“Do they have malls in Canada?”

Walking from my car to my classroom yesterday morning before school, halfway between my disparate worlds - still wearing flip-flops and a backwards baseball hat while straightening my tie and tucking in my shirt - I heard someone call my name and turned to see LT grill-grinning and running towards me as he pulled out a packet of papers from his bag;

“I got accepted Mr. Doyle!”

Months ago, I got a letter in my box asking me to nominate a few students for an Earthwatch Fellowship. EarthWatch provides scholarships for high school students to participate in 2-3 week long summer research expeditions in North America, Hawaii, Costa Rica and the Caribbean. I spent some time thinking about who might be a plausible candidate (not many) and who would actually take the time to apply (even fewer). I nominated a couple, and out of those I nominated only one actually opted to fill out an application and spend some time after school working on his essays. His transcript wasn’t stellar, barely passing several of the key subject areas, so we spent a lot of time editing and re-writing his essays (like most of my students, he’s way behind where he should be in reading and writing) and to be honest, I didn’t think he had much a chance. Last month, I received an email telling me LT was one of 300 Earthwatch fellow finalists – he had no idea, not having received the notification that had been sent to him in the mail. The letter he showed to me yesterday, beaming with pride, said he was one of 82 high school fellows selected out of all the applicants nationwide for an all-expense paid research expedition. Never having been out of Mississippi or on a plane before, LT will be flying to Churchill, Manitoba in central Canada this summer to study the wetlands between boreal forests and arctic tundra. Later, during my prep period, I could feel the fear and excitement from LT as I showed him where he would be (right on the Hudson Bay! Strangely, I have a map of Canada on my classroom wall - as part of the Ramp-Up curriculum I received this summer but haven’t been able to use) and read out loud the waiver warning of “the highest concentration of polar bears in North America”.

As thrilled as I was for LT (and slightly envious – I want to go to Canada, too!), the elation paled in comparison to what another student accomplished earlier this month (and which I’ve been meaning to blog about). You might recall in past blogs the mention of a BH, who was preparing for an audition with AMDA (The American Music and Dramatic Arts Academy) in New York City … BH used to stop into my classroom earlier in the year from time to time to chat after school, being a senior and thus not one of my students, and we soon got around to talking about his interest in theater. There is hardly any opportunity for him to explore this interest in our community, but he has done what he can and from what I’ve seen he has a lot of talent. We spent some time researching a few schools and programs, and put together a few applications. The focus of his attention was on AMDA, and these essays we spent the most time on. Once sent in, the next step was to select and rehearse two short contrasting monologues (approx. three minutes long), which he would have to perform at a regional audition in Nashville, TN. We eventually settled on a passionate soliloquay on racial inequality from ‘Statements’ by Athol Fugard and a comedic one-act by David Ives. For several weeks, nearly every day after school in my classroom we practiced these monologues, eventually bringing in other teachers or driving around to local businesses for ‘mock-auditions’. We had a lot of fun, and it was amazing to see his improvement. I pushed him, but this kid has a ton of natural talent. He headed up to Nashville with his mother on a Sunday for the audition, and called immediately after to let me know how it went. He told me about all the other applicants he met in his typical upbeat manner, but I could tell he was a little distressed about something. When he got to telling me about the audition, he paused … “He cut me off Mr. Doyle!” Halfway through his second monologue, the Fugard piece, the far better one that we saved for last to really give them something to remember, the judged looked up and cut in with a “Thank you, that’s enough”. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it didn’t seem like a good thing. They said they would call him within a couple of weeks.

Over spring break, while I was in the car driving back from several days that took my mind nearly entirely away from school, I got another call from BH; “I just wanted to thank you for all your help Mr. Doyle, you know, even though it didn’t work out – got a letter today saying I didn’t get in.” I paused, crushed, then recovered enough to go on and on about how much he must have learned from the whole experience and to not give up on what he wants to do just because this door may have been closed. He let me talk for a few minutes before interrupting with, “I’m playing Mr. Doyle; I got accepted!”

In a town where very few students go on to college, very, very few go on to four-year institutions, very, very, very few go out of state for school and probably none before have pursued a degree in the theater arts at such a reputable school – this is huge. Perhaps for the first time this year, I truly felt like I had actually made a considerable difference in at least one kid’s life.

I haven’t been the best teacher in the world this year. In fact, I haven’t even really been close to the best teacher that I know I can be. I do get excited and passionate in the classroom. I’ve gotten through to a lot of my kids that need a lot of direction in their lives and made some pretty great connections. I know they know I care about them very much, and we have a lot of fun – even when we’re reading or writing essays. But, I’ve missed a lot of classroom instruction when I’m not prepared or when I feel as if I am letting go of aspects of my personal life that are too important for me to entirely abandon all at once. So there is the guilt, battling dissatisfaction. Maybe it’s a selfish tendency. In addition, I’ve never been the “yes sir/ma’am” type, and have found it very difficult to acquiesce to ‘authority’ when I don’t approve or believe in what I’m being asked to do – which has made for some rocky professional relationships and not a very warm work environment outside of my classroom. I’ve learned a lot about myself this past year, some positive and some negative, and am looking forward to the end of May and a chance to put this chapter behind me so I can start focusing my attention on getting it slightly more right the next time around.

Big positives, like helping LT or BH, plus all the little acknowledgements doled out in smiles, laughs or nervous thanks do give the year some sense of accomplishment despite all the daily frustrations. Still, I’ve got a lot more to learn and, hopefully, a lot more to teach.

For the moment, I’m going to go see if I can find the snapper I picked up on my way back from Jackson this morning. The jay-walker was in the middle of Highway 49 and running the risk of getting squashed under 80 mph tires when I swerved to miss him, pulled over, and ran barefoot back along the gravel to rescue the ungrateful, hissing reptile. While I’ve been typing, there have been periodic thumps from the living room that I’m guessing are his attempts at escape. The rain has stopped so I’ll drop him off along the creek before going for a run and burning off some of this apprehension I’ve accumulated so far today. Next half-marathon is less than a month away.

onions

Spring break cannot come soon enough.

First, this article is ... um ... funny?

This week has been hectic, in part due to taking the whole weekend off from work and driving to New Orleans with Mike. Was a nice reprieve/distraction, and after waking up beside the sunrise at 9 am and arriving almost two hours late to the marathon, I jumped right into the flow of feet on mile 13 and finished the race without too much pain. Then back to reality. Final exams, poetry slam, consecutive nights with no sleep, unnecessary MTC work (I'm making a powerpoint on 'le petit prince' - wtf?!), BH's last week of rehearsal before his audition this Sunday and a mountain of ungraded assignments. This is the farthest I've let myself slide in my grading, and is terribly unfair to my kids. Then again, I bend over backwards to help them pass in any and every way that I can - maybe sooner or later they need to learn to do the work the right way the first time around and not always depending on being bailed out come crunch time. Regardless, I have been and will continue to, hear their gripes this week and next.

I cried for the first time in my classroom this morning.

Already an emotional land mine after not sleeping since, hmm, Tuesday ... I think ... I was in rare form today. If any class was going to make me cry, which isn't something I do too often (although it doesn't take much to make me well up), it would probably be my fourth & fifth period class. The cane to my other tenth grade class of abels. Overfilled with the disinterested, angry, academically challenged or just plain goofy, I've given out more detentions in this class alone than there are catfish in the delta. Detentions that mean nothing, but thats another story. Between farting, cursing, flirting (hitting/poking/grabbing) and sleeping - it amazes me I get anything accomplished at all with this crew. Only yesterday I went off on them while a shy, self-conscious kid who's mother recently died was practicing the poem he would be reading at the slam after school. It had been very difficult to convince him to give it a try, but he was excellent once he gave himself up to the reading. I could tell he was nervous, but he was picking up the pace just fine when he read the line, "A May song should be gay". This erupted laughter and comments of disgust from the rest of the class, shouts of "faggot" and "man, i don't want to hear this shit". The student reading couldn't finish, and I was pissed. I went off, swore about as much as I could, and talked a whole lot of shit to 'my kids'. I had had enough of the immaturity act, and told them exactly what I thought of their behaviors. It kinda worked, they all participated in the rest of the post-poem review, but I'm still half expecting a phone call from a parent. Anyway, today, in front of this same class, exhausted, I attempted to explain why one of our group is no longer with us. DW moved to our school this year from another Delta town, after going through a very difficult spell with chemo. She had been mocked and ostracized at her old school when she returned hairless. Clean for over a year, I would have never known she had even had anything more than the flu if she hadn't told me early on. She became involved in our school, made a lot of friends, joined the cheerleading team ... and then this week, found out it was back. A lump in her chest. She had been losing weight, and her demeanor seemed to change overnight. After speaking with her and her mother (about 45 minutes of worried tears and earnest smiles), we thought it might be a good idea for her to tell the class, since many didn't know her history. She didn't want to, but wanted me to once she left. She left last night. So today, I gave it a shot.

They were silent. For almost fifteen minutes straight, I rambled about cancer, strength, friendship, taking advantage of today, living your life how you want to be remembered. I spoke about my sister who has brain cancer, about responsibility and courage, and how childish their attitudes are for the most part. I wasn't interrupted once. I was sure I would get comments when the tears started dropping, I even laughed at myself in surprise - not having expected this to happen at all - but even then they just sat and, really for the first time in that class, I had their undivided attention. It wasn't about me, it was about one of them - whose empty seat seemed filled in that moment with her absence. The bell cut me off. Tomorrow we're going to make her a card, and I hope to drop it off on Monday in Jackson.

And only last week a student in another class, angry after I told him to stop talking and get to work or leave the room for the fifth or sixth time, had told me that "the problem with all you new, white teachers is ya'll care too much". According to him, we should just let them fail if they don't care, and not try to get them to work if they don't want to. I wish I cared more, and I think I care more than most.

