Sweet Surrender

I came to school this morning with knots in my stomach. I could not eat. I was so concerned about seeing my students, my senior girls who I have had for 2 years. They were my initiation. I am their finale. I waited in front of my hallway, watching the door for these girls who have given me laughter, hope and tears. The first one came in, head in her hands, crying. I have never seen this girl not smile. I ran to her, as tears welled up in my eyes, I threw my arms around her and guided her to my room, her arms clinging to my torso, my shoulder soaked from her tears. I ushered her, along with two of her friends, into my empty room. She sat atop a desk, I sat next to her, crying, saying only that I wished I could take this pain away from her; I cannot, so tell me what you need. After ten minutes I had six more of my girls in my room. I made some phone calls, pulled some strings . . . Some simply came to me. They were silent with tears for thirty minutes. I hugged them all, tightly, and told them how sorry I was, and how precious it is that they are here, together, to grieve and support.
Then I asked them if they thought about what their names would be when they married. Laughter. Precious, precious laughter. And questions. And more tears.
What would they do for graduation in memory of A? Ah, someone wanted to let out balloons. No, no. If they pop, birds will eat them and die. No surprise. They all laughed. Hippie Kinzie. Always thinking about the little animals and the environment!
Ok, how about butterflies? We can order them. Um, really? They all looked at me, what? What is wrong with this? Well, when you get them, most of them are usually dead.
What, pray tell, is your suggestion?
Thank god, I thought you would never ASK! Much laughter.
Flower petals. Flower petals on the football field.
Fabulous. We are all appeased!
Now, they need something constructive. PLANT A TREE! YES! Perfect. Survey the scene. Here is the perfect spot. A cherry tree . . . No, NOT a weeping willow. With a bench underneath it.
They were talking about me on Friday. They decided I was the one to go to if there was any problem. Love my "mediocre hippie style" . . . and what on earth does 'wicked' mean, anyway? More tears and laughter. Still no answers for them. But I surrendered to this beauty.
Tomorrow is the funeral. Things are not going to be easier tomorrow. If only I could have them for four hours again tomorrow . . .
There is no protection I can give to them. No answers that will make them sleep at night. Teaching is about learning, especially learning how to let go--and then turn around and embrace. If you offered me hundreds of thousands of dollars to quit this job, I would not.
Think about that--and ask yourself if you are willing to surrender.

Forever Young

Tragedy has struck my school this weekend. One of our seniors was killed in a car accident on Saturday night . . . struck by a car driven by three other of my students. They said she was killed instantly. She was the passenger in a car driven by another student. Five lives in all have been ruined. One has ended.
Today we have a scheduled teacher workday; there are no students at school. It's raining. I am sitting at my desk looking at the 30 empty desks staggered on my ugly carpet and I wonder why this has happened. Of course you will all say there is no reason. I know that. As a teacher, who does not have children of my own, my goal is to protect my students from pain. I have no control over this. As I wipe my swollen, sore eyes in anticipation for tomorrow I can only hope that this will bring out the best in this community, not vengeful rumors and blame.
They are already blaming themselves. And there are already rumors. Some were drinking. Refused a breathalizer. The car was going 70 mph. She never had a chance.
Tomorrow will be the most difficult day I have ever had. The living must go on living. Tomorrow's essential question will never be answered.

Toolboxes

I have read Elie Wiesel's memoir of the Holocaust, Night, approximately ten times. Each time I read it with my classes I have to stop a little bit earlier than the time before. Each time I read it tears well up in chapters 3, 6 and 8. Each time I see something within this man that pushes me to my utmost limits as a human being. This time I decided not to remain idle any longer.
I have taken my liberties with my English classes and have been questioned about my motives. I show Hotel Rwanda after reading Wiesel's memoir; I show the documentary Ghosts of Rwanda; I keep on my board the legal definition of genocide, as defined by the Genocide Convention from 1948. Often times my class feels more like social studies. But it is all worth it. I believe we cannot study Night without following through with Wiesel's message to promote zero tolerance when it comes to genocide. I would not be doing my job as an English teacher if I gave my students one piece of the puzzle, and I have been brought up to not expect someone else to do my job for me. This has led to the most profound moments of my life; even as I write this my eyes are watering and I have chills.
When my tenth grade students came to me in January they had not learned the term 'genocide'. They had never heard of Rwanda. They knew very little of the Holocaust. Darfur was a new 'concept'.
I now have 36 letters written to the Secretary General of the United Nations urging him to do whatever it takes to stop the genocide in Darfur. I also have 36 toolboxes. This was the task I gave to my students:
To create a REAL, tangible toolbox that will help you recognize where you can make change and will help you to make that change in regards to the acceptance of difference and the elimination of difference.
Many different things can go in your toolbox and there are a number of questions that you need to consider in the creation of your toolbox.

