I wish there was a way to remember, every single day, that we are all connected and that we are only as good as the sum of all our parts. The hospital where I am a student serves a lot of at risk patients. We scan numerous people with chronic, awful illnesses that are often behaviorally contracted. Lots of Hepatitis C, lots of AIDS, and lots of Cirrhosis. And it is so easy when I am in a room with a patient who has contracted AIDS to blame them. To go to that place in my mind where only derelict, irresponsible people get themselves sick. Disease is like that; it's easy to make someone who is ill not like you because it means maybe (just maybe) you're less likely to get the disease. If only idiots get AIDS, then somehow white folk like us are safe.
But as I go through an exam (and our exams are LONG) and I begin talking to the patient, I find we have much more in common than not. I find we may agree on politics or a favorite food or simply in relishing these last days before winter hits. The things that unite us are so much more gargantuan than the things that separate us.
And then, inevitably, I find myself thinking about what it would be like to grow up in the really rough parts of Denver as a young, black female. Having worked in Denver Public Schools, I know that the education is about as thorough and quality as a safety check point in a small, off-the-map airport. I know that a lot of my students didn't have a parent at home because they were working two jobs just to pay rent. And I know a lot of my students were lonely. So terribly, desperately alone.
And if you do the addition on that equation, you find a really lost, scared human. And it is no wonder, really, that they may find themselves in bed with someone they shouldn't or sticking a needle full of something in an arm. It's no wonder that when kids like I was sit at the kitchen table with their parents, working on their homework, another fraction of the population is searching for any place and any person to call home.
And so I remind myself, again and again, that we are all so much alike. If only we could listen long enough to appreciate just how much we should love one another. And we should, truly. It's not some cheesy, stereotypical line. It is the truth. What we owe one another, every single other living thing in this universe, is the love, compassion, and respect of acknowledging them in whatever place they may find themselves.
Let's be clear that life is hard. Life is so, so, so impossibly demoralizing. It is full of loss and sadness and sometimes a desperate loneliness that seems like it will never dissipate. But life, above all, is beautiful. It is two lovers sitting on a park bench, holding hands in the moonlight. It is the irreversible love of a parent for their child. It is the ridiculous connection we're capable of with the natural environment. This world, this very one that seems so drearily long and difficult and exhausting, is truly a place of enchantment.
It is all the richer for each and every patient I see, in whatever state they arrive. It is richer, even, as a result of all the angry, lost souls. And it is all the richer, especially (my dearest), for containing you.
You, my friend, are beautiful. I owe my life to you. And to all the oh so very lost souls in the world who make my longest days that much more tolerable.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Sunday, August 5, 2012
I spend more time every day doing worthless things. I use my hours stalking my old friends and gaping at who has gained weight or who has married or who has ten children and another on the way than I do thinking about important thoughts or talking to those I love about the state of our respective worlds. It is easier to turn the computer on and to turn my mind off than to live vigilantly and deliberately. It is easier for me to be part of a mock world than to venture forth and say hi to my neighbor.
Being honest is so difficult. Not honest in the biblical sense of telling the truth about having eaten the last cookie from the jar, but in the sense that seeing reality as it is becomes more difficult as one ages. We are all storytellers; we see something happen in the world and internalize it in our minds and that is the fiction that we choose to live. When I was younger, however, I was less scared of the things I perceived. I was more liable to look someone in the eye and tell them precisely what I saw, fictional storytelling or not.
When I was in Africa and I was torn apart by the rage I felt at organized religion for decimating the indigenous tribes, I wrote vehemently and passionately, journaling with tears pouring from my eyes at the injustices I had seen. I sat inside a tent in the middle of the Maasai Mara, my world inalterably changed by the experience I was having and I simply felt it. I cried until there were no tears left and I listened to "The Arrival" until it put me to sleep almost every night I was there. I was livid. I was seething. The childlike glee with which I had approached the world for 21 years prior was disappearing. I was becoming something new. Altered. Permanently. For better or worse. But I was, in the least, very much alive to the newer version of myself.
In the wake of the shootings in Aurora, a gun threat at work, and an absolutely joyous celebration with good family, I have written precisely zero letters to document or process my world. I have sat in the passengers seat and simply allowed life to happen to me.
I am edging dangerously close to a stereotype in saying that I "allowed life to happen to me." This is something people say to one another all the time in coffee houses. It is vague and lacks meaning and is probably most often muttered by self-help coaches. It is an avoidance of saying something with merit or value. It is a filler.