I can't think straight. I've been cooking all night (crabcakes and fruit salad) for some riduculous senior-class birthday celebration. I'm tired, getting sick and have made the hefty move towards establishing some sort of personal life, perhaps, recently and thus am miles behind my work.

I'm done for the night - I need a good dream right about now.

Below are two poems written by eleventh grade students of my mine. We are reading 'Fallen Angels', by Walter Dean Myers and I did about a week of Vietnam War prep leading up to it. One activity had them each reading short pieces of non-fiction written by war veterans and then, coinciding with a lesson on mood/tone, writing original poems based on their reactions to the prose. I had done a short unit on different forms of poetry not too long ago, which didn't go over as well as I had hoped. These two seem to have gotten something out of it at least.

Heaven’s Door
by LT

I couldn’t believe it
we were fighting to repel attackers
. . . scared?
in a desperate fight for our lives
total darkness
. . . really scared
who’s “us”?
KIA, MIA
Tet raged on for days
close to death
shadows heading straight towards my bunker
K-9, 50 cals, M-16s
LOADED!
they were depending on me
knocking on Heaven’s Door


Forgiveness
by OR

hasten the rescue …
reinforced by rituals …
the most nightmarish sights I had ever seen …
rage, crying, yelling and moving …
shot through the back of the head …
getting caught up in the emotions …
my mind had finished processing the horror …
powerful feelings of God’s wrath …
blood soaked dressing …
it was kill or be killed …
I was so full of rage …
forgiveness is a powerful grace …

... my middle name

she bring me love love love love, crazy love.
—Van Morrison

To Be Read In 500 Years
by Albert Goldbarth

If they're right, the whizkid physicist-theorist thinktank guys,
suggesting that every acted-on decision of ours produces a brachiation
in the timestream (therefore, two simultaneous independent futures:
for example, one extending from my use of "brachiation,"
one extending from my almost-use of "fork," so that
tomorrow-"b" and tomorrow-"f" are equally real in parallel
and coexistent tracks), there may be, secretly among us,
a few—or even entire populations—of backward travelers
in time from not just one, but many, "alternamorrows,"
so different from ourselves, it's like the thought that bitch-ho' rap
and the sublimities of, say, Chopin are kin enough to both be
reproduced by variant patterns within the same 88 keys:
in one
of these futures, everything essential, every attribute of humanness
even minimally desirable, is relegated to mind alone
—we look like cumulonimboid dendrite-structures
that have flowered out of small deflated flesh-pods—
and the reproductive function of the species now
is entirely exocorporal, a matter of frozen protein combinations
and gestation-sacs of complex bioplastic;
in another
of these futures—it's an after-we-squander-the-oil-deposits world
of post-apocalyptic, bare-subsistence living—a day
is a matter of thinning, granular soil: leached,
defiant of yielding to our human need and its desperate threshing
—that, and a rumor from over up north that dog troops
of marauding goons are on the march with pillage and worse
asquirm in their eyes—and there, and then, all softness,
all of anything without "survival value," has been bred out
of the race, so "interpersonal relationship" is no more
than a reflex of the genes;
or, au contraire,
another future makes an ornate, public fetish of the wooing game
—a codified fantasia of modes of address and rank and dowry
and clan and feather-on-cloak-by-depth-of-genealogy, etc.—
to a social architecture of such overmuch extent that, while it's all
intensely focused on the establishing of a betrothal-pair, it's
all at the same time so bound up in duty and cultural sanction
as to be even more devoid of anything personal—anything soulful
and open to flutter—than the future I've described
of petro-aftershock ...
and therefore none of these baffled representatives
encamped in our twenty-first century can understand,
can "get," the thump, the cupid-zing, the woe and the wow,
in our songs and poems, especially the songs, especially the glowing
uranium dump that malingers all night at the bottom of the blues,
oh especially the blues, especially let her light shine down
on me, especially by the waters of Misery Avenue, let's not forget
Heartbreak Hotel, let's not eschew its transient cast
of cinders-and-ashes clientele, but also the songs of tra-la-la
and marital abidingness, of how sometimes a body fits a body
as indivisibly as waves (or it could be particles) fit light, the poems
address this too of course, the let me count the ways, the roses
in their fragrant and meaty botanical abundance, and the doves,
let's not forget the doves, the old thou art a summer's day
and thy breasts are of wheaten beauty, let's not dillydally
in recognizing
the wedding under the laws of God, let's not exempt the quickie
under the snooker table, the flame in the bones, the one name
drummed
in a bruising tattoo on the heartskin, they don't comprehend this
sugartit thing,
this sonnet thing, this sky held in the mirror pools
of the Taj Mahal on a day of slowly promenading couples
thing, these people of the future as I've imagined them don't have
the apparatus of leisure we've had, in a special lotus of time
that's been vouchsafed to us, a mythos, a sequestering in which
this serotonin and this opium are grown to a lyric degree, they
wouldn't
understand me sneaking out at 5 AM to pat that ten-dollar valentine
tenderly into place beneath the wiper-blade of Phyllis's swayback
Dodge
(with the fishtaily brakes and the fanlight crack in the windshield),
they
don't know the drive-in, the down at the corner, the boardwalk,
the bridge,
the places where it happens and where we commemorate it,
also a night
of blind and driven howling I pulled like an hours-long ebony scarf
from the deeps of my brainstem once on Morgan's lawn, so sweet
it is, this ineluctable thing, this please let one of the harder sciences
objectify
the biochemical basis of our here-do-that-to-my-earlobe-another-time
thing, down by the riverside, at the gates, behind the stadium,
and Skyler my wife with the basement tiles and cowboy pajamas,
she lift me up, she bring me the dominions of the morning
and the thrones of the moon, they've never once experienced this
impossible night of her wanting him down to the vitamins
and the pepsin and the aura and the spit, and how she bring him
the molasses and the escrow and the skidmarks and the holy church,
the rock and the water, the star and the stain, together we heard
the otherworld hosannas of wind in the alders, not to mention
karaoke screech, the Gregorian chant and the triple-x rebel yowl,
it requires a certain coddled recipe of history and maybe economics
for this psychic condition, this giddiyap of the hormones
and the industry they generate, the castles and the sly decolletage,
I wanted to read her the works of Montaigne and Cervantes
and Emerson
and I wanted to slip her some tongue, I was enrolled, I stayed
the course from my first day in Agony 101 to my post-doc,
they will never
be burned by this ice, they will die without knowing the thirst
in this river, she bring me the spackle, she give me the flying tackle,
he build her up, he tug her plug and she drains, she becomes
a puddle of ouch, she hit me with the hoodoo, with the magic spell
and the candle, they will never know this candle, yeah
she lead me up the towpath got a diamond in my nose, she dress
in ermine and sable, she barefoot in the grass, I tossed,
I thought of words like chivalrous and serenity, I spied on her,
I wanted to kill for her, she bring me the cherry wine, the toxic waste,
the whole wheat and the half-shell, they will never eat of this fruit
and suffer its consequences, never beg for its juice, its family root,
she be my guide, she interlocutor, my Beatrice-and-Virgil
(and me behind
in my Dante sandals following her shake-that-thing on the stony path),
my rash, my silty unguent, she rob him, she rock and throb him,
she greet him in his guise as the charioteer of the sun in its vast
celestial passage, in the centuries forthcoming they will never know
this honeycomb of confusion and its confected delight, it happens
in the jazz bar, at the casbah, in the synagogue, under the sheets,
she lift me higher, she be my desire, she build me, she give me,
in the sand dunes, hot hot summer, on the roof, yes here, now here,
a little lower, she feed me, she give me, she lift me, she need me,
the sound of the continents as they first tore apart and the surge of
the oceans,
the music of that, the songs especially but also the poems, she take me,
the rosins of craving, the tables of lust in its periodicity, they cannot
and cannot and cannot partake of this feast and the terrible emptiness
that follows, she make me, she lift me, I freely give her one grand
opera rose
and hiphop dove, she under my skin, she knife in my mind,
this thing,
oh this millennial and hallucinatory and radiant thing, she bring me,
she lift me, she take me, she bring me love
love love love crazy love.

A friend of mine said it best in an email I received this morning ....

"Happy Wednesday! For me, every day is an opportunity to express love and be loved"

"Santa Claus Van Damme"

Early today, a former classmate of mine sent this to me. Kids can really be both mirrors and sponges at the same time, reflecting all the beauty and all the ugliness in the world with a clarity too honest for adults. On Super Bowl Sunday I called my parents and, after assuring them I was eating healthy and getting enough sleep, was passed around to the rest of the crew assembled to watch the game. My niece (who recently sent me a colored drawing of hearts and rainbows, inscribed “You are the coolest! Go D!”) excitedly told me that they were learning about the different states in school and that all of her friends thought Mississippi had the coolest flag.

. . .

No, her teacher didn’t explain what the flag represented. She had no idea; most fourth graders probably don’t. I tried my best to give a brief synopsis of slavery, the civil war and the current state of affairs while a rain-soaked Peyton scored another TD in the background and her little sister whined to have her turn on the phone.

At what point does this innocence become ignorance, and intolerable? I recently heard a story from a friend who was sorting laundry with her young son a few days after he learned all about MLK in preparation for the holiday and, you know, the inequality he’s sure to encounter first or second hand as he grows older. The conversation went something like this;

Mother: “Put the whites in one pile and all the darks or coloreds in the other.”
Son: “I know Mom, we learned about that in school today with Martin Luther King Jr.”
Mother (taken aback): “What do you mean? This is just what we have to do with laundry, not people.”
Son: “Why?”
Mother (assuming he meant, ‘Why separate the laundry?’): “When you wash clothes, if you mix colors in with whites you will ruin the whites.”

. . . she immediately realized what she had just said, and put down the laundry to clarify for him.

Hopefully he understood.

