Category: writing

When You Realize You Are Complicit

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The post initially ran in EdWeek Teacher as “The System Wasn’t Built for Us”

First, it was the lack of an indictment for Sandra Bland’s death. Then, it was the lack of an indictment for Tamir Rice’s killing.

As days and verdicts pass, I am only able to ask this question: if the basic structures built for “safety” will not protect us, then what will? 

Moreover, as a teacher, what does this question mean for my students and for me?

For students:  Students need the space to learn about and discuss these stories, as well as process what is going on. Thumbnail image for 17130711447_ca7635c0cb_o.jpg

I’ve seen some teachers say, “I don’t know how to talk about this, so I’m going to move past it.” That fear is understandable, but we must also understand that silence is compliance, and silence is violence. When the system is failing, we are compelled as educators not to act as “a cog in a wheel,” as John Dewey once said. We must support our students as they deal with and question the mechanisms in our society that allowed this to happen. We may feel rage (which can look like a lot of things), and that’s okay. Even acknowledging current events, as well as our own frustration and lack of answers can be powerful (Teaching Tolerance and Youth Radio had some great resources if you’d like to do a more in-depth lesson).

Even if your students, like mine, may not directly feel a personal connection to these stories, part of our job is to expose them to questions regarding the larger world and teach them to empathize with communities frustrated and hurt by these situations. For students with whom these events hit closer to home, it’s important to remember this, from Ta-Nahesi Coates’s Between The World and Me:

…all our phrasing – race relations, racial chasm, racial justice, racial profiling, white privilege, even white supremacy – serves to obscure that racism is a visceral experience, that it dislodges brains, blocks airways, rips muscle, extracts organs, cracks bones, breaks teeth.

If racism is a “visceral” experience, the space to heal from it is all more important.

dewey.jpgFor educators: We must begin to reframe our understanding of the system that we work in and, thus, are compliant in. Current events have only strengthened my belief that, frankly, the system wasn’t built for me and other people of color or people from marginalized backgrounds. The system will consistently perpetuate existing hierarchies of power.

Unfortunately, our current education system is one of those hierarchal structures. We can either remain silently and willingly compliant, or we can question and change the powers that be at work in our schools. The questions might appear small at first: whose values am I measure by in a teacher evaluation? Do my students feel like they have a voice at my school? Are the parents I work with feeling valued?

As we move forward, though, those questions will get bigger, and the commitment to the work gets stronger. Hopefully, all educators (and administrators and entire communities) will understand this: our job is not to feed content to students. Our job is to prepare young people to dismantle systems that are currently failing them, and help them uplift the voices, and ideas that showcase the best of their generation. 

Recently, Trent Gillis of On Being posted a reflection about Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s final Christmas sermon. King’s feeling that we were a “bewildered human race. We have neither peace within nor peace without…” resonate now.  

The sermon goes on, though, to reminder us of the need for hope:

Yes, I am personally the victim of deferred dreams, of blasted hopes, but in spite of that I close today by saying I still have a dream, because, you know, you can’t give up in life. If you lose hope, somehow you lose that vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you go on in spite of all. And so today I still have a dream.

I leave these words here, as a reminder of what we must hold dear in 2016. Our students still have dreams. We do too. We must continue to push so that those dreams can reach the full majesty of their potential.

 

Protest image via Flickr: Fibonacci Blue
Quote image via Awo Okaikor Aryee-Price.

 

The Holy Act of Rememberance

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Two years ago, my grandfather passed away. I rediscovered the below post, which I don’t remember writing, and found myself trying to re-learn the lessons he left.

Over the Thanksgiving break, I went back to California for a whole slew of events: a friend’s wedding, Thanksgiving, and my ten-year high school reunion.

I used to harbor a general dislike for my hometown, but in this trip I saw Southern California with new eyes. The city has grown more diverse, and my partner and I had an excellent time seeing family and friends.

The highlight, though, was Thanksgiving with my family. Between helping my aunt teach my mom’s family mahjong (a game I grew up playing with my friends in high school), and spending the evening looking through boxes of old photos with my dad’s side of the family, I was constantly immersed in the love of people who I knew, wherever I went, were a part of me.

