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.