Night School

When it becomes difficult to face the day to day, I plan for tomorrow ... been doing a lot of that lately.

... and thinking, not much doing but a lot of thinking. Some resolving, perhaps.

Just got back from a late-night run and not quite ready for more schoolwork ... nor for the half-marathon I'm going to try for in just over a week. The candle-lit, open-book bath (more so as not to see the light brown colored water I lay in than for ambiance) I just arose from has me feeling kinda contemplative, so rather than curl up in front of the fire with more failing papers to grade, I'll blog a bit. I passed Kermit twice tonight, going and coming, which made the circuit close to a five mile loop along the creek. A soft shower was falling, almost looking like snow in the glow of the street-lights, raindrops trailing down my cheeks like warm, spring tears. Running works out my muscles and my mind, burning off calories and anxiety equally.

Leland was asleep for the most part, the streets quiet save for my heavy breathing and the rhythm of my sneakers on the pavement, only a few lights still on in the homes that I passed by. I jogged passed a group of ducks on the shore of the creek beside Leland High School, wide awake and quacking away in a loud chorus. Along one dark and open stretch of road cutting through an expanse of fallow fields, beyond the creek, the houses and the street-lights, I felt my pace and pulse quicken. Alone, between the distant lights of Greenville dotting the horizon and the pockets of stars blinking between clouds, my steps grew lighter and quicker ... apparently at my best when I'm certain that nobody is watching. Or just more afraid. I laughed at the 'Slow Children At Play' sign (never gets old ... Darwin would have ran them over), and was startled, again, by the unexpected presence of the three wise men, life size mannequins still lingering from Christmas, standing amongst the shadows at a particularly dark bend in the road.

Had a really good weekend past. After an easy Friday at school and orange juice with oatmeal cookies at the home of my mentor teacher, Mike and I sped up Route 7 to Oxford just in time to meet Grace and Lily for the Angela Davis lecture. From the Ford Center we made our way over to the Oxford Film Festival for 10 mph. After a midnight snack at Huddle House, I kept awake to talk the hours away in our hotel room before passing out not long before it was time to get up again for class. Saturday, after class, a few of us drove over to Lake Patsy where we ran around as the sun set, kicking the soccer ball or each other then collapsing by the water's edge. From Patsy to pizza, then another movie and more late night Days Inn conversations. Exhausted, Mike and I drove back refreshed, somewhat, after sleeping in on our first Sunday morning in Oxford. Not in any hurry to get back to the scattered paper piles and unfinished lesson plans, we pulled off the highway once into the Delta and got ourselves lost and got the truck covered in mud along a few unmarked dirt roads. Back in Indianola, Mike left me at school where I had left my car on Friday. Intending to get some work done in my classroom before catching our senior class play in the gymnasium that evening, I was easily convinced instead to hop into a pick-up game out on the field with some of the guys I coached in the fall. The sun was out, it was another beautiful day in what had been a gorgeous weekend and I was feeling fairly young and free. After trying my best to not show my age on the football field, goddamn that sounds strange, and making it to the gym for the second half of the play, I promptly went home and fell asleep ... and didnt get up until today ... Tuesday.


The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep – Robert Frost

El Sur

That little furball in Gobbler’s Knobb didn’t see his shadow, so spring must be on its way ...

BH and I have picked up the pace, rehearsing in my cluttered classroom most days after school and on the weekends, with his Nashville audition for AMDA coming in less than a month. It’s enough to make your heart shake, to see this young kid pacing in front of the chalkboard, brow furrowed in concentration, on a Sunday afternoon, just off of work and still wearing his McDonald’s uniform, grease-stained but ironed with care as if he was clocking in somewhere on Wall Street; shouting with the clenched-fist rage of a repressed South African during Apartheid or two-stepping and cracking jokes with a sideways glance. We’ve chosen a monologue from Athol Fugard’s Statements and the other from the hilarious collection of David Ives’ one-acts. He’s good, and learns incredibly quickly, but I don’t know if he’s good enough. His essays could have used a lot more work, and he’s going to need a lot of financial aid. I’ve heard too many stories of Delta students getting accepted into some good schools - Ole Miss, Mississippi State or even Xavier, Cornell, MIT - but enrolling instead at local community colleges for fear of failure, their own or their parents’, financial and familial commitments that hold back far more than urge forward; or, perhaps worse, students making that leap, only to come back home shortly after with their tails tucked between their legs, wading back into those shallow, familiar waters where they feel more comfortable and safe. I hope he gets it, probably even more than he does.


See, I’d stay as late as BH needed me to, because I feel like I’m making a difference and that we, together, are accomplishing something … working towards an attainable, albeit ambitious, goal. So then, why is it so hard to drag myself into the classroom every day, when I honestly feel that I do enjoy teaching and love every one of those little fockers (no pun intended … well, maybe) - the roses, the thorns and even the weeds. Perhaps it’s because I’m not allowed to really teach. I’m taught instead (told, rather) to train; to not ask questions, to not doubt authority but rather to humbly fear and blindly follow it, to follow and not to lead, that appearance and end results are everything without attention to independent motivation or critical reason. In essence, to program ‘my kids’ in a way I am not only fundamentally opposed to, but feel is directly crippling any realistic chance they may have of personal/social progress.

Herded this way and that like sheep by inattentive shepherds, these sacrificial lambs are becoming Orwell’s incarnate ignorant masses. I, for one, am not a huge fan of our present situation, and am growing increasingly cynical toward the prospect of our collective future. Educators and parents (at what point did educators start replacing parents?) must focus on and emphasize more positive, empowering and liberating messages for the youth we interact with each day over these negative, controlling messages they are getting instead. The purpose of education should be to help students develop independent capacities for creative and critical thinking. It seems that in our public schools and other educational environments these ideas are at-best paid lip service, and at-worst ignored in a high-stakes testing arena which places the upmost value on forcing stagnant curriculum content into the brains of learners so they can score well on bastardized, I’m sorry, standardized tests.

Throw 'em in the trash, they're not even worth composting!

“Of all the calamities to which the condition of mortality exposes mankind, the loss of reason appears, to those who have the least spark of humanity, by far the most dreadful, and they behold that last stage of human wretchedness with deeper commiseration than any other.” - Adam Smith

Politics, that hulking elephant in the classroom, has sat its mammoth ego on top of our most valuable resource; our children. If it doesn't make dollars, it doesn't make sense. But dollars don't always make a damn difference. If I were to raise a family in the Delta, the question would not be public or private, it would be whether or not to send them to school at all. I’m constantly bewildered at the choices made “in their best interest”. Let’s get rid of extracurricular activities – well, everything except football and basketball. I mean, we're taking away their school we've got to give them something. Art, music, health … what good will any of those do them?? Be careful with history. There are no facts in our libraries (and there are hardly any adequate libraries), only opinions; for instance, that this nation’s own (recent?) history is imperialist and morally corrupt. Absolutely no worthwhile experiments in the labs, if you’re school is lucky enough to have one, because of the liability lawsuits can bring, and absolutely no dissecting Piglet … animal rights, of course. Nevermind the rows of pig-appendages decorating the aisles of every market south of the Mason-Dixon. Let India and China continue their heathen, communist practices; our doctor’s will at least be good democratic christians and not push the envelope enough to make the simple folk raise an eyebrow towards tradition. While you’re at it, just go ahead and cut the number of subjects a child can take to the state exam requirements … we must teach them to work, and that work is not fun. Let them be inspired on Sundays. Let’s beat the curiosity and problem solving out of them with a wooden paddle, dead lessons, worksheets and multiple-choice assessments. Band-aids don’t heal infected sores.

Where is their freedom they were promised? What about the skills necessary to equip oneself in order to be able to a) make the world a better place and b) help your fellow human beings – including your own children (for some sooner than others)? If it was just about putting food on the table, everyone would be flocking to Cuba or Venezuela and not Ellis Island. Any child who endures twelve years of ‘state education’ without gaining a decent level of literacy, math fluency, verbal fluency and a basic general knowledge of the world they’ve inherited (all of which I’ve found rare among my sixteen year-olds) should have a legitimate case in law against their school district, their State Dept. of Education and the U.S. Dept. of Education. It’s malignant child abuse to neglect their basic needs to such an extent.

Am I helping? Not really. I get frustrated, angry, and depressed (in cycles). I get by. I get overwhelmed. I withdraw from the commitment I’ve made to them, and try to embrace more selfish desires. But it’s hard to look away from a train wreck, especially once you’ve gotten to know and care for the passengers. All day long, over and over, I can forgive my kids. I can’t forgive the adults … and I’m having a hard time forgiving myself.

I'm going to make a milkshake.

Every now and then you get lucky ...

... and catch a rainbow"

Decided I won’t comment on this article, at least not on a blog, but wanted to share it nonetheless.

I got up this morning. That was good. My $20 resolution is in the bag … perhaps we should up the ante.

It’s just after noon, now, Zay Rudd’s got me feeling some solace, my muscles are tender to touch having worked out last night before falling asleep in front of the fire with a book on my chest and a half-eaten bowl of butter-pecan sitting beside me, shit, I even ate breakfast this morning and after being relatively productive since I arrived I think I can let myself indulge, myself, by doing a little blogging before walking across campus to the JROTC catfish-fry. Today is an off-day, where parents come to the school if they want their child’s report card. Our sole responsibility is to be available in our room to discuss student performance if anyone wants clarification on a grade. I’ve had a few ‘actually-caring’ care-givers stop by, mostly those I’ve already met with, and have been energized each time I’ve been given the opportunity to tell someone how much I love their son or daughter, but just wish he would see the importance of coming to class on time, consistently, or she would realize she’s way behind the curve with her reading level and needs to be catching up by practicing at home for some time every evening, or that they would all focus less on the moment and more on their future. And I’ve added one more soldier to the breakfast club … a couple students that I pick up in the morning before school so they can a) make it to school on time and b) have thirty quiet, solitary minutes to read.

