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.