She slapped the child, all five fee nine of him, upside the head and snarked off. Pushing chair back, run, put my hands on his shoulders, gently ease him back down. "Don't do it. She isn't worth it." "I hate this fucking school. It's dirty, look at the floor. No-one cares. I hate that fucking bitch. School needs to be torn down." "Hate me. Take it out on me. Hate me."
Profiling all 6'feet of him in my face. Jumped in between a fight. He's mad and ready to damage something , right now me. He's two inches from my nose. If you do it you better make sure I don't
get up because I will take you down. Bends his head down and his shoulders start shoving up down. He is laughing so
hard. "Are you for real." Yep! And I better not hear anything about you being on anything but your best behavior, ok. "Yes ma'am."
Standing, facing the blackboard, hair cut Gumby style. Shuffling his feet back and forth, back and forth. Energy emanating from him like a live wire. Eyes darting to the child standing, humiliated, defeated, eyes darting to the teacher, me and back to the child-back and forth, to and fro...walks over, leans down and speaks to him. Give's me the look. Let's go. You don't have a problem with your kids; you have a problem with your teachers.
"White parents care more about their kids than black parents do." "My dad drinks beer, get's angry, hits me." Don't put your hands on a child, big trouble. Two girls, hands entangled in hair, hard sounds of slaps hitting flesh, skin. Teachers and children watching, don't touch a child. oh, hell no. Move, push people aside, wrap my arms around the little one. All five feet of her. Pin her arms to her side, pick her up, whisper, "I won't hurt you; I promise not to let anyone hurt you over and over." Make-up session for class on not
touching kids...I never go. Brings
her honor roll report card for me to
see at the end of the semester.
"I'm sick of learning about white people. I want to learn about my people." "I don't like white people." "You a model. You walk like a model. Watch." Perfect imitation of me. How ridiculous. Stupid white woman. Why you here. "You could be teaching children who want to learn." "Why black men like blonds." The Blacker the Juice the Sweeter the Berry. Why'd she write that about skinny people. Makes no sense. She went back on her own words.
"You're going to tell me these kids are different from any other kids in the district? Come on." "Help me. I need help. My kids need help." Kid gurked a kid in class. Fire the teacher. Kid had a past record, sex in school. Don't tell the teacher. Fire the teacher. Lie after lie, fire the teacher. Happen-sat on a hearing board. 2nd grade teacher, fired. But...doesn't matter. Teachers fault.
"Get out, get out. No breakfast today or tomorrow. No food at home either. Too fucking bad." "They can't learn. They don't have the ability to learn." Why you here? "Why you wasting time on those two? They just trouble." Toe to toe-administrator, student-both tall, proud, beautiful and queens. The administrator wins, student kicked out. My student. North Carolina...graduates eighth grade first in class, magnet school. "They can't lean." "Help me. I need help; my kids need help." "We don't know what the hell you are talking about." "You are unprofessional. Redact your statement. You are not doing your job".
Grant for robotics, grant for field trips, 21st Century Grant, Project Infuse, STEMbotics. "You are not doing your job." He had a knife. Gun was found...he's gone, pot. "Told you, trouble." "Just give the canned presentations." Don't deviate. Find the gifted. They exhibit it differently. No, they don't. Some, yes! "We don't have gifted. They're stupid." Worksheets, worksheets, worksheets. "Help my kids. Help me, we need help!"
Meetings, endless, mindless meetings-pulled from work, my classes, my kids, my teachers. 8:00 p.m. Again. Go home. Dads a preacher, why his son...three hours. I'm going to quit and join the Air Force...two hours. Teacher called me stupid...one hour. Student sitting in science workroom, alone-can't behave. Homeless student, no shower, hair in a little beanie. Take off your hat. No hats in school. No, No, No...get out of my class. Running, shuffling, sound of desks banging together...get security, running, "I don't run." Please, someone is going to get hurt. "You're not doing your job..." "I quit!" " who is going to teach us, crazy teacher." Tears streaming down his face...I get up and leave. I am dying.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Closing your eyes and ears...yet sometimes your feet still don't hear!
