Growing Pains

This year is going to be full of 'new'. 'New' is the fertilizer for personal growth. 'New' tends also to be very, very uncomfortable.

I'm going to tell you a story. Here’s what was floating around in my mind before that story transpires. The shootings at Navy Yard a few weeks ago. The shootings at the mall in Nairobi this weekend. The 2 weeks of lessons wherein I explained repeatedly to my students the general scope and impact of the Holocaust, to which they had been oblivious prior to my intervention. My ongoing reading of The Book Thief. A 14-year-old former student of Ms. Dana’s, caught in crossfire and shot dead while hanging out on a friend’s porch. Netflix exposure to Orange is the New Black, and to Scandal. The disclosure from my team leader that there has been a violent neighborhood incident towards a City Year every year we’ve been at our Middle School.

Little did I realize, these images, themes, crises, people and characters were all floating around in my mind, shaping the lenses of my experience.

* * *

On the day in question,I was riding the metro home at around 6:35pm. About 23 minutes into my 60-minute ride, a young man gets on the train. He begins to speak to us, and because all the commuters are employees heading home after a long day, he doesn’t have to work hard to get our attention- the car is already silent. He’s got no flair, no game, and no hint of street performance. He speaks calmly.

“Everybody listen up!

I’m sorry to bother you today. My name is so-and-so and I could use some help.”

At this point, I look up from my book and replace my glasses cautiously on the bridge of my nose. I look him over. He is black. He looks like any of my students but a decade older.

“I have a family,” he continues, “but not enough money to take care of them.” I currently find myself homeless. Today I am asking you for help- for anything you can give. I will also be giving you something here today.”

(I interrupt my story to add a few more details. Every since I was a child, I have had a disturbing habit of picturing massacres and disasters. I blame this habit on my active imagination circa the time when I learned about the Holocaust, no later than 4th grade. These visions of massacre never seized me more powerfully than when I was going to synagogue with my family or attending some other gathering of Jews).

After pausing (ominously) for a few moments, the young man continues:

“Like I said, I have a little something for you”

In that moment, a million toxic thoughts clouded my mind. 

He has a gun.

Hostage situation.

He’s reached his limits and there’s nothing to stop him from shooting us.

The world has been unfair to him, and we're bearing his vengance.

What he has for us is a whole lot of violence. The world is violent- it’s about time my privilege stopped buying me the illusion of safety. I’m stuck on a metro car with a killer.

He looked around. I sat motionless, caught between my initial compassion and blossoming horror.

And what did he do then?

Nothing violent, and something entirely harmless. He sang us a song.

His voice was beautiful but not exceptional. The song was exactly the right mix of bluesy and lovely and sad. I listened with my heart in my throat.

I fished a few dollars out of my bag. I wondered who else would give money- would prove to me and to this gentleman that kindness exists even in the hearts of wearied commuters. When he was finished, he didn’t walk around. He just said thank you and sortof ambled to the the other end of the train. People gave money.

I was honestly too preoccupied with my own imagined death to want very much to follow the young man down the train car. Shaken, I put my dollars and my book away, and eventually I slept.

* * *

All overactive imaginations aside, I think that this is an important story.

This story is important because it touches on issues of race, and of class, and of privilege and vulnerability. It represents one of those exceptional moments where the ways that I’m thinking are easier to see, to explore.  I’m pretty sure that it’s a story of me being racist. I’m pretty sure that I’m more comfortable sharing that via blog than I would be via person. I’m also pretty sure that the story has many layers- layers that have to do with the narratives we’re fed about young black men, poor blacks, and urban people of color; layers that have to to with my feelings of vulnerability and hypervigilance whenever I’m out alone in the city; layers that have to do with systemic poverty and my own complicated relationship to financial privilege; and layers that have simply to do with how much control we ever really have over the tragedies and fortunes that befall us.

For a few moments on the train, I was acutely uncomfortable. When I walk the 15 mins from the metro to my school site, I’m vigilant of my surroundings. Working in a school that’s 99% black and 99% low-income has its moments of discomfort. Talking about race and class and personal experiences can be very uncomfortable. But it’s something that I want to do. I want to do it for my own sake, for the sake of the diverse world we live in, and for the sake of all the people I’m going to have the pleasure of meeting once those reflections feel a little bit less new.

Clumsy, agonizing, discomfort. Much like puberty, these are the costs of growth. If I’m a little bit uncomfortable, at least I know I’m challenging myself. That i’m experiencing something I’m not quite equipped to handle. That I’m going to come out of it a little wiser- a little more attuned to an issue of existence that had escaped me before. Even though I’m gonna feel a little bit miserable and a little bit exhilarated along the way.

