself to go, but will never regret the decision. Only hours after the experience, it is difficult for me to recall what was so enchanting about today, other than to say that for the few hours I was in the museum, I was allowed the luxury of again seeing the world through my child eyes. Although it may sound preposterous, what I saw in that building reminded me of the capability of man. Throughout college, I studied the worst of mankind and very little of the best. While there were notable individuals, I lost all faith that mankind as a whole can collaborate on any one thing, come together and develop something beautiful. Eight years under our current administration and what I know of men working together is war, conflict, fear, and hatred. What I know of mankind is the atomic bomb and the genocide in Africa. What I know of mankind stripped me bare of my idealism and faith that, as a species, we are capable of extraordinary beauty.
There is something about the moon project, about the dire human need to escape into space and explore unchartered territory that brought tears to my eyes. In one mission, thousands of our greatest minds come together to pre-plan for every possible disaster and to explore and discover new ideas. Forty years ago, the idea that men would land on the moon seemed ludicrous and many people doubted the reality of the dream. Kennedy pushed, though, and Nasa responded. The people who worked on the project believed that persistence could create something nobody had seen before, and in just a few short years, the voyage to the moon was successfully realized.
This may be a strange way to explain regaining my faith in humanity, but today I sat in their high definition theatre with my chin agape, remembering how I saw the world twelve years ago. I saw a world badly battered and bruised, but I still believed in men enough to believe we could do better. I believed in the power of the mind and the power of persistence to change something daunting into something beautiful. I believed in the power of creation, of creativity, to overcome dire circumstances. I believed that I had the power to make this world better. And today, I got a reminder of that perspective. Human ingenuity at its best. Human beings collaborating on projects bigger than themselves. Human beings driven by curiosity and exploration. Humans pouring their lives into discovery instead of warheads.
Today was a reminder of possibility. Life is choice. We chose to make our path startling and beautiful or to accept the world the way it is. There are no limits, though. I will write it again, to be sure that I can later remember. There are no limits. No limits, either bad or good, to human genius. Realizing this is holding the power of the universe in my hand- it is the power children own until their perception of the world becomes too dark to fathom such potential truly existing. Causes are only lost if we convince ourselves they are. All else is buried knowledge yet to be discovered. All else can be uncovered through a desperate commitment to unfolding the secrets of the universe.
We can revive a sick world and an apathetic population. We can overcome the most daunting tasks. We must learn, somehow, to do so together. And we must remember to see the world again through the eyes of a child.
The word I have been searching for is hope. I now have reason to hope again. And while NASA may be the silliest catalyst for hope, I remember yet again the calling I felt as a young girl to try to realize the potential beauty I saw in every component of life that should have left me quaking with fear.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Reactions from Houston
We were supposed to have classes this morning but my curriculum specialist was sick so I arrived and they told us all to leave. I went back and promptly had crazy nap dreams for about three hours. I apologize if the last entry seemed really dark; it can be pretty tough to maintain a positive perspective when one is so worn down.
The last week was pretty tough in my class. Apparently there is a "honeymoon" stage in the classroom just as there is in a relationship. I think my kids finally got out of that stage this week and they have really been testing me. It's tough because I have such a playful personality that my kids like to joke around with me. I just need to establish a framework for appropriate times to fool around and inappropriate times.
I realized a couple weeks into this that I am preparing for my ONE class up until the time that my kids arrive. This next year I will be responsible for three classes and over a hundred kids. That basically means I get better at this or I sink. So I guess I get better at it, eh?
I have been better at expressing my thoughts on this experience to people on the phone than I have been at doing it in writing lately, which is pretty strange given my tendency to write with much more freedom than I speak. Needless to say, I'm gonna give this journal thing a try again.
