Gritting Teeth

Emptiness:
Windmills. They're majestic, whimsical hydras with three heads. Their teeth spin and blur and melt the aqua shades of the sky. Like watchdogs they guard the earth, careful not to disturb a single speck of dust. They're miraculous moving images. Perfect swirling circles. Wondrous giants.

I sit underneath the windmills for serenity. I can listen, from the top of the sand dunes, as the ocean whispers to the beach. Sometimes, when the air stands still and time becomes very, very cold, I question what the two titans talk about.

When it turns dark, the stars climb ladders in the sky. Using branches from the coast I light a fire. I lie down and watch a play put on by the planets. I try to ignore the only thought in my head.

I wish I wasn't the last man left in the world.

What I'm Doing: Watching Cornell Bears get their hearts eaten by Kentucky Wildcats.

212:
On my journey home from work today, a car passed by. Rick Ross's "Every Day I'm Hustlin'" blared at maximum volume out it's windows, and I couldn't help but grin. Then, as I was crossing the street a man with a righteous beard strolled past me. He was bald, walking a dog that looked like a mid-sized Doberman. To top it off, he was sporting a "Bitch Slicer" t-shirt, which featured a graphic of a great white shark chomping on a naked woman. Two blocks from home, I realized that this was a painting of my week. Weird, wild, and random. And a little righteous.

Recently, I've discovered the power of reflecting. It strengthens the memory and invigorates the mind. My memories flooded back to when I received my first pair of glasses. I had just failed the first test in my life, and it was a vision test. I remember my palms sweating as I held a small slip of paper with a big fat "F" on it. I was distraught! I thought my life was coming to a close, that my parents would destroy me for sure. It wasn't until I was sitting in a leather chair at the optometrist's office that I calmed down. I questioned, were my eyes really that bad?

Turns out they weren't just bad. They were terrible. I didn't deserve a "F" for vision, I deserved an "F-". On the ride back home, I just stared out the window in absolute awe. Eventually I turned to my mom and exclaimed, "I can see the leaves on the trees!"

And that's when blurs became concrete.

Because I'm in the mood to check out the past, I have a couple questions about the previous three days. Hopefully, the gears inside your head will begin to turn. How many steps have you climbed? How many glasses of liquid did you drink? How many miles did you travel? How many times did you yawn?

Your first response to all of the above was, "I don't know!" But your second response was to work though it, to use your imagination. You looked back and pictured yourself leaping up a daily staircase as you climbed two flights to your office. You pictured yourself texting a wearisome message, or dialing the 10-digit phone number of a close friend. You even thought about the times you were tired- and maybe, just maybe, you yawned while attempting to count your yawns.

It would seem that these would be the hidden statistics of life. I know that in certain video games, especially shooters, you could look up this kind of thing. Say you wanted to know the number of aliens you killed. Bam. 1,285. The number of headshots? Bam. 45. The amount of points and rebounds you had in a basketball game? Bam. 23 points, 11 rebounds. All of these things are tiny details that we can pull up and check out. They make us excited. They make us want to break records to set new records. They give us a bar to sneak under as we try and win a game of Limbo.

They give us something to look forward to.

But our brains don't have these databases. Instead of counting the stairs, our eyes pick up the vibrant colors of our surroundings, or the expressions of the vast sea of faces in a subway station. We pick up the details. We ignore the invisible facts. Do we ignore these miniature chunks of information?

In the past three days I've pressed one elevator button. I've sent roughly 100 text messages (150 characters each), and called seven different numbers. If I had to estimate off of these numbers, I would say I've pressed around 15,100 buttons. It’s a skinny guesstimate and I could be thousands of keystrokes off. I could be dead on. But really, I have no idea. Counting the number of times I press a button doesn't occur to me. It's like trying to count every single M&M in a glass jar.

What else doesn't occur to us on a day-to-day basis? Do we not notice if our personalities change, or what expressions lie on a friend, student, or partner's face? Do we miss the shadows while the sun sleeps?

Evolution is human nature. Adaptation is instinct. Change is like the warmth of summer- it's ever present. Few people realize when something becomes slightly different- until finally, during a specific second in their life when it slaps them in the face.

My students Jahnill and Jerly are prime examples of unnoticed personal change.

Jahnill is a giant. I mean, a giant. He reminds me of the B.F.G. He towers over me, bulging with strength. I think if Jahnill wanted to he could power clean a semi-truck. His head is larger than a watermelon, but in terms of watermelons, it would have to be made of pure steel. The tip of his forehead bulges over his brow, giving him a permanent scowl. I swear, if Jahnill grabbed a tree and pulled upward, he could uproot it. Oak? Redwood? Birch? No problem. When I first saw him, I thought to myself, "There is no way this kid is a freshmen." Oh, he is. He is the dragon of freshmen, and not even Shrek could take him out.

Despite Jahnill's size and appearance, he gives off the personality of a teddy bear. Sweet like honey. Jahnill hasn't been at my school all year- he transferred into it early 2010. I remember his first day, when he went and sat down in a chair next to a window. He opened it up with his pinky (a window that sometimes requires both my arms to move), and quietly pulled out his notebook and pencil. He did his Do Now (a daily warm up) in less than five minutes, then twiddled his mega-sized thumbs on his desk. When the period ended, Jahnill went up to my teacher, Ms. A., as the rest of the class sprinted like Usain Bolt out of the room.

He said, "Ms. A., would it be alright if I came after school today? I need to catch up to the rest of the class and I would like your help."

My jaw just about fell to the floor, and I think Ms. A.'s did too. We were floored.