Discomfort is the feeling of growth. I was (very) uncomfortable on the train that day, and I’m sure that the young man was too. We were each in a situation somewhat foreign to us- no one is born to be begged at, no one is born to beg. Writing this blog post is my way of taking a few cautious steps towards understanding what I felt and why I felt it.

The road is long, uncomfortable, and very rewarding. When you're on the journey, you're not quite sure you're gonna make it. And you keep going anyways. Those roads- metaphorical or actual- definitely make for the richest lives and the best adventures .

My Life as a Corps Member (Part 1)

My life as a Corps Member (Part 1) Placement: 7th Grade English/Language Arts with Ms. Dana.

3.5 weeks into the school year

I am at school each morning by 7:30. Students arrive by 8:45, and before 8:30 if they want breakfast. Kids roll into the building in a burgundy haze, streaming through the metal detectors, passing their backpacks to security guards (all women), and waiting in either the gym or the cafeteria until they are released for class. During this time I’m doing classroom prep with my partner teacher, knocking out group work with my City Year teammates, or roaming the school looking for an open bathroom. Sometimes I hang out with my students, and their reactions to my presence among them range from excitement to apathy to actively fleeing my presence. I’m fine with all of these options. The other day someone came up and zipped my backpack for me as it hung open, and then ran off with just a little half smile on his face. It was sweet.

At 8:45, my students are rounded up and marched, single file, up to the seventh grade floor. They are then given three minutes to get to class. Bags are stuffed into lockers, renegade papers are caught and shoved into binders, candies and chocolate bars are tucked surreptitiously into pockets- reserves to liven up the mid-morning slump. From the chaos of lockers slamming, students chatting, and teachers counting down the minutes, some order emerges.

Lines of students, like patient ducks, along the wall outside of each classroom door. No scrambling or fidgeting, just a bored sort of patience as they wait to be admitted to class by their first period teacher.

I walk down the line outside Ms. Dana’s classroom- greeting students, checking in, and reminding them of expectations.
“Good morning Kyra, how are you doing this morning?”

“Ben, did you bring your homework today? Yes? High five!”

“Tuck your shirt in, John”

“Don’t touch her hair please, thank you”

“Girl I’m good, thank you for asking. The real question is how are YOU?”

“Maya, did you find some extra folders like we talked about?”

“You excited to learn today? Yes? It’s gonna be great!”

etc.

I stand by the door and greet each of my students as they come in.  Responses vary. Scowls. Blank stares. A quick nod of the head. Eyebrows way up. Goofy faces. High fives. Sometimes, the most enthusiastic students get their greetings out to me before I get mine to them “Hi Ms. G!”

Throughout the day, this routine is repeated four times, once with each of the teams as they dutifully arrive to improve their reading skills- phonics, comprehension, vocabulary, etc. As a general rule, mornings are pretty tame and afternoons are pretty raucous. Twelve years old can look like a calm and collected maturity or like an almost psychotic inability to focus or take direction. Brooding silence and unpredictable bouts of openness and curiosity. The diversity of dispositions is interesting, but also part of what has made the last few weeks exhausting.

My students are every shade of brown and everywhere on the spectrum of physical development. Their uniform requirements have them all in burgundy collared shirts tucked smartly into khaki pants.  No flashy makeup or distracting accessories allowed. Despite the “no individuality” imperative from the administration, my students’ self-expression comes out through their shoes and through their hair. I haven’t seen the same pair of shoes or hairstyles twice.

The strict attitudes at my school reflect our administration’s commitment to improving the quality of our education. Where only 3 students from this middle school got accepted to specialty DC high schools three years ago, the total was up to 8 two years ago and up to 54 last year. This is inspiring, but a rigorous pace to maintain. There has been an intense focus on standardized testing (assessments every 2 weeks) and on making sure that no lesson is planned which does not connect to one of the core standards for the grade and subject matter. Although the rigid structure and severe discipline regimen is not intuitively appealing, I’m excited to experience it firsthand for the duration of the year.

That being said, I make an effort to ensure that more positive affirmation than corrections come out of my mouth, and that students respect my authority without associating me with the yelling of most of our teachers (Someone's gotta be the enforcer, but thankfully that's not my primary role in the school.)

My days are long and there are so many interesting and stimulating things going on There’s so much more to share, but I didn’t want to postpone a post any longer. I promise I’ll write again soon. Happy (almost) solstice!