More than parents, I’ve had a steady stream of students themselves here, bubbling over with the electric charge that comes with a day off from school … groups of guys with their pants at their ankles, their guard let down, and starched caps cocked, not currently confined to their uniforms, lounging on desks and window-sills trying to convince me Lil Boosie is the best rapper alive … girls in pairs, bouncing by on cell phones in pants as tight as the boys’ are loose, who stick their heads in for a, ‘Heyyyy, Mr. D’, some even stepping inside to write their names in cursive on my dry erase boards and promise that they’ll do better next term. Of course, I’m perched way the hell up on my soap-box, and flowing from “read, read, read” to “stop blaming other people and giving me excuses” or “words mean nothing, do something” and “you can do anything if you’re willing to work for it” … they nod and look at the ground, or smile and laugh, and I tell myself they’re listening. A teacher may give lessons in clichés, but what is novel to ears as fresh with dew as a cool spring morning cannot be disregarded for moth-eaten sheets but must, rather, be displayed in the breeze so wide-eyed children can run among their wild billowing walls and wonder at the tiny moon-lit mouths that have left behind perfect holes through which to discover the trees, the stream, or one another … and I’m eating it up like Cheerios.

Croons from Akon to Common, Matisyahu to Trevor Hall, Lupe, Damian Marley and Xavier Rudd are alternating their digital serenades while heavy, gray late afternoon clouds threaten rain. I feel like napping, and tea … with honey.

“You listen to John Legend, Mr. D?”

As one shining star walks out the door to watch an adaptation of Macbeth down the hall in ES’s room - a senior who I’ve convinced to apply to several post-secondary theater programs in New York and LA, who comes to my room after school several times a week to practice his selected monologues, and who I’ll be driving to Nashville with on two occasions in the upcoming months for his auditions – his departure leaving me to glow momentarily at my desk alone with Talib twisting words out of my laptop and a tattered photo-copy of Fugard (So. African playwright we’ve selected), another student, probably my favorite, sweeps in before the door completely closes with his mother in tow. It really felt great to say so many good things about him, someone who is not only gifted but motivated as well, instead of once again seeing the worried or angry looks that come from habitually disappointed parents. I think I’m going to bring in Shantaram for him on Tuesday. He’s going to be helping with the film club I’ve tried to start up, and hopefully soon we can get working on some of the projects we’ve discussed once the equipment arrives.

The sky finally has opened up, draining those gray clouds peacefully outside my window. I think I’ll set my plants out in the grass for a while for a few drinks of rain and some fresh air. I’d like to join them, but I don’t have a change of clothes and plan on catching the Lanier game later on to see what the hype is all about; then, a short sleep to make sure I can get us to Oxford whenever MG gets back from his soccer game. I don’t think we’ll get to Ole Miss before the sun starts waking up, so it might be breakfast instead of the hotel bed.

I feel good about today, seeing the kids at school but not in school, and Thursday’s lessons. Yesterday, reading some short stories and poems on Vietnam in preparation for either Fallen Angels or The Things They Carried (recommendations?), one of my dozing fireflies lit up the room for just a minute … but it was brilliant. I’m really looking forward to the next nine weeks … one day at a time. I need to change a lot of things I’m doing, or not doing, try some new things and continue to keep it all in an even perspective; all that, somehow, when I already have no time and am starting a new semester of classes at Ole Miss. I should probably teach-by-the-book a little more now … but it’s hard for me, to do what I’m told when I firmly believe it’s not what is best. Coming back from winter break was a bit jarring, and it took me longer than I expected to accept, once again, the lifestyle I’ve currently chosen.

This is an adventure, isn’t it? Every day …

(will be adding pictures soon)

I believe

Tonight, after opening presents and sitting by the tree, two of my neices swore they saw Rudolph's nose blinking in the night sky over Mt. Greylock . . . I think I might have, too.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

"... the most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world ..."

Pissing into the wind

I should have used this title for my 'smoke' blog ...

I’m eating some steaming ravioli (Chef Boyardee) for dinner with a little cilantro and a glass of cold milk ...

I just got tore up at the Y by two men, doctors actually, over forty, with a less than 2 inch vertical (between the two of ‘em) but deadly accurate hook shots ...

People amuse me, when I’m through getting frustrated. I hope that I amuse them, too.

I’ve decided I’m not sleeping tonight, because I’d rather decorate/clean our house and put up the tree I bought earlier at Lowes. Also, I think I have some sort of test to do for class and a reflection blog to write. I’d rather get it all done and go watch the Hornets tomorrow night get their first victory since Clinton was getting polished in the White House, then lay in bed alone and cold anyway.

Time flies. That’s my reflection. I’ve been so occupied, mentally and physically, for the last four months that each week seems like a day in retrospect. Since there is always more to do than I have the time for, and I’m always looking ahead to what’s next on the list (or writing, and re-writing … the list, to keep from actually attacking … the list) I haven’t done very little of this at all … reflecting. There simply is so much that needs to be done.

I already spend most days in my classroom until at least five or six at night with students getting extra help, making up work or simply providing a safe, encouraging place for them to work, when I only get paid until 3:30. We joke, we laugh, we talk … but, most importantly, we work. And every day, there is at least one student who stays that isn’t even in my class, but has work to do and needs a place to do it. Then I give them rides home, which usually takes at least another hour to get to those neighboring towns where some live. If I didn’t offer to give them a ride, they wouldn’t stay. Sometimes I go inside to talk to their families, which means a lot to me and to them. At least 2-3 days a week I try to come in early for those that can’t stay after school. That’s harder for me … I don’t move so quickly in the morning.

… and if I didn’t do all this, I would have anywhere from 5-10 kids in each class failing, who will now pass. Not because I passed them, but because they put in the time and hard work, after school, to pass. I’m sorry, but after being here for four months – that’s a goddamn accomplishment. In addition, this has cut down tremendously on many behavior problems in the classroom – since most of the kids that created issues during the day are the same ones who have to stay after school to make up work or get caught up. I haven’t gotten to all of them, and still have a few that haven’t quite come around, who continue to waste both their time and mine – but I really believe this is the major difference between the first nine weeks and the second. Aside from the normal ‘testing period’ any new teacher goes through, and me getting my shit together little by little (still not quite there yet). It’s more important for me to get across the importance of learning, to better one-self, and the reasons why one might desire to do this … before books can even be cracked. I couldn’t do all of this as a coach in the fall, but while coaching I was able to reach students in other ways.

Then, when I finally get home, around seven or eight on a good night, usually exhausted, I have to plan something for the next day … or grade … or call parents … never mind all the other task trolls that torment my nights – bills, dinner, maintaining relationships with family/friends, grad work, hygiene, etc. (don’t get me wrong, I still somehow find time to procrastinate) … No wonder most nights you can find bodies strewn around the house on floors, couches or across beds the wrong way, often in the midst of some work or ‘taking a break’ from it, only to wake up groggy at the sound of an alarm in the other room the next morning or the sun peaking it’s way through the blinds.

I’m not complaining, just explaining. I only wish that I could do more, for myself and for them. I wish I could coach – anything to spend more time outside of class with the kids. I wish I could invest myself in after-school programs several times a week – a film club, school newspaper, drama. I wish I could research scholarships and contests and grants – golden, untapped opportunities out there. I try, but it’s never enough. I also wish I could get my sorry ass into shape, exercise a little. Read more books for pleasure. Take a walk, look at the stars, try my hand at cooking, call or write an old friend …

Is this a reflection?

Kinda.

I’ve realized some of my strengths and some of my weaknesses and been challenged in many new ways. Something I’ve discovered as of late (and had been told prior, but only recently tried out myself) … my students love to act. I’ve found I can get almost every kid in my classes to read and follow along, or fight over who gets speaking parts, when I tell them we’re going to do a short one-act play today, or a longer one over several days. They laugh, they joke, they do the voices, but they’re all engaged and reading for a full fifty minutes.

Content is everything.

The pen pals are a hit, here and abroad.

My writing workshops are working very well with my English II classes (once a week they write a practice informative essay, which I grade and pick apart very closely for every mistake I can find, then later in the week I meet with each one of them one-on-one to discuss their writing, common patterns of mistakes, and how they can fix them).

Over fifty kids in my English III classes can now say they've had sushi (c/o Southern Nights' Wednesday special in Greenville), and plenty of wasabi ... and read Hemingway.

I've started work with our art teacher on a literary magazine (poems, short stories, and artwork from our students), as well as collaborating on children's books that my kids will write, hers will illustrate and then will be taken to our local elementary school.

Finally, institutional barriers need to be removed for any progress to be made. It kills me to see these kids being unnecessarily handicapped more than they already have been by birth. Right now - equal opportunity, in theory alone.

My ravioli is cold, and my milk is warm.

Come to our Christmas party on the 16th – lovers and haters alike … we’ll have mistletoe, and I’m sick of only puckering up to kiss ass.

... so broken in

I've been having a reoccuring, and relatively scary, thought fairly often for a little over the past month ...

No, not 'How the hell am I going to make it another year and a half?' or 'I can't wait to get out of Mississippi!'

Time and again, moments have made me stop and think to myself, 'I don't know how, or if, I'm going to be able to leave after my two years are up.'

When the smoke clears

So, I just killed about an hour getting caught up on my world news and book-marking articles and photo-essays on Uganda and China that I hope my students who are writing to pen pals in those countries will find interesting, and now … I blog.

Where to start ... The last time I wrote, I was pretty frustrated about a lot of things, both school and life-related, some within my control and some external to anything I should be worrying over … from breaking up bloody lunchroom brawls to, well, breaking up, from ridiculous recommendations that I be suspended without pay for insubordination to students who seem to not care about themselves nor anyone else and from our house being foreclosed, forcing us to move everything almost overnight, to pervasive prejudice and incompetance.