The most difficult thing about my time here has been the realization that I grew up my entire life not knowing the extent to which this counter American culture exists. I mean, I knew the idea of the "injustice" of growing up in a lower income neighborhood, but I did not fathom exactly what that meant. In my home, college was an expected component of a complete education. All of us may have struggled in school, but we had teachers who pushed our limits and helped us to understand concepts that had previously seemed abstract. We had parents who would spend time with us, siblings in my case, who cared about our success.
The problems these kids are facing are the same I have witnessed in third world countries. They are attending a school that is not serving them and the highlight of their day for many of them is getting a big mac after school. They are involved in gangs and drugs because they are bored. They have been disenchanted with schools because they have always had teachers who pointed out their race and disadvantage, teachers who sat reading the paper while the kids were expected to read and enjoy Odysseus by themselves. These are kids who are sixteen and writing on a third grade level. These are kids who cannot comprehend why I enjoy reading because at fifteen they have the comprehension of a second grader and every word read takes conscious effort. There is no reason that a kid should have gone through our public education system and not received the support I did growing up. I knew my teachers believed in me, but I was one of the lucky ones.
Our schools are sick. A program like Teach for America is a bandaid, but it is not a cure. Our entire public education system, unbeknown to most of us, is tearing apart from the bottom up. Neighborhoods with money continue to have effective schools, but neighborhoods without money are basically setting up poor child care services. And all of this is occurring without most people realizing it. The people who have the power to raise their voices ignore the problems my kids are going through because they do not openly see them. Their kids go to school and to college and the status quo is maintained. Meanwhile, the kids in my class turn to crime and gangs as an outlet. These are smart kids, but kids without hope. This American youth will not pull themselves up by their boot straps because, unlike their peers in wealthier schools, they do not have the tools (education) to do so. This American youth will serve its more fortunate, wealthier counterparts for all their lives and not even realize that their American experience is entirely different from the experience of their wealthier neighbors.
My kids have the same dreams many high schoolers do. One of my students dreams of petitioning the US government to build parks in his neighborhood. They have asked again and again and because of the socioeconomic status of the people who live in that neighborhood, they have been ignored. He wants to do this so his friends and family will stop resorting to gangs--so that they can play soccer and basketball in the afternoon instead of tagging buildings.
One of my kids dreams of becoming a famous soccer player and donating every dollar to less fortunate neighborhoods. He thinks he can start to fix the problems he has seen if he can dump resources into his neighborhood. He sees quite clearly that the problems he sees are related to money. Unfortunately, he will never make it to college because he does not yet understand that a complete sentence must have a subject AND a verb. He will never be recruited to play professional soccer because the team he plays for can barely afford a ball.
The only girl in my class came into my period thirty minutes late, blue and bleeding on Thursday. I had seen her earlier in the day and she was crying because her mom kicked her out. She told me that her dad was in the office speaking with the administration and I told her maybe she should go speak with him to see if she could stay with him for awhile. After school she told me that her father came to school drunk and angry at her and when she went to see him he grabbed her and beat her up in front of the school police officer. I don't know whose house she is staying at, but I can tell you the odds of her succeeding are slim to none. Somehow, I just could not find the heart to tell her to pay attention when she was trying her hardest to gaze at me through eyes that were swelling shut.
One of my kids who has started to come in at lunch for extra work on his writing, one of my brightest, would love to go to college but does not have a social security card. I know this particular sentence will receive a lot of criticism from those who are reading it because he and his family are staying here illegally. But I can tell all of you that he is more talented, focused, and intelligent than many of the people I went to school with. This country is as strong as it is because of its diversity, because people left homes to look for opportunity in a place that offered it. I don't know that our country is that place anymore, I don't know that it is a place where the best and the brightest can rise to change their situation.