* Where do I have the power to make real change?
* Who is in my universe of obligation?
* What will I need in my toolbox to sustain me when this work gets hard?
* What will I have in my toolbox that will help me to remember why this work is necessary?
* What do I have in my toolbox as far as a ‘difference alarm,’ to wake me up when I need to do the work?
The toolbox itself needed to be symbolic of their quest for change. With each object they used they had to also write a short description about HOW it would be used and it's purpose. Let me share with you a few things that are surrounding me at this moment. Try to keep dry eyes. I certainly cannot.
Antibiotic Ointment: to keep infectious ideas about genocide from spreading.
Permanent Marker: to help people understand we need to permanently eradicate genocide.
Megaphone: so people cannot say they could not hear the genocide victims asking for help.
Glue: so people will stick to the promises they make, including the countries who ratified the Genocide Treaty but who have yet to acknowledge Darfur.
Vile of Ashes: to represent lives and humanity lost during genocide.
Night Vision Goggles: to allow you to see the truth about genocide while the rest of the world is kept in the dark.
Puzzle pieces: if a few pieces of the puzzle are missing then the puzzle as a whole is worthless, just as the world. If a few places in the world are forgotten about the rest of the world should feel worthless.
History Book: to remind people about the past so we can learn from our mistakes.
Paper Clips: for people who are discriminated against to stick together and make their voices heard to change people's views.
Rubber Band: to remind people to be flexible
Aluminum: so when people cover up these horrors they can see their reflection of ignorance staring back at them.
Screws: represent a STRONG solution to end genocide. What will endure longer? A house put together with tape, or one built with screws?
Door Stopper: to remind us never to close the door on countries who need our help.
A Chicken: to remind us that backing down from difficult situations is cowardly. Also, to remind us that it IS ok to back down from bullies who will try to persuade the world otherwise.
Q-Tips: so people can clean out their ears to hear clearly what is happening.
Eyeglasses with Wipes: to see the reality of how cruel our present world is by seeing clearly. If they get grimy, clean them with the wipes.
Mirror: to allow you to see yourself clearly and the power that you have.
Candle: to illuminate parts of the world that need light shed on them.
Bar of Soap: to cleanse the world of hateful thoughts.
A Net: to capture people's attention
Band Aids: to allow those who are hurt a chance to heal
Microphone: to give to people whose cries for help are not being heard.
Compass: to guide us back on the path of zero tolerance when we lose our way.
Pencil and Paper: documentation.
A Clock: so people realize that time is running out.
Energy Drink: so the world wakes up to what is happening.

These are just a few of the hundreds of objects my students have chosen to put in their toolboxes. I am beyond humbled. The last part of this project was a formal letter, as I mentioned above. More than anything, I want these students to be recognized for their work and compassion. They want to know if the UN will respond. I cannot tell them they will. I only hope that they realize their power to make a difference. Without acknowledgement, that might be difficult. I will end this with what I will put in my toolbox, and an excerpt from a letter written by one of my 10th grade students. I also will encourage you to make your own toolbox, and USE it.
Poisonwood Bible: to remind me how dangerous it is to preach my beliefs
Picture of the Dalai Lama: reminder that kindness is just as infectious as hatred and oppression CAN be overcome.
Picture of my sister: reminding me that one person can make a difference
Coffee: to keep me going when I want to give up; also acts as a wake up call for the rest of the world.
Bleach: to disinfect the world of discrimination
Seeds: to plant change wherever I go

Here's an excerpt from a letter. Read it, then go write your own.
When the Holocaust ended in 1945 people all around the world were ashamed that a country could get away with killing millions of people with no one stepping in. Many promised that "never again" would such a terrible thing occur. What many of those people do not realize is that 400,000 people have already been killed in Darfur, and 2.5 million people have been displaced. Up until a few weeks ago I myself had never even heard about Darfur, and the genocide has been going on for over 5 years. I understand the United Nations if doing certain things to help, but I am convinced that more must be done to end this genocide.
The UN must continue to send troops to Darfur and the refugee camps. Furthermore, we in the United States must do whatever we can to get other countries involved. The UN must educate more countries about what is going on and remind them to honor the Genocide Treaty. 139 countries ratified the Treaty, and I know if all of those countries come together we will have more than enough resources to help one country . . . It is your responsibility to ensure these countries take necessary action at any cost . . .One thing is for certain: pretending there is nothing more that we can do is not an option.