It’s gotten better. Like the dry dust billowing out, for weeks on end, from under the wheels of all the heavy machinery eating up the fields yield during the previous months’ cotton harvesting, I’ve since settled. My classroom management in all but one class has been fairly smooth as of late, and that one class is definitely manageable.

What’s been the difference? I didn’t give up, and I didn’t give in. I’ve gotten better and adapted to the situation rather than trying to fight it. I’ve found out what works, and what doesn’t … for me. It’s different for everyone. Football has ended and "Richard" has moved to Indiana, so I no longer have more hours to spend at the school, after school, nor an extra hour tacked onto my commute every day. More significant, though, are the relationships I’ve manage to forge and how they’ve drastically changed the dynamics of my class. Students that were initially problems bigger than I thought I could handle, will now do just about anything I ask. Kids know they can joke around with me and confide in me, are willing to be themselves, but realize also that I mean business when I ask them to get something done. If you know me at all, you know I’m a sap … but I fill up every time one of those students I formerly cursed the hell out of, both silently under my breath and in the confidential company of friends, comes into class with a smile asking, “Can I read first today Mr. D?” … I remember, weeks or months ago, when I was glad if that same student simply slept all period. At least that way they weren’t bothering anyone else. In addition, I’m more prepared. Due to having more time, but, more than that, again, figuring out what works and what doesn’t work … while realizing what work I need to do, and what work I don’t. Some individuals still make our lives harder than they need to be, via prejudice, ignorance or incompetance (or a medley of the three) - to say it nicely since I’m in a good mood … and it is Friday … while others follow suit. But, just as I ask my students to ignore negativity, deal with it maturely, and focus on themselves and their task at hand … I’ve got to take the discrimination in stride and work around it. Mind over matter, lol ...

In the post office the other day, I bumped into one of my favorite students with his mother. I recommended "Barry" be taken out of my class early in the year after he scored off the charts on some pre-assessment reading exams. Naturally, he loves to read. He’s amazingly gifted, but incredibly apathetic. Probably my brightest student, "Barry" was failing my class and most of his others. He skipped often, was suspended often, hated any sort of authority figure who told him what to do, even if he knew it was in his best interest, and rarely applied himself. I thought maybe getting into the honors course, since he had never been in one before (most of his previous teachers have given up on him because of his behavior, despite his talents), would be an impetus for him to start taking school a little more seriously – and he was, at first. All I know of his family is that his stepfather routinely beats him and that "Barry" was arrested early first semester for taken a gun to this man after one such beating. Not using it, but threatening to until pulled off by others. I don’t know if I should feel this way, but hearing that almost made me proud. He at least stood up for himself, and was smart enough to not make a mistake he can’t take back. On two occasions, I skipped football practice to stay after school and talk to "Barry" and his cousin, "Marshall" (a relatively smart kid as well, but complete wild card), about life, theirs and mine, and dispense some advice … I know, who the hell am I to give advice to this kid? I often have that very thought, but I haven’t yet pulled back once when given the opportunity to try and reason with a kid struggling one way or the other. But "Barry" scares me, not only with what he might do … but more so, what he probably won’t do. He dropped out of school about a week ago, and tells me he’ll be back but I doubt it. I laid into him in the post office, it being the first time I had seen him since he dropped out even though he had told me prior that he was planning on it, not in a condescending or negative way … but I cared about him goddamn it and it pissed me off to see him throwing away so much, so easily. He laughed a little, gave me a hug when I gave him my number, and said he was going to join Job Corps (I’m not even sure what that is, but I told him that’d probably be a good idea) … afterwards, a small old woman who was standing near us in line came over to me and told me that what I had just said “to that young man”, all my loud cursing and ranting in public, was the nicest thing she has ever heard someone say. She was a retired teacher at my school.

I need to stop. I’m sitting in a dark classroom, the sun having set in the time it took me to finish this blog and ‘Meet the Rams’ for basketball season is set to kick off in about 15 minutes in the gym. Then it’s the long, dark drive to Oxford.

But, it’s basketball season, I recently spent an entire night on the phone and then, inspired, with a pen and some paper, our new house is beautiful and we have internet. And I’ve just started sentences with but and and, and I don’t give a ….

To other English teachers in the Delta, don’t teach Old Man in the Sea. The only thing that keeps my kids awake, save from my stunning renditions of oral Hemingway, is the fact that I promised to bring in sushi (‘cause Santiago eats raw fish, which led to one of my numerous daily in class transgressions) when he finally catches the damn marlin.

Peanut Butter Cups for dinner, and I’m off to catch the fever.

* Had to add a little on ...

first - this last week before Thanksgiving has been insane! Tornado warnings leading to well over half the school being absent (lost day), a series of large fights broke out one day causing the school to be locked down until 3:30 (lost day), the police department searching every student and locker the day after the 'riots' so we all pretty much just chilled in the gym (lost day), and i got socked by a fifteen year-old girl ... aaaaand she was back in school the next day. Yes, I still love the kids ... and teaching, for the most part.

second - the assignment. How has my classroom management plan changed from prior to the school year? Completely, but in small ways. The basic premise of my plan is the same, but every aspect of it has had to be altered in some fasion as I realized what was working, and what wasn't. There simply is no way to plan ahead - you just need to do it and find out as you go. What works for one person, may not for another ... and what works in one school, may not in another. No amount of well-intentioned advice in advance can prepare you for the curveballs, fastballs, and change-ups you'll get on a daily basis in the classroom ... Having second-years in the school system is a tremendous help, since they've done it before and have figured out a lot of the minutiae ... and tend to be very helpful with advice rather than condescending, uninterested or overly critical. Some veteran teachers tend not to be much help at all - either being terrible teachers themselves (so you don't want to model their management), using unorthodox methods that don't appeal or aren't even available to you (paddle, for one), don't understand your questions or you can't understand their answer, they haven't got an answer and just make something up, or will do all they can to avoid interacting with you at all in the first place as if communication equals contagion.

[Ok, ok .... so that ruffles some feathers. Good. A former employer of mine used to always say,"if it doesn't apply, let it fly" .... if your ears are getting warm, and you're getting defensive, I guess it's for a reason. What I'm trying to say is we can ALL become better teachers with one another's help - myself definitely included. And I'm trying, no thanks to many others. I ask questions, and the faces or responses I often get are toxic (far from helpful). I say hello in the halls and often I'm not even acknowledged. And not just by other teachers. In fact, mostly not. If you don't agree, please, prove me wrong - I would like nothing better (but save the patronization). This has happened since August ... since August we get ignored, ridiculed, and looked down upon by supposed "professionals". If you're so great and you love the kids, you should be dying to help us be the best we can be - to make OUR school the best that it can be! I am in no way rescinding what I said above (it isn't even all bad - half of those scenarios are negative towards me) ... there is a distinctive rift between most "veteran" staff and newbies. In my opinion. Those here for an extended period of time tend to look at us as haughty know-it-alls from day one, down here for our two years and off without a second thought. We're labeled, as a group, before anyone takes the time to get to know us, as individuals. And take a look around - do you have a better alternative? I'm not saying the lack of stability is a good thing - it's terrible, but we do our best and I think that's a pretty good job for the most part. With patience and support we could do even better. At my school, there is a pervasive "us" vs "them" mentality, and sure, it goes both ways to some degree. But what do you expect when from day one we come in feeling unwelcomed, undermined and unappreciated - placed at a level barely above the kids, or below by some, and not as equals. Shit, it's our first goddamn year doing this - why hate and belittle?! We're trying dammit ... we wouldn't be here if we didn't care. If you have a gripe with the education system, or you yourself feel undervalued and overwhelmed then don't take it out on us, Napolean. We can all give each other plenty of constructive cricism. We're all working toward the same goal, aren't we? I commend you all for doing what you're doing. Maybe that's my problem, I didn't give enough props. Well ... high five. I mean it. It's not easy and you've stuck it out probably longer than most of us will. Kudos to you. But do you really need, or care about, my approval? Is that why you're doing this, to be congratulated and commended? I hope not. And if you are going to read my blog - one, realize it's my perspective only that I'm presenting. Any reader with a brain larger than a peanut should realize that and not get their panties in a bunch. I am in no way an authority on anything but my own opinions, which, heavan forbid, might be different than your own. That's why they're opinions. If you disagree with them, talk to me about it. That's one thing I sure love doing, talking. In person. Two, read the whole thing. Or, shit, like I said, discuss away. Then maybe you'll realize where I'm coming from a helluva lot better than I can explain on here, and vice versa. I do this, blog, because I have to, for class, and so my mother and a few friends can get a feel for how I'm doing. That's all. Start your own blog if you'd like - it can be very therapeutic. And finally, there has in fact been a very minimal number of consistently helpful staff, and I'm sure there are some great teachers at our school that I haven't had the opportunity of crossing paths with much yet ... again, what I write is from my experience only - which is, naturally, limited. So chill the hell out, smile a little more often, and have a Merry Christmas.]

And I'm sure next year I'll change up quite a bit as well ... actually, one good thing our methods prof has said - be fluid and flexible from year to year and do not allow yourself to become stagnant. I hope I can keep an open mind my entire life, be that teaching or whatever endeavor I pursue. I like the challenge - keeps me on my toes.

Ok, nuff said. Think I might take a shower ... its been a while.

Hypocritical I ... and Good Luck Crickets

I feel I might owe it to anyone who actually reads this to blog once again, almost as a self-response, to what I had written previously. It was an incredibly rough week and, debatably, even rougher weekend. Instead of hitting my head against the wall, I blogged. Less painful, but I don’t hate *#&$!@% Mississippi or *#&$!@% kids … I just find frequent occasion as of late to hate how it is here, and how they act ... and how, at times, I respond. Right - the behaviors, not the individuals.