This is only a small portion of my class and I can guarantee that each student has dreams equally as noble, idealistic, and naive. Everyday when I teach them I cannot think about where they will be in four years for fear that I will give up, too. I cannot tell them with a straight face that they can go to college or that they will succeed. I do not even know what that means for these kids. I do not know their society or their culture, but I do know they are the ones we ignore. They are the people we prefer to pretend are not living in our backyard. They are the people whose shoulders we stand upon to live the lifestyle we continue to believe is so important. So long as we do not have to see them, our easy lives are easy to justify. We have earned our privilege. Those lazy lower class folk just do not know what hard work is. They have had EVERY opportunity we have. Certainly we have no part to play in this injustice. And if we do, God let us remain blind to it because as long as we do not see we are not culpable for its occurrence or to act in defiance of this injustice. The guilt must remain someone else's, now let me return to my office job where I am responsible for playing internet spades half the day and clicking a mouse the other half. Those lazy others, let them take their siestas while I attempt to reach my three digit salary goal.
I am still trying to figure out why we don't speak about this, why we speak about race, homosexuality, abortion, but one truly tangible problem continues to be swept under the rug. Maybe it would take too much change, too many different lifestyle choices for any of us to be comfortable admitting this is a reality. So many people believe America is a meritocracy, when in reality we inherit a lot of our social standing by being born into a certain economic class.
Having ranted about this for a long while, let me offer some hope. These problems can be fixed, but we need better teachers and our worst schools need more resources. We need to face the problem, to think together about what can be done. First and foremost, we need to realize that there are inequities and then we need to change the infrastructure, perform a complete overhaul of our schools, realizing that the current system is ill.
For now, there are significantly more lesson plans to write. Only a couple more weeks in Hell. Oops, I mean Houston. Only a couple more weeks of smelly third floor and bouches. Then back to beautiful NM and CO for a teeny bit. I cannot wait.
The last week was pretty tough in my class. Apparently there is a "honeymoon" stage in the classroom just as there is in a relationship. I think my kids finally got out of that stage this week and they have really been testing me. It's tough because I have such a playful personality that my kids like to joke around with me. I just need to establish a framework for appropriate times to fool around and inappropriate times.
I realized a couple weeks into this that I am preparing for my ONE class up until the time that my kids arrive. This next year I will be responsible for three classes and over a hundred kids. That basically means I get better at this or I sink. So I guess I get better at it, eh?
I have been better at expressing my thoughts on this experience to people on the phone than I have been at doing it in writing lately, which is pretty strange given my tendency to write with much more freedom than I speak. Needless to say, I'm gonna give this journal thing a try again.
The most difficult thing about my time here has been the realization that I grew up my entire life not knowing the extent to which this counter American culture exists. I mean, I knew the idea of the "injustice" of growing up in a lower income neighborhood, but I did not fathom exactly what that meant. In my home, college was an expected component of a complete education. All of us may have struggled in school, but we had teachers who pushed our limits and helped us to understand concepts that had previously seemed abstract. We had parents who would spend time with us, siblings in my case, who cared about our success.
The problems these kids are facing are the same I have witnessed in third world countries. They are attending a school that is not serving them and the highlight of their day for many of them is getting a big mac after school. They are involved in gangs and drugs because they are bored. They have been disenchanted with schools because they have always had teachers who pointed out their race and disadvantage, teachers who sat reading the paper while the kids were expected to read and enjoy Odysseus by themselves. These are kids who are sixteen and writing on a third grade level. These are kids who cannot comprehend why I enjoy reading because at fifteen they have the comprehension of a second grader and every word read takes conscious effort. There is no reason that a kid should have gone through our public education system and not received the support I did growing up. I knew my teachers believed in me, but I was one of the lucky ones.
Our schools are sick. A program like Teach for America is a bandaid, but it is not a cure. Our entire public education system, unbeknown to most of us, is tearing apart from the bottom up. Neighborhoods with money continue to have effective schools, but neighborhoods without money are basically setting up poor child care services. And all of this is occurring without most people realizing it. The people who have the power to raise their voices ignore the problems my kids are going through because they do not openly see them. Their kids go to school and to college and the status quo is maintained. Meanwhile, the kids in my class turn to crime and gangs as an outlet. These are smart kids, but kids without hope. This American youth will not pull themselves up by their boot straps because, unlike their peers in wealthier schools, they do not have the tools (education) to do so. This American youth will serve its more fortunate, wealthier counterparts for all their lives and not even realize that their American experience is entirely different from the experience of their wealthier neighbors.
