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
March 25, 2010
March 17, 2010
Project X to March Madness
Ode to Crosswords:
"Joy, joy!" We all exclaim,
when a word or phrase
fits right in place.
Four letters for luminous circle?
Gee whiz, it has to be halo!
A bullring bull? Toro, toro!
"Ole, ole!" We all exclaim,
The puzzle is coming to an end.
With a talking pen your brain is rockin'
smashing hints,
deciphering code,
It's a second language.
"Ahh, ahh!" We all exclaim,
There is just one final clue
but the letters won't come to you.
A treadmill enthusiast?
Frustration seeps from skin until, at last-
EUREKA!
It's a hamster!
Beauty is nothing less than a finished crossword.
*Inspired by Eugene and the Philadelphia METRO
What I'm Doing: Watching my roommate, Joel, play his electric guitar.
212:
On a day to day basis we look at the world differently. Things change, ideas change, people change. Even inside the most headstrong man or stubborn women, something is changing. It could be a teenager growing a quarter of an inch. It could be when a baby girl takes her first steps across the soft carpet of her parents new home. The point is, the world changes. As members of the world we change with it.
I always somehow manage to talk about the weather in this first bit. Maybe because I started this blog in late February and since then the seasons have been changing like mad. Then, the snow was just disappearing from the concrete. Now, it's 60 something degrees and I'm sweating in a t-shirt. I've heard some people say that the weather is bad small talk, but I think it's fantastic. I love talking about the weather.
Happy St. Patrick's.
Instead of discussing one more serious issue in depth, this post will cover many different things that have been coursing through my head the past week. I call it, "Project X to March Madness."
Shaun White. The first thing that comes to mind when you hear his name is probably close to snowboarding phenom. He killed it at the Olympics this year with outrageous new tricks, including the Cab Double Cork 1080. If you saw his run down the half-pipe, you may have wondered how he could pull off such a trick. Project X, that's how.
A private half-pipe hides (sponsored by Red Bull) hides deep inside the mountains near Silverton, Colorado. It's incredible. Scenic trees sprout from a flush, snow ocean. The land curves and flows naturally, providing a beautiful backdrop for a breeding ground of new tricks. A couple factors made this very special, besides the aspect of it's rural location. It was made out of fresh, real snow. Most half-pipes are made out of a combination of man-made and natural, but this board-paradise was created from the pure stuff. Secondly, a huge foam pit was built and brought to the location, placed strategically so White could practice new tricks without the worry of injury.
If you want to check it out, here's the link for the video:
Shaun White Project X
I've always cherished and loved the feeling of movement. The connection between the rough calluses of my feet against wet grass, the piston-action of my legs as I sprint for a bus. The perfect action and motion as I bend my knees, and release a ball for a three-pointer. Swish.
In today's society, many tasks become fast paced and people often become impatient (yes, this includes me as well!). When we rush through things, we tend to lose that majestic feeling of movement because we only concentrate on the goal, not the immediate process. During longer days or in hard times, I find myself looking forward to those thirty seconds that I dash up a staircase, or for the grip of a football's leather skin. It's those tangible feelings that really make us feel alive, and that is why we become so attached to them, why we relate them to memories.
Speaking of memories, remember the game where you would make the OK sign with your hand, and try and get someone to look at it below your waist? If they did, you would get to punch them in the arm. You could also defend against it by sticking your finger through the "O" before the other person could retract their hand. It's one of those goofy, there's-no-point kind of games.
Well, the students at the high school I work at are obsessed with it. Except, they don't play by the below the waist rule. Maybe, in the middle of class they will throw an arm up, as if to answer a question. But really, they do that hand-sign, and then burst into laughter. You could be walking down the hall, heading to your next class. All of a sudden, you see that damn OK signal. They got you. One of the most ridiculous adaptations of this game is the picture method. I remember a student drawing the sign on a piece of paper, then taping it to his chest (after labeling the paper "dick"). This game is, for some reason, infinitely amusing, and I think I can blame it on its simplicity and stupidity. It's gone so far as to spread to me and my teammates (what City Year calls, a "ripple"..) and now, when we are all alone waiting for the bus after a long day, we get each other with random tricky methods. A personal favorite of mine is the cell phone picture. Think of Rick Astley "Never Gonna Give you Up" (Rick Roll) except in person. I think you all should start doing it too. Spread it around. It's all good fun anyways.
I got you. See? Good fun.
Quotes I've Heard in Philly:
1) "This school is so DUMB! It's... it's... UGH!"
2) "The boy did yesterday and everyone wants to make him a trend. But his dead face on hoodies, notebooks.."
3) "He's a fuckin' pirate!"
I hate to transition from something silly to something morbid, but I feel this must be said. A student from my school was shot and killed this past weekend. He was 16 years old. Although I didn't personally know him, some of my teammates did. It is a tragedy- yet an act of strategic, random violence. Many of the kids I work with knew him, and you can tell that it isn't exactly shocking for them to have a friend die. It obviously makes an impact on them, but they are able to shoulder it off and pretend like it didn't hurt. It's a sad thing.