I feel like I am a pretty lucky person, despite moments, days, even months of heart wrenching debilitating pain. I wouldn't trade this journey I have been on for any other. Last night, while having dinner with my son, he informed me that he was an interesting person because of me. Wow, I never even thought of myself as interesting. What a compliment, what a laugh out loud joyous thing to be told by your son. And then he told me why, "Mom, from the moment you had me, you never let me slow you down." Uh oh, that didn't sound so good. "You just picked me up and took me along with you. " For the first time he acknowledged how much our travels had impacted his life in a positive way. So my beautiful, philosophical child this one is for you.
No matter where I travel in the world, as soon as my feet hit the ground they can hear it talking to them. It is in a language unknown to me, so if I just close my eyes and my ears and feel the pull of my feet, I will end up where I am supposed to be. That pull, the pull of learning through exploration is as much a part of my being as breathing. I have never needed a map, directions...even when we thought we were lost in the jungle in Guatemala, I told everyone, "Let's just follow my feet." We were back where we were supposed to be in no time. However, in Budapest my feet didn't understand the language the ground was speaking. I found myself frequently lost, in need of directions, and still lost. Traversing the streets, talking to the people, eating and eating again, finding the museums every adventure began as a comedy of errors.
Starting as a Celtic settlement that became a Roman capital, Budapest's history is a story of multiple invasions that included inexplicable savagery and subjugation that continued into the twentieth century. I am still learning about Budapest's history. All mistakes are mine, correct me where I am still in need of more information. The Romans were pushed out by the Huns, and the Huns were pushed out by the the Magyar people in the tenth century . In 1241, Budapest was invaded by the Mongols (check out Dan Carlin's Hardcore History Podcast for a horrifying account of what a
Mongol invasion entailed) and then the Ottomans came and stayed for a hundred and fifty years. The end of WWI brought about tremendous loss to Hungary itself, and WWII brought about occupation by Nazi Germany. The end of WW II left Hungary within the Soviet Union's sphere of interest leading to the Second Hungary Republic being established under Soviet control in 1946.
There are remnants of the old Communist regime's existence that permeates everything and everyone you encounter, but it is overridden by the new...young people on their skateboards with iPods plugged into their brains, fashion, cars, restaurants, people wandering the streets from all over the world, everything you would find in any other post industrialized country can be found in Budapest. So why did my feet not understand the language?
My visit to the history museum located in the Castle Museum may explain, in part, the reason why. Upon entry into the museum you pay your entrance fee, and they give to you a map in what they assume is your primary language, to follow upon entry. You are suppose to follow the map. Right? Well no-one told me, and what is a map anyway, a recommended path, not a this way only designator. Hmmm, wrong. I opened every door, went down every pathway and plummeted to the very bottom of the castle, almost to the very beginning of this city's history. I found the entry way to gain access to the battlements and walked the perimeter trying to feel and understand the complexity of this amazingly undecipherable place where I now found myself. How do you explain the feeling of looking across a courtyard and seeing the destruction caused by a war fought 70 years before? It was horrific, yet strangely captivating as I tried to grapple with all this city had undergone since it's very beginning. Artifacts were strewn about everywhere, I suppose this might be why certain areas were not included on the map. I lifted my feet over and around as I maneuvered through all that was strewn about. I made my way back into the castle through yet another closed door.
It wasn't too long after my returning into the castle that I entered the exhibit on a star of the 30s that a woman in uniform, who was quickly accompanied by a man in uniform entered the room and
communicated through hands and voice that I was to put the reading back in place and follow them. Uh oh. I was being led somewhere, and of course my over active imagination flew back to the days of the Cold War. I wondered where I was being taken. Would my husband ever find me. He will be so worried, I remember thinking. Not to fear, they just made sure I was put out of the museum, and I was no longer allowed entry into this beautiful, mysterious, broken into thousands and thousands of pieces world I had just left. There was my answer, my feet didn't understand that in post communist countries, even now, there are things you still ought not do.