What we should say instead of such a meaningless phrase, is that which digs at us most deeply. We should decry the shootings in Aurora as a beyond awful event, as something that rips at the fundamental fabric of the way most of us see the world. We should decry the death of so many young people as utterly, terribly heart breaking. We should look with pity in one moment and rage in the next at the shooter and try with all that we have not to hate him and not to want to kill him with our bare hands and not to want to put him against a wall and shoot each limb individually and watch as he suffers so that the world will hold some form of karmic justice. And we should not, in a moment of enlightenment (however brief these moments are), be ashamed to admit that there is room for empathy for a human being so tortured and sad and alone that he would go so far as he did on that Friday morning. It should be okay to go from hatred to love to anger to deep sadness in a matter of moments.
What I should say, instead of saying nothing, is that incidents like that remind me of my own mortality. They remind me of the fact that I might not wake up tomorrow. That, despite my youth, I am still vulnerable. And, if nothing else, I should admit that sometimes there is not order and there is not justice for those who are good. Sometimes things just don't make sense. And although there is often overwhelming beauty here, there is also the potential for heartbreaking tragedy. Gut-wrenching, life-altering pain that leaves the loved ones of victims on a path completely altered from the one they presumed they were walking. There is room for all these things in life, it is simply nice to believe that perhaps, the events that leave us altered for the better happen more often.
What I would like to learn to do again is to be honest. To write what I think, without shame or embarrassment. As I have gotten older, it has been hard to give an opinion on any event because my world has become so gray. I used to be more black and white, to cling to my beliefs vehemently. Now, though, I can see a picture in a hundred different ways over the course of five minutes. I am less certain than ever about truth. Less certain than I have ever been that it exists at all. And if there is no truth, how can one share what one sees?
Perhaps even more frighteningly, if there is no truth, is there meaning?
Being honest is so difficult. Not honest in the biblical sense of telling the truth about having eaten the last cookie from the jar, but in the sense that seeing reality as it is becomes more difficult as one ages. We are all storytellers; we see something happen in the world and internalize it in our minds and that is the fiction that we choose to live. When I was younger, however, I was less scared of the things I perceived. I was more liable to look someone in the eye and tell them precisely what I saw, fictional storytelling or not.
When I was in Africa and I was torn apart by the rage I felt at organized religion for decimating the indigenous tribes, I wrote vehemently and passionately, journaling with tears pouring from my eyes at the injustices I had seen. I sat inside a tent in the middle of the Maasai Mara, my world inalterably changed by the experience I was having and I simply felt it. I cried until there were no tears left and I listened to "The Arrival" until it put me to sleep almost every night I was there. I was livid. I was seething. The childlike glee with which I had approached the world for 21 years prior was disappearing. I was becoming something new. Altered. Permanently. For better or worse. But I was, in the least, very much alive to the newer version of myself.
In the wake of the shootings in Aurora, a gun threat at work, and an absolutely joyous celebration with good family, I have written precisely zero letters to document or process my world. I have sat in the passengers seat and simply allowed life to happen to me.
I am edging dangerously close to a stereotype in saying that I "allowed life to happen to me." This is something people say to one another all the time in coffee houses. It is vague and lacks meaning and is probably most often muttered by self-help coaches. It is an avoidance of saying something with merit or value. It is a filler.
What we should say instead of such a meaningless phrase, is that which digs at us most deeply. We should decry the shootings in Aurora as a beyond awful event, as something that rips at the fundamental fabric of the way most of us see the world. We should decry the death of so many young people as utterly, terribly heart breaking. We should look with pity in one moment and rage in the next at the shooter and try with all that we have not to hate him and not to want to kill him with our bare hands and not to want to put him against a wall and shoot each limb individually and watch as he suffers so that the world will hold some form of karmic justice. And we should not, in a moment of enlightenment (however brief these moments are), be ashamed to admit that there is room for empathy for a human being so tortured and sad and alone that he would go so far as he did on that Friday morning. It should be okay to go from hatred to love to anger to deep sadness in a matter of moments.
What I should say, instead of saying nothing, is that incidents like that remind me of my own mortality. They remind me of the fact that I might not wake up tomorrow. That, despite my youth, I am still vulnerable. And, if nothing else, I should admit that sometimes there is not order and there is not justice for those who are good. Sometimes things just don't make sense. And although there is often overwhelming beauty here, there is also the potential for heartbreaking tragedy. Gut-wrenching, life-altering pain that leaves the loved ones of victims on a path completely altered from the one they presumed they were walking. There is room for all these things in life, it is simply nice to believe that perhaps, the events that leave us altered for the better happen more often.
What I would like to learn to do again is to be honest. To write what I think, without shame or embarrassment. As I have gotten older, it has been hard to give an opinion on any event because my world has become so gray. I used to be more black and white, to cling to my beliefs vehemently. Now, though, I can see a picture in a hundred different ways over the course of five minutes. I am less certain than ever about truth. Less certain than I have ever been that it exists at all. And if there is no truth, how can one share what one sees?
Perhaps even more frighteningly, if there is no truth, is there meaning?
Thursday, December 20, 2007
I Must Have Won the Birthing Lottery
| 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. |
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.”
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