(artwork via briana mccarthy) |
For Mrs. Rodriguez,
Mr. Bowman, Mr. Abel, Sensei Lou Scotti & Ms. Visconti
Before the three little cousins—I cherish like siblings—were
born.
Before I immersed myself into the world of literary
educational reform.
Before the boys I graduated high school with said goodbye
from the mouths of bullet wounds.
Something crawled underneath my skin.
In fact, it was someone.
Lisa—my best friend—and I were separated in the fifth grade
after her mother tried to keep the façade that they still lived in our neighborhood.
One evening, an investigator followed them on their daily walk home and
discovered that they no longer lived in their pre-unemployment comfy suburban
home. They weren’t too far though. They’d moved a town over into a low-income
building and were approximately five blocks from their old home. What was the
difference between the locations? One area was zoned for a school district on a
steady academic incline. The other area, despite several restructurings,
digressed rapidly. Thus, upon discovery, the district—her mother so desperately
wanted her to attend—asked her to leave.
This did not ruin our friendship. In fact, throughout middle
school, we continued to practice our saxophones, write in our journals and play
doorbell ditch in their new apartment building. My mother trusted her mom and
it was one of the only places I was allowed to escape to without having to ask
permission.
In the eighth grade something changed. One day I’d brought my
sax over to practice with her, only to discover Lisa quit marching band. A few
weeks later, she began to mock my incessant journal entries and threw hers
away. We were both pre-teens, suffering through the rampage of hormones. I had
amazing teachers, who were ready and willing to dispel any lack of motivation
they’d noticed. I had mentors who noticed negative influences right away and
grasped my attention before I could lose focus. Lisa had no mentors, extra
after-school initiatives and her teachers didn’t care. In fact, when she told
her band teacher that she wanted to quit because she was tired of being
ridiculed by the people in her projects for lugging the heavy instrument, his
words were, “One less kid.”
Soon, I’d start to ring her doorbell to find out she wasn’t
ever home. I would wait on her balcony for as long as her mother would let me
and then I’d trudge home knowing my best friend was slipping through my
fingers.
One day she called, apologized for her absence and invited
me to hang out. I scrambled my things and practically ran down to the bodega
where she wanted to meet. There she stood, an arresting height, shoulder length
hair and eyes like a pharaoh. She smiled once she saw me and we embraced. I
missed her. She was the only person in the world that held my secrets, a sister
sans the blood. Our reunion was suddenly halted by a male voice.
“That’s your friend right there ma? Put me on son.”
I looked around and realized five guys that were much older
surrounded us. They had to be seniors in high school or of college age. They
ranged in complexion and attire, some good looking and some
eye-of-the-beholder. One similarity stood out amongst them: A black and white
bandana seemed to protrude from each of their right back pockets. I looked at
the back of my best friend’s jeans; one dangled from her pocket too.
It was as if someone pushed a fast-forward button on our
innocence. Suddenly she entangled with the streets, slinging and kicking it
before she was old enough. I saw her every now and then: Locking fingers with
another thug, smoking blunts on her apartment’s steps and eventually strung out
at a corner store. I was suddenly alarmingly aware that we’d grown eons apart.
It wasn’t until recently that I realized how much this
friendship’s downfall altered my course. After we’d stopped speaking I joined a
karate dojo that offered an afterschool program. After our routine, we’d work
on our homework and receive tutoring. Soon my Sensei would realize that I was
far ahead of grade level in reading and writing. He asked me to work with
younger students and help him create supplemental curriculum for some of the
other kids. At 14, I’d become a tutor at the program and I fell in love with
instructing. In particular, the younger girls of the program—often angry and
led astray—seemed to cling to me.
When they were angry, I told them to write it.
When they were sad, I told them to tell the notebook their
secrets.
When they longed for something, I made them write the goals
that would lead them to it.
This was my way of coping. I wanted them all to adapt it, as
selfish as it may seem.
I spent my allowances on journals, handing them to my
favorite students. We learned haikus and acrostics, had discussions about the
things they were going through at home and taught one another patience. My
goals became:
Every girl/boy goes home with a smile.