In the past, I don’t think I was far enough removed to understand what it was to be away. When I first moved out to the island, my dad (who had lived in Mexico, away from home, for many years himself) warned me that moving away from what you thought was “home” is a painful, but important part of growing up.

I see now how right he was. Before, I was still wrestling with my own understanding of my place in the world, and I couldn’t appreciate the duality of a place being “home” and “not-home” all at once.

When you’re ready, though, going “home” has a way of resetting your equilibrium. It digs deep into your genetic makeup and lets you see the ridges and  bubbles that formed in your bones when they were growing. The journey to and time spent there help you understand where you come from. It’s the only real way to understand where you are now. 

So, my grandfather gave me another gift this winter and, in re-reading what I wrote a few years ago, reminded me to remember. When we seek new joy, we do so with the sacred wisdom gained by studying all the parts of you that are embedded deep down in old, weathered ways.

December 2013

Memory is a funny thing.

My grandfather passed away last Sunday. It’s been pretty hard. After the all-too-soon death of my aunt this past April, ending 2013 with another passing is just a lot.

I haven’t known how to feel the past week.We were fortunate enough to know what was happening earlier in the week, so I was able to get on the phone with him and say goodbye while he was still really lucid. I’m really happy I got to hear him say my name one last time.

Still, while that is what makes me feel much better, it also ripped my heart in half. Like I wrote last April, I don’t handle grief with any consistency. One minute, I am ok– calm, even– and with the belief that things will inevitably be ok. The next, I am doubled-over, ugly-crying in pain and frustration and anger at the whole world. I had felt fine when I started writing this post, for example, but my grandmother called me while I was writing and I’ve spent the past 10 minutes sobbing, “pero, se extraño.”

“Yo sé, todos se extrañamos, pero voy a ser fuerte contigo.”

So there’s the woman who lost her husband, my abuela, comforting me. Love, it seems, is always fully of limitless strength and always surprising.

Anyway, while there is love and strength, with grief always comes all of its stages. The anger is the worst part (though, fortunately, the most fleeting). I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what exactly I’m angry at. I spent much of the past 6 years being incredibly angry at God, and I know that will probably get me nowhere. God is there for strength, love, tough questions, but when I want to rail at the unfairness of things, He has nothing but quiet patience and understanding– this is just the way things are, and His will or my confusion really aren’t the major players here.

Frankly, I was angry at the nature of life itself. By Wednesday of this past week, I was just mad at how fucking temporary it all is. At some point, everyone I love is going to leave. They’re either going to leave me or die. So why the fuck bother with anything?

Despite my faith, despite long nights of reading and prayer, despite a loving family and caring, understanding friends and coworkers, and PJ (who has been a saint in dealing with my pretty erratic mood swings that sometimes manifest as unnecessary anger at him before I start weeping, which is totally attractive), I hadn’t really shaken that question until today. If everything I love and enjoy is eventually going to end… this fucking sucks, I thought, and I’m mad I have to even be part of this charade. What’s even left? I angrily questioned God. If you are solitary, no one even knows you’re gone. If you had a lot of love, you just leave a lot of people really sad that you’re gone. WHAT IS THE POINT OF ALL OF THIS ANYWAY THEN?

Ya. I was in a place.

On the flight out here, I was randomly watching whatever short film Hawaiian Air puts on. I don’t remember what it was about, but as if God was answering my frustrations, this phrase stuck out (paraphrased):

There are some times when we go to a place and, we don’t know why, but it speaks to us. We know yes, this feels good. We don’t have to know why. When this happens, we call it “ancestral memory.” When you feel it, you know somewhere, one of your grandparents is telling you this is what you need.

She didn’t say “aunt” or “uncle” or anything else. As if meant for me, the quote hung there, letting me marvel at it for a second.