Somewhere on Facebook I recently read a post that said something to the effect of rules are put into place for a reason. Follow them. I am glad I don't typically follow the rules put into place in a sometimes seemingly random way by people perpetuating their control over others. Yes, even with the intermittent negative ramifications. I never would have learned the secret to my feet's inability to communicate with the ground. I love Budapest, the people, the architecture, the food, and the raucous partying till 4:00 am outside our window at the Intercontinental. I loved everything, while knowing I knew nothing.
No matter where I travel in the world, as soon as my feet hit the ground they can hear it talking to them. It is in a language unknown to me, so if I just close my eyes and my ears and feel the pull of my feet, I will end up where I am supposed to be. That pull, the pull of learning through exploration is as much a part of my being as breathing. I have never needed a map, directions...even when we thought we were lost in the jungle in Guatemala, I told everyone, "Let's just follow my feet." We were back where we were supposed to be in no time. However, in Budapest my feet didn't understand the language the ground was speaking. I found myself frequently lost, in need of directions, and still lost. Traversing the streets, talking to the people, eating and eating again, finding the museums every adventure began as a comedy of errors.
Starting as a Celtic settlement that became a Roman capital, Budapest's history is a story of multiple invasions that included inexplicable savagery and subjugation that continued into the twentieth century. I am still learning about Budapest's history. All mistakes are mine, correct me where I am still in need of more information. The Romans were pushed out by the Huns, and the Huns were pushed out by the the Magyar people in the tenth century . In 1241, Budapest was invaded by the Mongols (check out Dan Carlin's Hardcore History Podcast for a horrifying account of what a
Mongol invasion entailed) and then the Ottomans came and stayed for a hundred and fifty years. The end of WWI brought about tremendous loss to Hungary itself, and WWII brought about occupation by Nazi Germany. The end of WW II left Hungary within the Soviet Union's sphere of interest leading to the Second Hungary Republic being established under Soviet control in 1946.
There are remnants of the old Communist regime's existence that permeates everything and everyone you encounter, but it is overridden by the new...young people on their skateboards with iPods plugged into their brains, fashion, cars, restaurants, people wandering the streets from all over the world, everything you would find in any other post industrialized country can be found in Budapest. So why did my feet not understand the language?
My visit to the history museum located in the Castle Museum may explain, in part, the reason why. Upon entry into the museum you pay your entrance fee, and they give to you a map in what they assume is your primary language, to follow upon entry. You are suppose to follow the map. Right? Well no-one told me, and what is a map anyway, a recommended path, not a this way only designator. Hmmm, wrong. I opened every door, went down every pathway and plummeted to the very bottom of the castle, almost to the very beginning of this city's history. I found the entry way to gain access to the battlements and walked the perimeter trying to feel and understand the complexity of this amazingly undecipherable place where I now found myself. How do you explain the feeling of looking across a courtyard and seeing the destruction caused by a war fought 70 years before? It was horrific, yet strangely captivating as I tried to grapple with all this city had undergone since it's very beginning. Artifacts were strewn about everywhere, I suppose this might be why certain areas were not included on the map. I lifted my feet over and around as I maneuvered through all that was strewn about. I made my way back into the castle through yet another closed door.
It wasn't too long after my returning into the castle that I entered the exhibit on a star of the 30s that a woman in uniform, who was quickly accompanied by a man in uniform entered the room and
communicated through hands and voice that I was to put the reading back in place and follow them. Uh oh. I was being led somewhere, and of course my over active imagination flew back to the days of the Cold War. I wondered where I was being taken. Would my husband ever find me. He will be so worried, I remember thinking. Not to fear, they just made sure I was put out of the museum, and I was no longer allowed entry into this beautiful, mysterious, broken into thousands and thousands of pieces world I had just left. There was my answer, my feet didn't understand that in post communist countries, even now, there are things you still ought not do.
Somewhere on Facebook I recently read a post that said something to the effect of rules are put into place for a reason. Follow them. I am glad I don't typically follow the rules put into place in a sometimes seemingly random way by people perpetuating their control over others. Yes, even with the intermittent negative ramifications. I never would have learned the secret to my feet's inability to communicate with the ground. I love Budapest, the people, the architecture, the food, and the raucous partying till 4:00 am outside our window at the Intercontinental. I loved everything, while knowing I knew nothing.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Why Can't We See The Wind?