My kids have the same dreams many high schoolers do. One of my students dreams of petitioning the US government to build parks in his neighborhood. They have asked again and again and because of the socioeconomic status of the people who live in that neighborhood, they have been ignored. He wants to do this so his friends and family will stop resorting to gangs--so that they can play soccer and basketball in the afternoon instead of tagging buildings.
One of my kids dreams of becoming a famous soccer player and donating every dollar to less fortunate neighborhoods. He thinks he can start to fix the problems he has seen if he can dump resources into his neighborhood. He sees quite clearly that the problems he sees are related to money. Unfortunately, he will never make it to college because he does not yet understand that a complete sentence must have a subject AND a verb. He will never be recruited to play professional soccer because the team he plays for can barely afford a ball.
The only girl in my class came into my period thirty minutes late, blue and bleeding on Thursday. I had seen her earlier in the day and she was crying because her mom kicked her out. She told me that her dad was in the office speaking with the administration and I told her maybe she should go speak with him to see if she could stay with him for awhile. After school she told me that her father came to school drunk and angry at her and when she went to see him he grabbed her and beat her up in front of the school police officer. I don't know whose house she is staying at, but I can tell you the odds of her succeeding are slim to none. Somehow, I just could not find the heart to tell her to pay attention when she was trying her hardest to gaze at me through eyes that were swelling shut.
One of my kids who has started to come in at lunch for extra work on his writing, one of my brightest, would love to go to college but does not have a social security card. I know this particular sentence will receive a lot of criticism from those who are reading it because he and his family are staying here illegally. But I can tell all of you that he is more talented, focused, and intelligent than many of the people I went to school with. This country is as strong as it is because of its diversity, because people left homes to look for opportunity in a place that offered it. I don't know that our country is that place anymore, I don't know that it is a place where the best and the brightest can rise to change their situation.
This is only a small portion of my class and I can guarantee that each student has dreams equally as noble, idealistic, and naive. Everyday when I teach them I cannot think about where they will be in four years for fear that I will give up, too. I cannot tell them with a straight face that they can go to college or that they will succeed. I do not even know what that means for these kids. I do not know their society or their culture, but I do know they are the ones we ignore. They are the people we prefer to pretend are not living in our backyard. They are the people whose shoulders we stand upon to live the lifestyle we continue to believe is so important. So long as we do not have to see them, our easy lives are easy to justify. We have earned our privilege. Those lazy lower class folk just do not know what hard work is. They have had EVERY opportunity we have. Certainly we have no part to play in this injustice. And if we do, God let us remain blind to it because as long as we do not see we are not culpable for its occurrence or to act in defiance of this injustice. The guilt must remain someone else's, now let me return to my office job where I am responsible for playing internet spades half the day and clicking a mouse the other half. Those lazy others, let them take their siestas while I attempt to reach my three digit salary goal.
I am still trying to figure out why we don't speak about this, why we speak about race, homosexuality, abortion, but one truly tangible problem continues to be swept under the rug. Maybe it would take too much change, too many different lifestyle choices for any of us to be comfortable admitting this is a reality. So many people believe America is a meritocracy, when in reality we inherit a lot of our social standing by being born into a certain economic class.
Having ranted about this for a long while, let me offer some hope. These problems can be fixed, but we need better teachers and our worst schools need more resources. We need to face the problem, to think together about what can be done. First and foremost, we need to realize that there are inequities and then we need to change the infrastructure, perform a complete overhaul of our schools, realizing that the current system is ill.
For now, there are significantly more lesson plans to write. Only a couple more weeks in Hell. Oops, I mean Houston. Only a couple more weeks of smelly third floor and bouches. Then back to beautiful NM and CO for a teeny bit. I cannot wait.
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