I feel as if I am more than partly to blame. I expected this endeavor to be far easier than it has been. I expected to be welcomed by a community starving for outside assitance ... instead, I am looked at as an uninvited outsider, not to be trusted, by many and still others act as if they are offended by my mere presence before ever having taken the time to get to know me. And I was also naively confident in my teaching abilities/general social skills. I had a significant amount of previous teaching experience, and had worked for years at an intensive treatment facility with some of the more difficult children in the northeast – and loved both employments. Almost. See, I have a terrible memory, and the memories I do choose to retain are terribly selective. I didn’t love both of those jobs all of the time, and only now, removed and in a different, difficult (to say the least) situation, can reflect and say that they were positive experiences overall. Relativity, of course, can fool us all when our eyes are only pointed in one direction or focused on one problem. Now, that pseudo-confidence seems to have been replaced with ever-present disappointment and frustration.

So … the good, the bad, and the ugly. It can’t really get worse. It can’t. If I write it and say it enough, maybe I’ll begin to believe it. As I previously wrote, it isn’t the children at all. They’re kids. They’re human. I was a punk too, more often than not, and miserable to some of my teachers. I remember one, in particular. A first-year teacher handed over to us our sophomore year, I believe, to teach the honors English class – and we tormented the poor guy, day in and day out. Why? Because we could.

We are all learning as we go, us and them, and have to make mistakes in order to do that. The expectations we sometimes place upon teachers, parents and students - or ourselves - are extraordinary and often unrealistic. I do it myself, to myself and to others. Everyday I screw up in some way, small or large, in front of a very critical audience. When I am angry, disappointed and frustrated, it’s generally at myself … that I’m failing over and over again. But I can’t be hypocritical, because in the face of constant failure – a life many of my kids are more than accustomed to, for many in this demographic are perpetually suffering from the mistakes of others and from no direct result of their own actions – I’m always encouraging them to keep their heads up and do their best, even if their best never seems to be good enough, and am perpetually espousing the power of positive thinking … then turning around to self-indulgently bitch in private about my 'problems'.



So, it’s simple, just as I spend half of my day tugging chins upward and attempting to pull a smile out of the girl who just realized the fifteen year-old father of her child is sleeping with someone else and could care less about her, trying to get a grin from the kid who’s father beat him this morning or mother left them last night, encouraging the guy who is failing my class because he can hardly read while I’m asking him to do so for 50 minutes everyday, or spending my entire planning period with the child that is pissed off at the world for being born into such a seemingly hopeless predicament yet cannot verbalize this frustration and instead lashes out at the very people he needs for support and guidance and is about to throw it all away … In the same way I ask them to, for their own good, I need to keep my eyes ahead of me, not at an unrealistically, or even hopelessly, distant horizon and not down at the dirty, cockroach and cricket strewn halls of my daily existence, and must force myself to wake up every morning with the firm conviction that nothing is impossible if I have faith. Call it what you want … faith in myself and in others, faith in reaping the benefits of hard work, or faith in the distant, intangible force that miraculously put life upon this planet and keeps it going despite our disrespect.

I can’t change others, I can only change myself. If I lead by example, maybe they will desire to change themselves as well. Right now, I am not doing that. For a while, I stopped caring – it was a battle for my survival (in my mind) and all I could concentrate on was making it through another day in one piece. Release some pressure, let off some steam. Last time I blogged, I didn’t want a pep talk – this time, I’m giving myself one. This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever attempted, teaching in the Delta, and only because it is so worthwhile am I being so hard on myself. I need to shave. I need to shower. I need a mantra.

Our school cannot be conquered in one day, nor the Delta in two years.

Thunder is currently shaking our house and a brilliant lightening storm is threatening to cut off electricity as heavy southern raindrops pound down upon the hard-earth outside. I needed this more than the crops, and am about to join my three house-mates in the front lawn to hoot and holler out this past week, this past month, and let the warm rain wash away any negativity I've allowed to accumulate. It might be ingrained in some who you would expect more from, or those that have been here for any prolonged period of time, and, even if they inadvertently lash out and blame me, I can’t blame them for it. It's the bitterness one gets when they've become jaded with their situation. It sucks, but it isn’t my fault and to some degree, neither is it theirs.

I'm playing pick-up tomorrow with a few guys I teach, and hope I can back up the trash I've been talking.

It can only get better ....

I haven’t gone for a run in a while. Think now is as good a time as any.

Teaching In the Dark

It’s so hard not to be entirely negative right now. Very rarely am I a negative person, generally being the one to try and lighten the mood or to put things in perspective for others. Yet, more often than not as of late, I am finding my sunny-side-up has turned cynically scrambled and all attempts at grounding myself have buried me instead.

I don’t want a pep talk, so I won’t say much. I just need to make some tough choices.

Ruby K. Payne’s framework for Understanding Poverty assignment: like everything these days, done last minute and not well. I’m used to having hard-work pay dividends, and when screws are loose you simply find a screwdriver and push those suckers back in. I’m realizing, again, it’s not always that simple. I had a whole lot more than this written, but I just went back and deleted it all. I also have notebook paper and post-its covered with bits and pieces of unwritten blogs that I neither have the time nor motivation to put together.

Ok, poverty, get it done. “… the extent to which an individual goes without resources” – I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about this book, mainly because I still haven’t read it entirely and my mind is elsewhere ... always. Sure, poor is relative, this I have seen first hand. The less you have, the smaller your world becomes. We have a nine year-old waterboy on the football team, cute kid who works hard, is always smiling and cannot say more than a sentance without lying about something ... the motorcycle he drove to practice today, the beer he bought at Double-Quick last night, the five times he went to Disney already. He calls me Coach White, because he doesn't know my name. One day he asked me to buy more cups for the team, and when I told him I was just about broke he replied innocently, with not one ounce of intent to joke, "I thought all white people were rich." Perspective and exposure factor in of course, but there is always someone with more and someone with less, of everything. Change is also relative, and the ability or desire to do so. One of my biggest frustrations is pushing that wagon downhill so that it will pick up momentum and eventually begin to run on its own accord. I can’t change anyone, only they can change themselves. To do this, they have to want to. Why would they want to?

Hence relationships, the one part of the book I will embrace wholeheartedly; hard to make and difficult to sustain, and once established and nourished, even harder to sever … don’t I know that.

I come back to the beginning. I don’t think that the best I can do for these children or the best manner of solving their problems would come from me being a teacher. The vacations would be nice, and the experience has already opened my eyes and I’m sure will continue to do so, but so much more is needed. Perhaps education is the golden ticket, but they are not getting it, at least not in my district and not in my classroom. Because education is not received from 8-4 on a blackboard with paddles beside the desk and insight is not gained by constant emphasis on testing, results and relative “achievement”. If I did my job well, by the standards placed upon me from the powes that be and not by my own standards (which are strongly discouraged, if not strictly prohibited), my students would leave me at the end of the year knowing little more than they did when they came in. What is the point of teaching figurative language or connotation and denotation to students that cannot even read without basic comprehension? I don’t have an easy answer, and neither does Payne, unfortunately.

Sorry, I had to bitch a little. I love my kids, I do, and the small, silent flames that I can ignite once in a while in their minds. I just wish I could do more to help them, and that I didn’t have so many limitations keeping me from doing so.

“Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Your Mom

Once again, it’s late Sunday night and I’ve got a plate of procrastination piled high with more homework than I can possibly fit into my face like its some sort of all-you-can-eat assignment buffet for only $5 at Guyton Hall and I haven’t eaten in days … which is almost true. And am I doing it? Of course not; I’m fasting. Why work when you can blog?

Though I'd much rather be laying on a blanket beside Lake Patsy, feeling the minutes pass but not the moment, as the sun dips slowly below the tree-line ...

Video blog dos. My tie was not that short! According to Mrs. Cornelius, it was hobbit-sized. It was choking me though, and I’m pretty sure I can see my face getting several shades darker, from casper to barney, by the end of the period – that shirt is too damn small. I’m still wavering between some of those crucial classroom management questions, such as “to tie or not to tie”. Not quite comfortable in my costume yet.

You can watch me now … but I won’t stop now … ‘cause I cant stop now …

What else? … my mother (who, along with other mothers, was the topic of classroom humor all week) would love to hear me say this … “don’t mumble, marbles”. I tend to forget what I was saying mid-sentence sometimes, and then find myself not exactly talking but instead following my words through a forest of blank stares wherever they want to take me without any significant thought attached to them. Then I walk into a tree, or trip over the overhead cord, and wake up long enough to field a question on comprehension, generally mine. Maybe I should sleep at night, rather than run wind-sprints in the Ole Miss football stadium. Also con mumbles, slow down speed-talker. And I think that I do need to start off the year practicing some of my lesson plans before taking my place on stage, a dry run in the morning before my vanity mirror at home wearing nothing but boxers and sunglasses while munching on Berry Kix and chocolate milk. This will make my lesson plans run more smoothly, with a little flow, if I was . . . organized. Kix essential, of course.

Most important of all, get rid of the Lloyd Christmas and paint one of my classroom walls fuscia – it compliments my post-embarrassing moment blush perfectly.

Reminder: Kidnap RB and bring him up to Williams as the Black History Month keynote speaker, in conjunction with a blues circuit of local southern musicians who would play at Amherst and Williams, etc., as well as venues like the Ironhorse or other smaller bar’s in Western Mass. The first idea followed from Mr. B’s moving lecture and a showing of Lalee’s Kin, the second precipitated out of a night on the town where I bumped into the same guitarist that I had taken a cell-phone snapshot of playing his six-string on a dimly lit side street off of Bourbon a few months ago while Spring Break. Crazy, I’m thinking . . .

Spent an electic first night in Leland, sans water or power, with dancing candles replacing light bulbs and iced red wine filling the china. While shadows flickered on the wall behind us, AJ and I dined on a Sonic buffet, siped on the wine and smiled at one another in the dim candlelight. Despite all the discomforts of an evening without utilities, it was one of the best nights I've had in a while. I'm looking forward to Biloxi more than ever before ...