It was during one of those summer conferences that teachers always attend. Everyone knows teachers don't work during the summer, right? I was seated at THE table, the one way back in the corner where no one can see you, and I thought I was safe. Suddenly, I was surrounded by talkative, happy and not so exhausted people. The conversation, filled with the minutiae of the day, proceeded
forward as is apt to happen at these conferences. Suddenly, Steve, one of my colleagues, decides to tell us the story about his son asking him, Why couldn't we see the wind." His response to his son was, "Go ask your mom." The story continues until we find out his son asked him this question over ten years ago, and he still doesn't know the answer. I guess you had to be there at that moment on that particular day with those wonderful people to understand, but we were all doubled over laughing. It was that joyous laughter that actually hurts and you know you are in a special moment and you better mark it in your memory.
Now I will tell you about my beautiful boxer, Bruder, and his inability to understand why he couldn't see the wind, also. He would jump straight into the air and somehow manage to do a 180 degree turn to find out just what was this stuff was whenever it blew a little more briskly than usual. He would then turn toward me with this perplexed look and shake his head until he found a batch of flowers growing that would allow him to stick his whole doggy face into them so he could inhale the aroma. It would be at this point he would finally forget about this mysterious wind. He was a character, and I continue to miss him despite the many years that have passed since his death. So for the people who made me laugh till I hurt and the goofy boxer that rarely left my side for twelve years, "Why can't we see the wind?"
Why do 18 year old girls get glioblastoma multiforme? While there is an answer to not seeing the wind; I don't think the answer anyone can provide will satisfy my heart, my mind, or my being for this one.
On Tuesday, I am leaving for Budapest and I will carry a picture of this young lady, The Warrior Queen, with me. Her dream is to see the world. She cannot travel right now due to the intensive treatment she is undergoing that will allow her to defeat this monstrous invader of her brain. So, she will see the city through the eyes of me, my camera, my iPhone video recorder and a question. Everyone I run into I am going to ask, "Why can't we see the wind?" There really isn't an answer to the other question; so why bother asking?
Update: Our Warrior Queen died over two years ago. I can finally write it and acknowledge that she isn't coming back. The finality of death for those left behind is devastating.
forward as is apt to happen at these conferences. Suddenly, Steve, one of my colleagues, decides to tell us the story about his son asking him, Why couldn't we see the wind." His response to his son was, "Go ask your mom." The story continues until we find out his son asked him this question over ten years ago, and he still doesn't know the answer. I guess you had to be there at that moment on that particular day with those wonderful people to understand, but we were all doubled over laughing. It was that joyous laughter that actually hurts and you know you are in a special moment and you better mark it in your memory.
Now I will tell you about my beautiful boxer, Bruder, and his inability to understand why he couldn't see the wind, also. He would jump straight into the air and somehow manage to do a 180 degree turn to find out just what was this stuff was whenever it blew a little more briskly than usual. He would then turn toward me with this perplexed look and shake his head until he found a batch of flowers growing that would allow him to stick his whole doggy face into them so he could inhale the aroma. It would be at this point he would finally forget about this mysterious wind. He was a character, and I continue to miss him despite the many years that have passed since his death. So for the people who made me laugh till I hurt and the goofy boxer that rarely left my side for twelve years, "Why can't we see the wind?"
Why do 18 year old girls get glioblastoma multiforme? While there is an answer to not seeing the wind; I don't think the answer anyone can provide will satisfy my heart, my mind, or my being for this one.
On Tuesday, I am leaving for Budapest and I will carry a picture of this young lady, The Warrior Queen, with me. Her dream is to see the world. She cannot travel right now due to the intensive treatment she is undergoing that will allow her to defeat this monstrous invader of her brain. So, she will see the city through the eyes of me, my camera, my iPhone video recorder and a question. Everyone I run into I am going to ask, "Why can't we see the wind?" There really isn't an answer to the other question; so why bother asking?
Update: Our Warrior Queen died over two years ago. I can finally write it and acknowledge that she isn't coming back. The finality of death for those left behind is devastating.
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