Desolate Beauty

I was in Phoenix last weekend with my cousin, visiting our ailing grandmother. I came in from the east, K came in from the west and we met up for one of the best weekends I have had in years. Between hospitals visits, a full day of rain and a lingering flu-like sickness for K, we managed to laugh and reminisce and come into our grown-up selves. Though gma continued to call us kids and apologize each time, we would simply smile and tell her we are always going to be "kids" in her eyes. K and I tempered gma's needs and ailments with short outings, mostly to the local Starbucks and grocer, but once on a leisurely stroll among the neighborhood. While walking K pointed out that she found the desert landscape to be "desperate", and quite unpleasant to be surrounded by. Though she has found beauty and inspiration in the cactus which thrive, there was something about the desert that seemed to drain the beauty out of everything else within it. K is an artist of the highest caliber, and her work is absolutely stunning. One of my most favorite pieces she created was in fact based on one of these prodigal cactus': a yellow background with retro-esque "bursts" of green. And by the way, this is fabric K is creating. You roll your fingers over her "landscape" and they tumble from cool and smooth to an almost prickly softness within the green. It has been years since I have seen or felt this piece, but this is what I remember. And the beauty of it can never be adequately preserved by words. This revelation that K found her inspiration's surroundings to be desperate was not entirely shocking to me. I completely understand where she is coming from. The conversation continued with me telling her how mystical Santa Fe is, though very different from Phoenix, the beauty and inspiration stems from similar landscapes. Later, she thought she may of offended me with her statements about the desert and I told her absolutely not. In fact, many people feel the same way as K does and it's not offensive at all, though it absolutely made me ponder my love for such an empty space. These are my thoughts upon further consideration, though to be honest, I still wonder WHY I keep such a strong connection to a place I have spent so little time.
The desperation on the outset is in fact an oasis for incredible, mysterious life that would never survive in the abundance of water and temperate climates. The sunsets are magnificent due to the lack of trees marring the skyline and soaking up it's rays. The mountains do not resonate greens and reds and oranges in the fall; instead they act as mirrors, reflecting the purity of the sunrises and sunsets. When it rains the ground does not remain damp. You can almost see the moisture evaporate back into the atmosphere and the cactus drink only what they need. It's a lesson in survival and primitive spirituality. The vast landscapes of our deserts are often peppered with shrubs, giving off an illusion of life that is unlike any other desert in the world. Native Americans have suffered on these lands, yet they anticipate each day by reading the signs of this mysterious landscape. They have forged their way through the unwelcoming temperatures and spines of growth and found the beauty hidden beneath the surface in the shades of turquoise and silver. The inspiration I find there is simply in the pure frankness of what it is. In many ways I find the desert indicative of my own search within me for peace and beauty. It forces me to take nothing for granted in terms of survival, which is why the apricot trees, sage brush and coyotes are completely enticing to me. The inspiration of the cactus will continue to tingle within K, and the rest of you should only hope to find your own desolate beauty that inspires as much talent as K has. Good luck.

Oh Chicago

So I am having my students write about one of their most memorable moments, and I decided to read them this tomorrow . . . . I think they will be baffled, and if there are swears in it, no problem, I will omit them . . . More to come on their moments, at this point I am humbled by their experiences . . .