Stop looking at me swan.

Bombs Over Baghdad

First and foremost, the saga continues ....
http://sports.espn.go.com/sports/news/story?id=2509226

About to head over to the Grove to wave the flag a little, but first, read what Frederick Douglass (http://www.thepoorman.net/) had to say about the 4th of July ....

.... then ask the thousands living in poverty and 'working' in third world countries for the foreign corporations which fill the shelves of WalMart and the refrigerators of McDonalds if slavery still exists in this commercial world without borders ....

Fireworks and bbq buffets at home, air strikes and hunger abroad.

Be proud, but don't be blind. Below are some other takes to ponder on Independence Day:

"You can be certain that on this, as on every July 4th, patriotic oratory will flow as well from liberals declaring their love of flag, country and the Declaration of Independence. Many will speak of how our constitutional republic is to be revered especially for its guarantees of liberty and justice for all and — hint, hint — limits on the powers of overreaching monarchs.

But the progressive and the reformer have a problem with what passes for unadulterated patriotism. By nature, the reformer is bound to insist that the country, however glorious, is not a perfect place, that it is capable of doing wrong as well as right. The nation that declared 'all men are created equal' was, at the time those words were written, the home of an extensive system of slavery.

Most reformers guard their patriotic credentials by moving quickly to the next logical step: that the true genius of America has always been its capacity for self-correction. I’d assert that this is a better argument for patriotism than any effort to pretend that the Almighty has marked us as the world’s first flawless nation."
- E.J. Dionne JR


"I think patriotism starts with telling the truth. Truth is the American bottom line. I don’t think it’s an accident that among the first words of the first declaration of our national existence it is proclaimed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident…'.

Patriotism also means dissent — when it’s hardest. The bedrock of America’s greatest advances–the foundation of what we know today are defining values–was formed not by cheering on things as they were, but by taking them on and demanding change. […]

So, on this Fourth of July, the bottom line is that we will only be stronger if we reclaim America’s true character and strength — if we declare our independence from a politics that lets America down –if we truly commit ourselves to the big hearted patriotism determined to ‘make it right’ and 'keep it right' once again."
- John Kerry

Haha, Viva la Revolution! Loosen your blue and red tie Mason, I'm not trying to pick a fight - just end one ;-)

No Black. No White. Just Blues.

It seems like a lot has happened since my last blog, but it’s all become a blur of sleepless nights and excessively industrious days. Snapshots of last weekend: windows-down, volume-up drives in the minivan along Delta drags, including Highway 61, the ‘Blues Highway’ (the very same that Dylan commemorated in ‘Highway 61 Revisited’); a wine blurry and booze-buzzed late night/early morning walk along the creek and through the streets of Indianola with Bunny and our new friend TKO; one part fried oysters, two parts cold Coronas, on a evening of fireflies blinking to the beat of the Beatles, Harrison’s chords and Lennon’s call barely audible once outdoors and overwhelmed by a million competing male crickets, beneath a blanket of brilliant stars in a hunting lodge alongside the mighty Mississippi River; pool at Po’ Monkeys (see picture), the dimly-lit, low-roofed, sporadically opened, raised shack in Merigold, just outside Cleveland, that lays claim to being ‘the last, authentic juke joint in the delta’ (a juke joint is a BYOB social gathering place, not far from a bar in derivation, where blues music and dirty dancing reign supreme - the original term ‘jook’ comes from a Nigerian tribal word for ‘wicked’); arriving back on campus at one am on the Sabbath, after some drinks and dancing complimented by AH’s wailing harmonica in Indianola’s Club Ebony, just in time to start my focus paper ....

And school on Monday. This was the last week of summer classes for us in Holly Springs, meaning hectic administering of final exams, grade compilations, and goodbye’s to both our students and our second years. As busy as this past month has been, I’ve grown as an ‘educator’ ten-fold, thanks to the experience I’ve gotten, and freedom I’ve been allowed, in front of a classroom, as well as the tutelage from our one-year vets (big thanks to BH and AT) and professors/administrators. Given the keys without a license and barely a manual let me learn on the fly, the way I would prefer. As far as the kids are concerned, hopefully they’ve gotten something, either academic or life lessons, out of my daily soap-box ramblings.

Friday, our final day, began with a sunrise drive with Bunny, MG and RK in the Pontiac back to the Sardis Lake beach where we had thrown a bbq for our second years and administrators the evening before. As the sun climbed the sky behind us, we scoured the sand and pine needles for a few pairs of glasses and a set of keys left behind – nearly all lost items were found before we had to hop back in the car and groggily speed up Hwy. 7, caramel latte in hand, in order get to the school, button up in the parking lot, and make it inside before first period. The day flew by, most of it test-taking, culminating in a project our students had been working on. Our class compiled a booklet of autobiographies and we invited parents in for a chip & soda party to hear them read their work aloud (as AM noted in class, the autobios revealed, among other things, that all three of our boys have either been shot or stabbed already). I will definitely be doing a similar exercise at the beginning of the school year coming up, in order to get to know my students more intimately and personally. After the ‘party’, we got our principal to open up the gym so we could show these punk eighth-graders what a couple of has-been ballers can do on the court. On the way home, RK convinced us to swing by ‘the pink house’, which turned out to be the infamous Graceland II, one (deranged?) man’s tribute to the late-Elvis Pressley. Opened 24/7, ‘just knock’, it houses a floor-to-ceiling collection of Elvis memorabilia/junk, including a ‘$10 million’ record, stored behind a thin glass door and your average Master-Lock. I’m pretty sure I heard, more than once, the soft and deep questioning croon coming from behind one of the many sparkling mannequins, of ‘Are you lonesome tonight?’


Saturday and Sunday were spent crammed in the back of MG’s bright yellow pickup for some fruitless furniture-shopping on the way to and from our new house. After a meal of Kool-Aid pickles, fried tamales, hog maws and dirty south burgers at Big Jim’s in Clarksdale (note: apparently Tuesday nights at Po’ Monkeys are for the ‘bad folk’ while Thursdays are for the ‘good folk’) and a drive past Morgan Freeman’s famous club, Ground Zero, we shared ice cream and cake with the mosquitoes in the country for RK’s birthday, then spent our first night in our Leland estate (myself on an air mattress in the front living room by our wall of windows). Will put pictures of the place up on smugmug soon.

And last night, back on campus after another 24 of no repose, sat under the sleepless stars until the sun came up and finally got to see Rowan Oak, Faulkner’s spot, in the light of dawn after a wooded hike with Bunny through spider webs and dried up sandy steams behind the Ole Miss baseball field. Somtimes staying up all night can leave you more refreshed than all the sleep in the world. The sun is out, the sky is breathing - I'm wide awake and dreaming.

And tonight, Chevron for dinner ....

“freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose …”

Happy 4th of July! Are you feeling your freedom?

You’re so vain, I bet you think this blog is about you

Reminiscent of a radio-editing exercise I had to do at Williams in which I spent 45 unbroken minutes talking steadily into a recorder about whatever it was that came to mind, the first reaction I had to seeing/hearing myself in the video taken while teaching a lesson plan earlier this week was that I really cannot stand the sound of my own voice. I sound like I picked a handful of soy beans from the side of the road on my way to work and shoved them all straight up my nostrils. Talk less, listen more. Some people talk too fast, I talk too much.

In general, I’ve got a lot that I need to work on and a long way to go. It’s easy to be critical of others until it’s you under the microscope (judge not, less ye shall be judged). The same criticisms I had for my peers, I could just as easily flip around onto myself – be louder, clearer, more energetic and enthusiastic when in front of the classroom. Instead of singing the songs of pedagogy with a smile and a clever hook, my passion was passive and harmonized by the lethargic hum of the overhead projector. I could see the two hours of sleep I got the night prior in my slug-like reflexes and shadowy raccoon-esque eyes, the double espresso with whip cream in my nervous twitch, and the last minute lesson plan screaming smoke and mirrors from every corner of the room .... standing up there with my monotone delivery and paisley tie, I was exposed for the perceptive Lilliputians to read like a simple Dr. Seuss story book. It’s Halloween every day and I’m dressing up like a teacher (only for this perverted holiday I have to be the one always shelling out the candy), or I’m back up on stage and auditioning for the lead role of idealistic educator .... how does my hair look? And I thought I was slick.

Other, more concrete notes: Probably shouldn’t have drawn on that sleeping student's head with a dry-erase pen; or spent five minutes of my class shooting notebook paper balls into the trash basket; I need to get some new ties; I tend to laugh a lot – sometimes at the students, mostly at myself; I need to tuck my shirt in and shave (I can hear my mother now, ‘Daniel Joseph, you need to be more professional. You look like a street person!’); zip fly.

Also, I recently read something about the Rosenwald Schools in Mississippi and thought I’d post a little reference link about them (Rosenwald Schools). The schools take their name from Julius Rosenwald, early chairman and partner in Sears, Roebuck & Co. and a prominent philanthropist. The Rosenwald rural school building program was a major effort to improve the quality of public education for African-Americans in the South in the early 1900s.

I'm focused man ....

I don't even know where to start to e-ruminate on this past weekend staying with AH, ES and crossing trails with a cast of characters I don't think I could have possibly imagined before meeting. I need some time to recover before I decide what I want to write .... maybe I'll sleep. Haven't done that in a while.

Take a moment to read this NPR article (http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5495373), written by the aforementioned AH; living in Indianola, where I'll be teaching, and teaching himself not too far away. Good guy, plays a mean harmonica.