The last topic I'll mention is March Madness. I'm too obsessed with college basketball not to. As I'm writing this final portion, I'm even watching the NIT game between Memphis (3) and St. Johns (6). ESPN blares from my television from the time I get home until the time I sleep.
The deadline to turn in brackets is tomorrow. But, hopefully they're already in. There's some mega-powers in this tourney- Syracuse, Kentucky, Kansas, Duke. These are number one seeds that even I can't restrict from a trip to the final four. I do, however, believe that Ohio State will be upsetting Kansas. I think that the J-Hawks are going to choke under the pressure and Evan Turner will lead the Buckeyes to victory. Who's going to win? My best guess is Kentucky. But you never know- they could lose to anybody from Texas to Cornell to Wisconsin to West Virginia.
All I know is one thing. It's going to be exciting.
As Yogi Berra once said, "It ain't over 'til it's over." Remember that as the day progresses it is always possible to make a comeback and fix a mistake. It is always possible to fight for your dreams. And when the NCAA tournament begins with an 89 hour blitzkrieg, remember anyone can win the tournament- not just the one seeds. Why?
Because it ain't over 'til it's over.
-TWO-12
"Joy, joy!" We all exclaim,
when a word or phrase
fits right in place.
Four letters for luminous circle?
Gee whiz, it has to be halo!
A bullring bull? Toro, toro!
"Ole, ole!" We all exclaim,
The puzzle is coming to an end.
With a talking pen your brain is rockin'
smashing hints,
deciphering code,
It's a second language.
"Ahh, ahh!" We all exclaim,
There is just one final clue
but the letters won't come to you.
A treadmill enthusiast?
Frustration seeps from skin until, at last-
EUREKA!
It's a hamster!
Beauty is nothing less than a finished crossword.
*Inspired by Eugene and the Philadelphia METRO
What I'm Doing: Watching my roommate, Joel, play his electric guitar.
212:
On a day to day basis we look at the world differently. Things change, ideas change, people change. Even inside the most headstrong man or stubborn women, something is changing. It could be a teenager growing a quarter of an inch. It could be when a baby girl takes her first steps across the soft carpet of her parents new home. The point is, the world changes. As members of the world we change with it.
I always somehow manage to talk about the weather in this first bit. Maybe because I started this blog in late February and since then the seasons have been changing like mad. Then, the snow was just disappearing from the concrete. Now, it's 60 something degrees and I'm sweating in a t-shirt. I've heard some people say that the weather is bad small talk, but I think it's fantastic. I love talking about the weather.
Happy St. Patrick's.
Instead of discussing one more serious issue in depth, this post will cover many different things that have been coursing through my head the past week. I call it, "Project X to March Madness."
Shaun White. The first thing that comes to mind when you hear his name is probably close to snowboarding phenom. He killed it at the Olympics this year with outrageous new tricks, including the Cab Double Cork 1080. If you saw his run down the half-pipe, you may have wondered how he could pull off such a trick. Project X, that's how.
A private half-pipe hides (sponsored by Red Bull) hides deep inside the mountains near Silverton, Colorado. It's incredible. Scenic trees sprout from a flush, snow ocean. The land curves and flows naturally, providing a beautiful backdrop for a breeding ground of new tricks. A couple factors made this very special, besides the aspect of it's rural location. It was made out of fresh, real snow. Most half-pipes are made out of a combination of man-made and natural, but this board-paradise was created from the pure stuff. Secondly, a huge foam pit was built and brought to the location, placed strategically so White could practice new tricks without the worry of injury.
If you want to check it out, here's the link for the video:
Shaun White Project X
I've always cherished and loved the feeling of movement. The connection between the rough calluses of my feet against wet grass, the piston-action of my legs as I sprint for a bus. The perfect action and motion as I bend my knees, and release a ball for a three-pointer. Swish.
In today's society, many tasks become fast paced and people often become impatient (yes, this includes me as well!). When we rush through things, we tend to lose that majestic feeling of movement because we only concentrate on the goal, not the immediate process. During longer days or in hard times, I find myself looking forward to those thirty seconds that I dash up a staircase, or for the grip of a football's leather skin. It's those tangible feelings that really make us feel alive, and that is why we become so attached to them, why we relate them to memories.
Speaking of memories, remember the game where you would make the OK sign with your hand, and try and get someone to look at it below your waist? If they did, you would get to punch them in the arm. You could also defend against it by sticking your finger through the "O" before the other person could retract their hand. It's one of those goofy, there's-no-point kind of games.
Well, the students at the high school I work at are obsessed with it. Except, they don't play by the below the waist rule. Maybe, in the middle of class they will throw an arm up, as if to answer a question. But really, they do that hand-sign, and then burst into laughter. You could be walking down the hall, heading to your next class. All of a sudden, you see that damn OK signal. They got you. One of the most ridiculous adaptations of this game is the picture method. I remember a student drawing the sign on a piece of paper, then taping it to his chest (after labeling the paper "dick"). This game is, for some reason, infinitely amusing, and I think I can blame it on its simplicity and stupidity. It's gone so far as to spread to me and my teammates (what City Year calls, a "ripple"..) and now, when we are all alone waiting for the bus after a long day, we get each other with random tricky methods. A personal favorite of mine is the cell phone picture. Think of Rick Astley "Never Gonna Give you Up" (Rick Roll) except in person. I think you all should start doing it too. Spread it around. It's all good fun anyways.