Chicago’s Union Station is filled with food vendors, bars and newsstands but not a single book that has been written by anyone other than Danielle Steele and contemporaries. My twelve-hour layover looked daunting without the prospect of a nearby bookstore. I asked all sorts of Chicagoans if they could point me to a bookstore within walking distance, and with wrinkled brows and shaking heads they all gave me the terrible news. In the heart of one of the most prosperous and active cities, there was no bookstore to be found!
I sulked away, defeated, tired and angry and I wondered how I could incorporate the latest issue of People Magazine or Cosmopolitan into my thesis on Short stories. The irony of the situation was tearing me apart! I had twelve, full, uninterrupted hours, with no looming obligations or friendly distractions to potentially work on my study. Although I had a lap top, writing was out of the question due to my exhaustion and complete lack of creativity. I settled on drowning my sorrows in comfort food from McDonalds.
There’s nothing like a Big Mac and French fries to console you through the blues, but when I scanned my seating options I realized I would have to share my space with a stranger. After spending the past 24 hours with strangers giving me cannibalistic stares in Amtrak’s smoking car and harassing me for the last bottle of white zinfandel on board, the last thing I wanted to do was interact with another stranger. Before I had time to contemplate my options I was shoved into a table by a man who was more eager than I to acquire his Big Mac. The occupant was a guy in a suit and trench coat and as I repositioned myself so I was not sitting on the table, I gave him a sheepish grin before I plopped myself down next to his chicken tenders.
He smiled and said, “Hi!” but I turned away from him and proceeded to stuff my face. I was on my third bite when I heard a buddy from the train say, “Hey! Did you find a bookstore yet?” I looked up, wiping the Special Sauce from the corners of my mouth, and shook my head. “No. And I am fucking all set with The Windy City. Intellectual my ass!” Chicken Tenders stopped mid bite and my train buddy held a fry suspended in the air. I have GOT to work on that inside voice I thought, and then proceeded to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude. It’s just that I am stuck in this train station and I really wanted to find a bookstore and there doesn’t seem to be one anywhere near here.”
The conversation that followed was a positive example of why it pays to let your inside voice squeak out now and then. Chicken Tenders drew me a map on a napkin and explained where the closest bookstore was. Within the next ten minutes I was standing in the Sears Tower in a local bookstore holding three collections of short stories! I stood in the fiction section and breathed in the woody smell of paper and ink. I ran my fingers over the glossy spines of paperbacks and the rough jackets of the newest releases. I listened as the clerk answered the phone and graciously explained to a customer that although they did not currently have it in stock, he would be happy to order it and she could pick it up in two days.
I realized then, that I was standing in the tallest building in North America with no desire to tour the observation deck or buy souvenir key chains and shot glasses; I was tingling with ecstasy as I read the index cards scribbled with staff persuasions beneath their favorite books. On the second floor of the Sears Tower, in a room the size of my country kitchen, I viewed the skyline of the city through the titles of the books.
Joyce Carol Oates and Alice Walker glistened with familiarity; Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf glowed with compassion from their ranks on the shelves; Stephen King nodded a New Englander’s welcome while Chris Bojalian flashed his Vermont signature on the front table. My rising anxiety had been completely halted with this unlikely source of comfort.
I paid for my three books and asked the clerk if he had any Annie Proulx stories. He told me that her new volume of Wyoming shorts was on its way and asked me if I would like to reserve one for pick up later that week. I hesitated, with an unexplainable longing to say “Yes”, realizing that this enormous metropolis was only as big as its smallest bookstore. I wished that my twelve hours in Chicago would not pass so quickly. “No. No thank you, I’m only here for a few more hours.”
Maybe the clerk heard the disappointment in my voice and suspected it was because Annie Proulx wasn’t in yet. Or maybe he could sense the real disappointment, like having to leave an old friend you have just met. Or perhaps he was simply treating me like any other local customer who comes in. Regardless, he allowed me a few more minutes of bliss by asking about the stories I chose.
“Hey, that one you have by Brockmeier,” he said pointing to the green paperback in my hand, Ait=s really good. Not super well known yet, but he=s won some O. Henry’s. Did you read the staff pick on it? I looked at the book and tried to come up with a more intelligent answer than, “Um, no. I just looked at the cover and liked it.” Before I could answer he was walking toward a shelf, pointing at an index card. “Check it out if you want. I wrote it.” He walked away, back to his register, while I stood staring at his recommendation. It’s really not that big of a place after all. I whispered to myself.