Below is my focus paper - very open ended, our choice of topic as long as it's thesis is a relatively close cousin to the subject of education. I remembered talking about Highlander (http://www.highlandercenter.org/) withProf. Willingham last year, and seriously considering making the trek to Tennessee to enroll in one of their workshops after undergrad, so I started out laaaaate last night with that in mind. That gradually evolved, as the hours ticked towards dawn, into a more broad look at teaching for social change, or popular education, in the Highlander model; specifically, a closer look at several of the key players in its inception. I had some books on Myles Horton and, in a dorm filled with liberal-minded wannabe teachers from up north who are fixin' to "enlighten" the dirty south (count me in), it wasn't hard to find plenty of material on Freire. Alinsky is the anvil of the three, a Chicago gangster with an impeccable conscience - and was more focused with self-education rather than buying into the ideological, and fundamentally politically driven, system of education in the United States at all. Kareem you'd be proud.

Popular education is an educational technique designed to raise the consciousness of its participants and allow them to become more aware of how an individual's personal experiences are connected to larger societal problems. Participants are empowered to act to effect change on the problems that affect them (gotta love wikipedia).

Conscientizacao

The Awakening of Critical Consciousness
In Educational Forums

~ Horton, Alinksy & Freire ~

EDSE 500: Principles of Secondary Classroom Instruction

6.26.06

Historically there has been a direct relationship between social class and knowledge or opportunity, both in this country and even more apparently on an international scale, which continues to exist today in multiple manifestations. The work of leading educational activists for social justice such as Saul Alinsky, Myles Horton and Paulo Freire has shown just how implicitly “people’s knowledge and understanding of the world is the consequence of their education, regardless of its source”.[i] However, the distribution and direction of this knowledge, or lack thereof, is severely disproportional and most often dogmatic. That being said, the burden of breaching this gap between ignorance and enlightenment falls squarely on the shoulders of the educators who either work to promote existing institutional ideologies or provoke original thought and critical observation. Alinksy, Horton and Freire each have dedicated their life to the latter. Yet there also exists an “impulse for people to invent their own identities and realities”[ii] and a drive towards “personal and social liberation”[iii] which, when coupled with liberating pedagogy, can “give community people sufficient sense of their own dignity and power so that they can argue on their behalf”[iv] and truly bring about changes that will directly answer to their specific, individual needs. If education plays such a central role in shaping the society we share, then it is important to ask the same questions that those three prominent figures have asked themselves; “what kind of education, to what end, and in whose interest?”[v]

Educating for social change in America saw its beginnings in the labor college movement following World War I, when soldiers returned from Europe with worker’s educational program models in mind. The majority of the working class, primarily immigrants, found the public school system inadequately provided opportunities for the upward social mobility that our democratic structure promised and thus created American Labor Colleges “to facilitate fundamental social change on behalf of ordinary citizens.”[vi] Similarly, Alinsky organized lower-income working-class Americans around unions in urban centers throughout the country in order to gain and maintain leverage in political forums. With the prevalence of racism and sexism in this country, many other disadvantaged and discriminated against communities, generally poor and minority, likewise sought to provide educational opportunities with a social center of interest. The Highlander Center in Tennessee, “a school meant to prepare potential activists to bring about radical social change”[vii] which was founded by Horton during the civil rights movement, pioneered this growing movement of “popular education and participatory research” through experimental education for social transformation in both practice and theory. By providing the tools and capacity for underprivileged communities in the South to organize around this central ideology of progressive thinking, Highlander educators facilitated radical democratic shifts in awareness, comprehension and ultimately action. In Brazil, Freire was following a path akin to his contemporaries in the North, establishing educational practices for poor rural families and laborers that beseeched its students to think critically of their social situation and embrace democratic reform.

As organization proves necessary, then so to is an ongoing critique of the players involved and their motivations for organizing. This movement sees the community organizer as a natural instructor, or educator, whose role is not just teaching but meaningful teaching through critical questioning. The direct role of the organizer, or educator in this sense of the word, is stressed by Freire and Horton, while Alinsky veered more towards self-education and a separation from the derived and popular ideological tactics. His belief was that free from outside influence, the indelible sense of right and wrong would lead individuals towards seeking the truth out themselves. Perhaps he was expressing the short-sighted organizer that Horton feared, who organizes with a specific limited goal in mind, rather than solving the deeper problem of education first. This role of the liberating educator, or at least the existence of education, then is fundamental in this process of change and the creation of a liberated, aware social class. Freire delves into this substantially, outlining the delicate nature of ideological transformation in competition with prevailing attitudes towards education. He encourages the educator to be invested in making choices, as they ask the students to be, without compulsion or manipulation and exemplifying the power to perceive, formulate and react; to take the lessons from the classroom and apply them to a political venue. Freire explains through an example of Spanish farm workers in Germany this idea of the educator “doing with the students instead of doing for.”[viii] Then, once the people are sufficiently prepared to act, they will be equipped with the knowledge and confidence necessary to be successful.

In Leading the People, Robert Fisher and Joseph M. King examine this complex issue of ideology, or the body of ideas, doctrines and beliefs which reflect the social needs and aspirations of an individual or larger group. Rather than echoing the status quo or “inherited ideology”, they assert that progressive organizing must be centered on the notion of formulating and evaluating ideologies “which challenge existing arrangements of political and economic domination” and “mobilize oppressed groups towards fundamental change.” [ix] Whether those ideas arise from within or without the communities and individuals they come to represent is qualified through two general types; derived and inherent, popular ideology. Based on direct experience, inherent ideology reflects most accurately what the constituents themselves saw as existing problems and potential solutions while derived ideology is best articulated by outside representatives who are able to introduce radical alternatives to tradition while keeping these new concepts accessible and recognizable. In conclusion, Fisher and King seem to promote the notion that successful attempts at grassroots social education within American populism must rely on a combination of inherent and derived ideology, a mixture of community traditions and values with an informed progressive vision.

Yet even if organized and ideologically driven by inspired educators, many roadblocks have been set up to keep radical change from moving along any further than the local level. Always under attack from conservatives, the left must be willing to suffer defeats and stay on its feet. The labor colleges were closed due to their proximity with socialist and communist parties, the original Highlander campus was forced to operate illegally and eventually shut down, and Freire was labeled a traitor and imprisoned. Today, aptitude tests continue to cloak discrimination in public education. Perhaps one of the greatest threats toward educating for radical social change is the fear of cooption with the status quo, often in the form of government (or the holders of any institutional power, such as corporate heads) absorption of any opposition, where an organization finds itself defending the very institutions that it hopes to alter. If recognized, novel movements might be pressured to negotiate or compromise. With the funding necessary to actually promote change, governments can often lure independent democratically constituted organizations into cooption in this way, assure slow progress by making grass-roots movements compete for resources and/or continuously undermine their original assertions through negligent, irresponsible or discriminatory policies – all far from the participatory democratic ideal that is at the core of community organizing.

Freire, Alinsky and Horton force critical analysis of how free our speech and thought actually is, or if it is determined by greater forces that seek to influence the minds of the majority. This being the case, they rely upon their vision of a participatory progressive educational system that teaches for radical change and encourages novel ideas through empowerment and involvement. This movement often must exist on the margins of what is accepted or conventional, with a cultivation of conflict at the heart of their empirical model. Theirs is a dynamic system, as Horton articulates; “The best education is action … and the best action is the struggle for social change.”[x] To survive, these practices must continue “to be reinvented and re-clarified according to changing political and intellectual thought and social movements.”[xi] Not only is true democracy strengthened by education and learning, it is then able to meet the demands of this continued re-evaluation and constant change. However important it is to act, it is more important to first understand. This is the difference between superficial learning and tangible knowledge, between actual education and visionless training. It is not necessarily these educators’ goal to change the consciousness of each one of their students, but only to encourage them all to be conscious in their education and lives, and to take it from the dialogic to the free spaces within communities, to an organizing infrastructure, and eventually to an overwhelming social movement.

ENDNOTES:
[i] John Hurst, “Popular Education, Labor and Social Change.” In Teaching for Change: Popular Education and the Labor Movement, edited by Linda Delp, Miranda Outman-Kramer, Susan Schurman and Kent Wong. Los Angeles and Silver Spring: UCLA Center for Labor Research and Education, & George Meany Center for Labor Studies, The Labor College, 2002, p. 9
[ii] Leslie Bentley. Paulo Freire, Pedagogy and Theater of the Oppressed, 1999 [cited 2004]. p.3
[iii] Ibid.
[iv] Robert Fisher and Joseph Kling. “Leading the People: Two Approaches to the Role of Ideology in Community Organizing.” Radical America 21 (1987), p. 41
[v] John Hurst, “Popular Education, Labor and Social Change.” In Teaching for Change: Popular Education and the Labor Movement, edited by Linda Delp, Miranda Outman-Kramer, Susan Schurman and Kent Wong. Los Angelese and Silver Spring: UCLA Center for Labor Research and Education, & George Meany Center for Labor Studies, The Labor College, 2002, p. 9
[vi] Ibid, p. 15
[vii] “Myles Horton.” In The Citizen Action Encyclopedia: Groups and Movements that have Changed America, edited by Richard S. Halsey. Westport, CT: Oryx Press, 2002, p. 1
[viii] Ira Shore and Paulo Freire. A Pedagogy for Liberation: Dialogues on Transforming Education. South Hadley, MA: Bergen and Garvey Publishers, 1987, p. 177
[ix] Robert Fisher and Joseph Kling. “Leading the People: Two Approaches to the Role of Ideology in Community Organizing.” Radical America 21 (1987), p. 32
[x] John Hurst, “Popular Education, Labor and Social Change.” In Teaching for Change: Popular Education and the Labor Movement, edited by Linda Delp, Miranda Outman-Kramer, Susan Schurman and Kent Wong. Los Angelese and Silver Spring: UCLA Center for Labor Research and Education, & George Meany Center for Labor Studies, The Labor College, 2002, p.13
[xi] Leslie Bentley. Paulo Freire, Pedagogy and Theater of the Oppressed, 1999 [cited 2004], p.3