I don’t necessarily have a lot of specific memories of my grandfather. I mean, I DO, but everything in my family’s history is so weaved together it’s hard to tell what are my memories and what has been embellished with the shared stories of my parents, brother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I know my grandfather made me laugh a lot. I remember, once, when he sat me down at my aunt’s dining room table and gave me a book of Mexican folklore and spoke to me about history. I don’t remember the specifics, but I remember the feeling of warmth and sanctity, of thinking this is an important moment for me to remember.

When I heard that quote, and in looking up photos when I got home, I realized that what I knew deep in my heart, in my DNA, in my ancestral memory, in my na’au, is that my grandfather loved me. He loved all of us, a lot. Even if the colors are faded in those experiences with him, the feeling of love, caring, joy– that always remains deeply embedded in us.

Appropriate, then, that this week is Gaudete Sunday, a day of seeking joy in our lives. It seems like it might be hard to find joy in this weekend, and it might– in the secular sense. Fr. Martin, S.J. though, recently published a great reminder about the Christian idea of joy:

Joy has an object and that object is God. The ultimate response to the good news is joy, one that is lasting and can endure even in the midst of difficulties.

While my grandfather is no longer with us, the lasting effect of his existence– the creation of my large, extended family, his thirst for knowledge, his quiet thoughtfulness, the fact that he is always present in my childhood memories when I think about “family,” and “love,”– that is the type of joy that lasts beyond the sadness of losing him. THAT is what we give to others by being here, despite our temporary existence in this form. The human connection to share love with others is transforming for those who give and those who receive.

So, perhaps that is my grandfather’s most recent gift to me. In his passing, he forced me to face the anger I’ve held onto all year and choose to let it go. He forced me to rip my heart open and grieve before using that pain as a reminder of how strong we all are. Now, he watches, and gives his wistful half-smile reminding me: Mija, no te preocupes. Nothing ends. There is always love.

Te extraño mucho, abuelo, y te amo siempre.

Bad Writing and Broken Hearts

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Below is a piece I’m working on. I don’t know how it’s going, but I’m having a hard time working on anything. 

I like telling stories.

That doesn’t make me special. I’m a sometimes-writer and full-time English teacher. I have spent years fitting events into narrative structures: dynamic characters, dramatic tension, nuanced relationships wind through conflict and still end with a neat resolution. My world, most days, is spent somehow trying to craft something that fits into a narrative.

I thought this was just craft, something I did on paper or in the classroom until someone reminded of a small, white lie I had written about them. When I apologized, they simply said, “You like making things fit your story.” It wasn’t mean, they were just making an observation. At that moment, it clicked.

I have been telling myself stories for years.

Nearly every relationship I’ve had is subjected to hours in the tumble-dry cycle of day-dreams. I take the smallest tidbits, find the narrative and fill it with so much hot air it floats away with the rest of my imagination.

My narrative habit has been curling its way through my brain, around my heart, and into my actions since childhood. A gossamer string, my desire to adapt my perception of reality– then manipulate that reality to my perception– has been woven into my life since long before I could understand it.

It’s in adolescent journal entries describing, in excruciating detail, the real meaning behind my crush putting his hand briefly on the back of my chair as he talked to someone else. It’s being sure that, when his “ocean blue eyes, like a stormy sea” (a line, no doubt, purloined from some bad fanfic I had read on the internet) locked with mine, it was because he was seeing something deeper in me. It’s embedded into the fabric of time I’d spend skulking around corners at school, hoping to “accidentally” run into some guy.

When, somehow, I would convince that crush to actually date me– with obvious flirtation, with praises and pretty words– I was still creating storylines for them that would, eventually, end.

Storyline: A young Mormon missionary falls in love with a Catholic girl. He proposes. She says yes. He goes on his mission and, somehow, when he returns, they find a way to work through their religious issues and have a happy life.

In reality, six months after he left, the heady high of my first kiss and first love had worn off. I was sixteen when he gave me a ring. I was seventeen when I sent my missionary a Dear-John-email (we weren’t allowed to call or see them in person, or I swear I would have). He begged me to accept his God into my heart and make things work. I overlooked his messages. I returned his ring and most other gifts he left me. 