And the Dream Becomes a Reality

When was the last time you asked yourself, or those around you, if Martin Luther King, Jr's speech had succeeded in becoming more than words? Maybe you take it for granted, as I usually do, that segregation is simply a word in our history books that is defined by more words. Sure there are stories that make the news every so often of hate crimes and stubborn individuals, but haven't there always been those stories since the beginning of our existence? The things which do not make the news are the unions that happen each day, the bridges which are built by small, nondescript interactions in the lunch rooms and classrooms of this country. When I asked my students to write what their favorite parts of English class were, and then their least favorites, during their final day with me this Monday, the answers I received were not surprising. Some enjoyed reading, some hated writing, some loved the movies and many of them liked making "new" friends. Huh. Really, new friends as established juniors in high school? I scanned my room at the formed groups among computers and what I saw actually took my breath away. These were the same groups of students I have had for 90 days, and most of them I taught last year, so we can count them up and say I've had them for 180 . . . . I saw my Latino soccer star at a round table with 3 self declared "rednecks"; two black Gospel singers looking up music with my KKK history buff (not a supporter); my football superstar, with a nickname of "Tank", quietly drumming a desk while listening to stories told by an Exceptional Student, who's been outcast by his peers as a total "loser". These relationships had been forming since August, yet I was oblivious to their formations! But I think that's the whole point. These are not forced interactions and they are not Kumbaya circles responding to themes from To Kill a Mockingbird. These are teenagers, who will inevitably become adults in our world very shortly. Do they still see the difference in skin color? Absolutely. Don't you? Do they have opinions about immigration? You bet. But they are inadvertently closing the gaps between basic human needs and the human condition. There will always be discrepancies within our society and unfair treatment among our peers, but these relationships are not the ones worth paying attention to. The relationships to focus on in this new year are the ones which are brewing all around us; the ones which will not be on the news. Focus, instead, on the people sitting behind you at a restaurant and the consumers at your grocery store and the students at your schools and be in awe at how far we have come, even in the whisper of 90 days.

"I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood."

A Timid Embrace

As I embark on my final week with my American Literature classes, or I should say one last day, I look back on this semester and wonder how on earth I will be able to transition back to my world literature mentality. World lit was my catapult into the teaching world, and somewhat of a security blanket, though I do not describe this leap as a secure prospect. I have grown to love my classes this year, in large part due to my familiarity of faces and attitudes. ( I taught about 90% of them last year) I cannot say for certain they feel the same way about me, and they do not have to in order for me to be successful. I am leaving behind more than just attitudes; I leave behind the safety of Harper Lee and John Steinbeck . . . the authors who have already gone through their banishments and ignorance, and the crackles under 451 degrees. Last year I didn't know any better as I ventured into Night and Things Fall Apart. Sometimes ignorance is truly blissful with these things. As I look at my rosters with unfamiliar names I wonder how they will react to my veteran philosophies. And yes, I think I can call myself a veteran at this point. Will I be able to finally read Elie Wiesel's chapter 9 aloud? Will Oedipus Rex be left by the wayside to writing scores and contemporary affairs? The bottom line is this: do I still have it in me, yes after JUST one year, to rally these students who have been abandoned in this "holding pen" by people who make the rules and pay my salary?
Will I be able to endure another child coming to school with a black eye and broken spirit? Change, as we all know, is inevitable. Lately I wonder how much change I am able to support. Does it really matter that we no longer have an AP and out superintendant is an intern? Can it get any worse than this?
After many sleepless nights the answer to all of these questions is YES. I can endure, and things can get much worse, especially for my students. I have a student who can barely read and his handwriting looks more like a first graders than an eleventh. He has been mine for the past two years, first in English 2, now in English 3. As we were finishing our last novel, Barbara Kingsovler's The Bean Trees, I realized he would not be able to do the group readings I had scheduled for the last 5 chapters. In fact, he had barely followed along for the entire book, so what good would it be now to have him struggle with the ending? I asked him to get a computer, to look some things up for me. Although his reading and writing skills are very low, his moral and comprehensive skills are higher than most of his classmates. "K, would you please look up the backgound information of all the presidential candidates? I am curious to see what you find out." K's eyes light up immediately. His passion is history, and can recite all of the supreme court justices in our history. He has said to me before, as we read TKAM, that he thinks it's a shame when so many people focus on the "evil" white people during segregation, that people need to know more about Atticus Finch than the KKK. This student happens to be black. He wants to know if I agree, then wants to know if I think Obama's campaign will turn into a race against black and white. He has the most faith in the people of this country, and those figures who made it so great in the first place. Then he asks me how to get into law school, and if I think it's easier to get a PhD. or a degree in law. I shake my head in disbelief at my colleagues who toss him into the "retarded holding pen". I tell him to make his own decision based on the information he's found, but not before he lets me know the NAACP was founded in 1906.
Then I look at him and let him know I will also be his teacher next year, for English 4. Is it worth it? Yes. Can I go back to roots and move forward at the same time? Absolutely. I think the supreme court justices teach us that on a daily basis . . . at least they teach some very impressionable students.