But it wasn't long until Jahnill's teddy bear appeal faded. As the weeks passed, Jahnill gradually became like the wild kids in my school. Rarely would I find him quiet in class- and he was a loud kid. He would scream across the classroom and yell at kids for taking his desk. One thing Jahnill hasn't done though, is fight. And I just think that's because the other kids are smart enough not to mess with Jahnill. If he landed a punch, their body would probably land in the Atlantic, halfway to Europe.

It was depressing seeing Jahnill change. He had so much promise, but whatever I did in class seemed to fail. It wasn't until just recently that I've started pulling Jahnill out and working on him in a small group setting. Finally, I've caught a glimpse of his old self. I like to have Jahnill read from his history book. He desperately needs the practice (he has a very low reading level) and all his barriers that he's built up over the last couple of months fall down. When Jahnill reads, he sounds like he is whispering to a baby before it falls asleep. His voice is soft, calm, and unhurried. He struggles over many words, but when I help him out, he continues on in the same quiet voice. It's a wonder to witness.

Jerly is another story. She came from Haiti and my school is her neighborhood school. I actually don't have her in any of my classes (my teammate Law does), but she is in my writing club and comes every Wednesday. Jerly used to be this girl that was amused by every little thing and was incredibly sweet. She has eyes that bleed innocence, and a face that looks fresh and pure. But now, out of that nice expression comes a river of swear words. She rarely is quiet and causes major distractions in and out of class. I also frequently notice her in the hallways, ditching.

Yesterday, in my writing club, about six students showed up. We were writing about the senses (sound, sight, and smell), and casually talking as we jotted down poems to be shared at the end of the meeting. Jerly is cussing up a storm, and distracting the other kids. One of them decides she can't take it anymore, and turns to Jerly and yells, "You're starting to act like the other kids at this school! Go back to being like the old Jerly!"

Hopefully that was the slap in the face Jerly needed to realize she was changing for the worse.

Jerly and Jahnill are students from different backgrounds attempting to fit in. Attempting to reach the status of "cool." They couldn't help but succumb to the stereotype student of my school, they just wanted to belong to a group, to have friends in a new environment. Why is it so ingrained in our culture to obsess over what is cool and what isn't? Why can't everyone be content with who they are and still fit in?

It's rare to find someone that sticks to their own personality, yet belongs in a weird sort of way. These people are strong-willed and unbreakable. I admire these people, and two of them go to my school.

The first is a freshman from Jamaica named Savoy. Savoy has a heart of gold. I don't think I've ever seen him with a different expression on his face besides a smile. In the beginning of the year, Savoy had no idea how to use a master lock. I would find him standing in the hallway next to his locker, fiddling, thinking- but still smiling. I probably taught the kid how to use his master lock three or four times, but he always got a kick out of me showing him how to do it. By now, Savoy is the master lock master.

Savoy is also a die-hard fan of our after-school tutoring program. I don't think he will ever miss a day. When he first moved to America, his English wasn't too hot. Even now, he still has a difficult time writing (especially spelling) and has a limited vocabulary. But Savoy LOVES to write. He learned how to write a poem earlier this year and was struck by Cupid's arrow. Every day Savoy will come in, sit down at a table and write a new poem. He's learning to use his imagination though, because so far he's only talked about Jamaica and school. And magic. I told him to write a poem about magic. His writing is hilarious and outrageously cute. His poem about Jamaica included such quotes as "Just come down to Jamaica land, where there are palm trees and beaches and everyone is crazy" and "Magic, magic, oh, oh magic man, doing magic tricks makes things disappear it is so crazy."

Besides writing poems, Savoy also loves to do beats on the table with his hands. He is a savant, and after he writes a poem, he memorizes it, then sings it with a beat. If you listened to him sing and play, I don't think there is any way that you couldn't smile or laugh. I've listened to him sing the same poem at least 15 times. And I still giggle each time he begins.

The second student is Sam. To be honest, I don't know much about him. But he is the only white kid at my school and I know he is Jewish. He's a great kid, a junior, and I admire him. Many of the times I see Sam he is wearing the kippah, or what looks like a Jewish beanie. I appreciate how he holds to his own culture in a setting that is basically segregated.

Society is the master of pressure. It offers the candy of fitting in- something most people naturally desire. Few, like Sam or Savoy, hold their own in the mental tug-o-war battle. These people are rare and unique, especially in a school setting. But they know who they are, and it takes one hell of a lot of courage to be an individual.

"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself." ~Nietzsche

In Chicago, an Autistic high-school student streaked a perfect record in the NCAA Men's tournament past the 2nd round. The odds of that happening... incredibly low. However, as of today, his bracket is a wee bit busted. He had Syracuse winning over Butler. And Butler just pulled another crazy update. Those beastly bulldogs. But I'm still impressed by his picks, and even though he has Purdue winning it all, he's rockin' it so far. If you want to check out the article, you can see it here: Almost Perfect.

Personally, I'm quite a ways from perfect in my bracket. UTEP lost and screwed me over, as did 'Nova and Georgetown. But these Cinderella stories are heart-throbbing, pulse catalysts that excite me, and have made this one of the most unexpected tournaments in history. A part of me hopes my bracket becomes even more obliterated, so I can watch more top seeds crumble this weekend. Although I would like to see my finals work out, with Ohio St. meeting Kentucky to play for it all.

Before I end this update I'd like to send a shout-out to a couple people. I've been living 2,308 miles away from home and as a first-born son, it's definitely been a shocker for my parents. But they've held tough and are always there to support me in what I do. I know that if I ever needed anything, I could give them a call and they would do whatever it takes to help me. So thanks Mom, thanks Dad, for being there. I don't thank you guys enough.

The other person I would like to thank is my good friend, Cassie. She has honored me by visiting multiple times, and has been a constant source of communication outside of Philly. She's kept me sane, and like my parents, would be here for me in a heartbeat. So thanks for that, Cassie.

Until then next time.

-TWO-12