He’s married now, I think. He blocked me on Facebook.

I did this a few more times in high school: the track star who tutored me in math and left me when he realized our time was up. I threw a fit (this was not part of my story) and sobbed, though deep down I agreed. The fellow thespian, who I badgered to go out with me my senior year. He wrote some nasty things about me, we made peace and parted ways. He recently married man in San Francisco

This, of course, is natural for many high schoolers. As a teacher now, I see myself in so many sixteen-year-olds skulking around corners, hoping to bump into someone. I see the students hoping to find validation in me as their teacher or their friends or some relationship, and sigh and tilt my head and wonder how anyone put up with me at that age.

What is more difficult to realize is that I didn’t leave the practice behind in my school like I thought I did. I see now that I have been weaving webs of stories and heartaches long past my graduation.

#WhyIWrite – Survivors and Monsters

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It’s been a hell of a week, but one that seems to be ending on a happy note. Our school’s WASC visit went well, and I’m happy it’s Friday.

I’ve been fairly quiet on social media, simply because I’ve felt bone-tired most of the week. It’s that time of year where both the students and teachers are crawling through to Thanksgiving break, just doing our best to find the moments for joy and laughter when the gloomy clouds of the October/November Doldrums break.

I did catch the #WhyIWrite tag (which José Vilson wrote about eloquently from the perspective of an educator). I know I have that piece sitting somewhere inside me, but I’m not in a space where I can dig it out.

It did make me think of two reasons, though.

The first is that writing, in many ways, is an act of survival. Like lots of people (especially, let’s be real, women of color), I have overlooked, ignored, or been unable to recognize a number of different, small traumas in order to live in white dominant culture. Speech changed, clothing changed, body image shifted. Writing has helped me parse through some of those mixed feelings on paper. It helps me find the space to be angry, be confused, raise my voice and also make a safe-haven for it that can be reflected on. Without being able to put those things in one space– to cut, copy, paste, realign and find new ways to put it out there– I don’t know that I’d be able to deal with it.

The second reason, though, is to turn the mirror back on myself. Given the above existence, my own penchant for drama would make it easy for me to always see myself as the victim, the heroine, the protagonist of the story.

The problem is, life doesn’t work that way, and I’m not always the heroine. The white space of a blank page can be unforgiving and pushes me to ask questions of myself I may not normally pose. When I write, it forces me to turn back to a situation and ask, “What happened here?” At times, I come as the reflective survivor, returning to an emotional place to work through it and eventually heal.

Sometimes, though, I am returning to the scene of the crime.

I am not perfect, and when I ask, “What happened here?” I am often forced to reconcile my own shortcomings. I am made to see the places when I have hurt others, silenced voices, or simply been a less-than-stellar human being.

If writing is rewriting, then writing is also the opportunity to hit rewind and play, again and again, on the memories we have and the stories we tell. It is easy to read a situation the first time and see ourselves as the noble dragon slayer, overcoming and persevering through a tough moment.

Occasionally, we realize that we were not the slayer, but that some part of us is the creature to be slayed. We understand that it is not our job to play victim or heroine to someone else’s monster, but that sometimes, we realize that we are the monster instead.

Everything Is Upside Down and That’s Okay

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“You’ve always been fine but… this is the first time it seems like you really have your shit together.” My boyfriend was leaning on the counter, looking up at me and smiling.

I smiled back, not only because it’s nice when people you love validate you, but because it’s immensely satisfying when your own consciousness is mirrored back to you.

Here’s a thing about growing up (and being a teacher makes it weird, since I know twenty-seven isn’t actually “grown” at all, but consistently being around twelve-year-olds will do that to you): you either accept that everything is imperfect and going to change or you go nuts. There’s no easy way to say it, and frankly to do anything but embrace it would be a waste. 

I finished up my Teacher Leadership Initiative final project this past week, and in doing so reflected not just on my practice, but on my PLC (personal learning community). A lot of my community has been online: first, it was running and marathon training people, then TFA folks when I worked at the org, and then I was lucky enough to find EduColor and all the amazing people that I’ve met along the way.