No girl/boy goes without a journal and a pen.
When my parents noticed my knack for facilitating youth,
they helped me create a mentoring program with a few of their friends’ younger
daughters and a cousin. I called it “Enlighten.” I was fifteen, taking 9-10
year olds on ice skating trips, watching Miss Congeniality, visiting museums
and learning the basics.
Confidence.
Security.
Aspiration.
Education.
Every job I’ve had since those beginnings have been along those
lines. I’ve been a group leader at summer camp, a writing teacher for library
poetry workshops, a lead tutor, a professor for a college summer intensive, and
finally a writing instructor that creates curriculum for an entire grade. I
receive emails every month from girls that tell me I’ve influenced/changed
their path; a beautiful and humbling notion. Still, I am unsatisfied. I have so
much more work to do.
Although I am fascinated with the art of scribing and
publishing, I will always have the itch to teach. That something that crawled
under my skin has taken on my entire being. At thirteen, I saw a potential Lisa
in every young girl or boy that I’ve ever met. Our experience showed me how the
slightest alteration of advantage could revolutionize the world of a child.
Lisa and I were descendants of the same culture, had great parents and had all
the same interests. However, because of an environmental change, today she
faces some of the most difficult hardships no woman should have to endure.
This week I finished Paul Tough’s “Whatever It Takes” on
Harlem Children’s Zone’s plan to positively contaminate a suffering 100-block
radius in NYC. The book stands on the philosophy of early intervention into a
child’s life and advocates an equality of educational environment across the
board. A riveting read, it inspired me to write this post.
Excerpt from the book:
"To change the trajectory of a poor child in an inner-city
neighborhood, this research shows, you need to: intervene early in the child’s
life, continue to intervene throughout adolescence, give him extra time in
school and extra support outside of school; involve his parents if possible but
be prepared to compensate for their absence; focus on improving his cognitive
skills but also nurture his non-cognitive, social and emotional skills." -Paul Tough
My philosophy is this: We are all connected. Just as I am
one of the oldest cousins in my family, a role model to almost fifteen young
adults, so are you. You are the relative/inspiration to so many children around
you. You have the power/possibility to intervene right now. We were all
diverging paths at one part of our lives. Someone pushed us in the right
direction, their motivations our maps.
What are you waiting on? Navigate.
7 comments:
Loved it. So inspirational.
Just finished reading and printing out the steps to moving to the city!!! Easy Read! Thanks..Youre doing great!!! Im starting a blog soon too...
I wish there were more teachers today who share just an ounce of the passion you have for students.
I have never had the desire to teach but ironically enough, a few of my previous jobs placed me in that role in one way or the other.
Working with inner city teens was tough for me, especially since I was so close to their age. It was hard for me to assume an authoritative role with them.
In the short 7 months that I was with them, I did my best to expose them to things & ideas they weren't used to. It hurt my heart to know that almost all of them had never been outside of the city of Chicago (I learned that on an overnight camping trip to Michigan--another first). It was touching to be able to share that experience with them.
In the past, my lack of patience had me swearing off children for eternity but after reading this post & the minimal experience I do have with them, a change of heart may be happening. I like the idea of being responsible in helping some child find their way.
As always, enjoyed the read and if I ever do decide to be fruitful & multiply, I am thankful that there will be teachers like you who care.
a lot of the time i read through your work and i feel like you're the version of who i could've been had i had the support i needed from my parents, teachers and so on. you inspire me so much and i'm really proud of the person you are but not in an assuming, creepy sort of way LOl you know what i mean, i hope. :)
With every entry, I am amazed by your talent, passion, compassion, and honesty. I think "Whatever it takes" is a phrase that applies to your whole approach on life (well from what you show us). I wish half the writers, teachers, just people in general that I know, knew the true meaning of whatever it takes like you do.
Word up. Nice work, comrade (the writing and the teaching).
The "Whatever It Takes" approach is a great one! It seems like you give selflessly, inspire, and motivate your students. They will remember you for that. Great Post!
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