I like to think of myself as “easily mentored,” but it’s probably more accurate to say that I just enjoy being a “fan” of things– especially people. I am quick to become an acolyte for my current favorite group or person, and just try and soak up some of their awesome. I like this about myself. I generally think people are good, and want to celebrate that as often as I can.

That also comes with a side order of self-consciousness: I value the opinion of people I like very much. I want to be liked by the people I like. While IDGAF about lots of folks, once I’m here for someone, my brain sets up a little test balloon of concern about them consistently bobbing around my mind: am I being too much? Is ____ annoyed with me? Should I do less/more of _______ so as not to upset _____? 

As you can imagine, it’s a lot of balloons, and quite a bit of mental juggling.

Here’s the thing I’m going to have to learn over and over again, though: people are not perfect, relationships change, and sometimes we’re just not going to vibe with someone. That’s okay. That’s good. Appreciating and wanting to be mentored by someone doesn’t mean you’re going to agree with them all the time. There also might be a time when they flow out of your life, and maybe the best thing is to appreciate the time they gave you and let it go.

I was reading Jose Vilson (one of many people who I consider a mentor)’s piece about #BlackLivesMatter and education. Beyond being an amazing, essential read…

(seriously, go read it. Now. I’ll wait. Done? Excellent.)

Anyway. One of the many things I love about the piece is that it reminds us how important it is to consistently question why we’re doing something. As teachers, I think we forget that far too often (both for ourselves and our students), but I know I want my students to question the “why” of every thing and every one, including me, as often as they can.

Moreover, the piece made me not just think about ensuring “The Work” is centered on our students, but it made me realize that it’s important to make sure all my relationships are centered properly as well.

In my professional world, that means students and communities of color. In my personal life, it might mean something else (shared experience, love, values, space, etc). But if growing up means embracing nuance and accepting imperfection, it means that well-centered relationships aren’t always going to feel the same. The chemistry with which I interact with people is invariably going to change, but as long as we both know why we’re in this, then I think it’s going to be okay.

It also means, though, that it’s time to let some of those balloons go. Not because I don’t still tremendously value my mentors, friends, and colleagues, but because I’d like to think that if we’re in this for the right reasons, we should center on that more than just each other. There’s a line between being a caring and empathetic individual, and just doing things to please others, and I’ve been tap-dancing on it for far too long.

As I’ve headed into my fourth year of teaching, there’s a lot of exciting things happening. It’s nice to get more work doing things I love and enjoy (instead of, perhaps, handing out flyers in Waikiki).

There is also, at least for now, an accepted confidence that even when things turn upside down, I have a pretty good idea of who I am and what I’m about. For now. If anything, the acceptance that everything will probably get upended at some point has given me a weird feeling that I am more able to roll with those punches and hopefully recenter and still love myself when I have to regain my footing.

So even if the room flips and everything scatter everywhere, I know where my center is. I’ll hold onto it for as long as I can, so that when chaos inevitably occurs, I’ll be able to find that place and seek joy in the flux.

Hello, I Am Trying to Write Today.

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Hey! Hi! I have a page and here it is! Hello!

I know it hasn’t actually been that long since I last wrote, but it feels like decades. We’re in the second day of school and I’m already tapped out. Beat. At the end of the first day, I sat there thinking I forgot how tiring the job is. 

Overall, I’m loving the work so far. I can already tell, though, that trying to juggle it with the other writing and work I’m supposed to do is going to be a bit of a struggle.

BUT, I think it’s important to remember that creativity isn’t a finite well of stuff we pull from. Hopefully this will push my teaching and my writing to improve. We tell our students this all the time: getting things onto paper is the warmup drill of good writing. It’s the calisthenics. It has to get done to get to the good stuff.

https://vimeo.com/24715531

I’m excited for that good stuff (wherever it’s hiding), and dive headfirst into the next year. I can already tell that this one will be vastly different than last– and it’s awesome to see last year’s students grow up so fast.

But for now… I’m just really, really tired.