I got you. See? Good fun.Quotes I've Heard in Philly:
1) "This school is so DUMB! It's... it's... UGH!"
2) "The boy did yesterday and everyone wants to make him a trend. But his dead face on hoodies, notebooks.."
3) "He's a fuckin' pirate!"
I hate to transition from something silly to something morbid, but I feel this must be said. A student from my school was shot and killed this past weekend. He was 16 years old. Although I didn't personally know him, some of my teammates did. It is a tragedy- yet an act of strategic, random violence. Many of the kids I work with knew him, and you can tell that it isn't exactly shocking for them to have a friend die. It obviously makes an impact on them, but they are able to shoulder it off and pretend like it didn't hurt. It's a sad thing.
The last topic I'll mention is March Madness. I'm too obsessed with college basketball not to. As I'm writing this final portion, I'm even watching the NIT game between Memphis (3) and St. Johns (6). ESPN blares from my television from the time I get home until the time I sleep.
The deadline to turn in brackets is tomorrow. But, hopefully they're already in. There's some mega-powers in this tourney- Syracuse, Kentucky, Kansas, Duke. These are number one seeds that even I can't restrict from a trip to the final four. I do, however, believe that Ohio State will be upsetting Kansas. I think that the J-Hawks are going to choke under the pressure and Evan Turner will lead the Buckeyes to victory. Who's going to win? My best guess is Kentucky. But you never know- they could lose to anybody from Texas to Cornell to Wisconsin to West Virginia.
All I know is one thing. It's going to be exciting.
As Yogi Berra once said, "It ain't over 'til it's over." Remember that as the day progresses it is always possible to make a comeback and fix a mistake. It is always possible to fight for your dreams. And when the NCAA tournament begins with an 89 hour blitzkrieg, remember anyone can win the tournament- not just the one seeds. Why?
Because it ain't over 'til it's over.
-TWO-12
March 11, 2010
Camouflague
When Nobody Says Hello:
Why do these walls
look like toilet stalls?
Posters scream at me.
This room marinates in steel
and I feel trapped.
So I rap, steal-
I swear to feel alive
But still I'm invisible.
I don't know what she preaches.
Make it stop. I want no more.
Can I just go outside and enjoy the weather?
Sit alone in the breeze,
watch leaves grow on trees
and slump in my misery?
Get me out of here.
What I'm Doing: Admiring the ingenuity of the novel, "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter".
212:
The sun has finally returned from hibernation. It is now doing a stellar job of heating up the air with its steamy breath. Even though it's supposed to rain all weekend, I can't help but feel recharged and energized. It's great to see something besides eternal darkness in the sky. Besides, the flaming sphere took a tough shift to come back on. I mean, lighting the entire globe has got to be exhausting, so I guess it can take a long weekend to recover.
My blue notebook is completely filled with pen ink and pencil lead. I still try and cram a couple words in around the perimeter of sketches and doodles, or spam a sentence into a margin, but it's just not the same. I need clean lines. What I need is a new notebook.
One of my last entries appeared on loose-leaf on March 3rd. Every Wednesday, I co-run a writing club with a young teacher named Mr. Z. We usually get a showing upwards of eight students, and our format revolves around discussion. This can include anything from the Haiti earthquakes to the screaming shrieks of freshmen on the second floor of school. We discuss, then write. And these students are great- they are incredibly insightful. The topic we discussed on the 3rd was the idea of an invisible student. It was intriguing and powerful, mainly due to its relevance within the school. Needless to say, thoughts were flying like molecules in the air.
We produced a rough definition of an "invisible student". Here it is:
1) A student that comes to class and sleeps. He/she feels no need to do work.
2) A student that begs for attention (either physically or verbally).
3) A student that creates a classroom disruption, often with violence.
Google defines "invisible" as: impossible or nearly impossible to see; imperceptible by the eye.
This may seem very vague, and it is. From my personal experience this could mean that 90% of the students in my classes are invisible. But I still think that what is laid out is relevant and provides an ideal talking point. Also, I'm intrigued. I plan to delve deeper to create a specific meaning.
Of all the books I'm currently reading, "Lives on the Boundary" by Mike Rose is the most relevant. The book details Rose's experience in South L.A- first as a student, then the firsthand account as a member of the Teacher Corps. As a TC member, we worked in a rough elementary school. Many of the students he worked with were very poor, and lived in single parent homes (very similar to those I work with). One of the kids that really stood out to him was a 5th grade student named Harold. Harold had been passed through all his classes tentatively- each time being classified with a new learning disability, a new issue that attempted, and eventually did define him. These issues could be illiteracy, they could be failure to recognize words or spell, or properly comprehend a story. When Mike first began working with Harold, he wrote:
"I am lost in the woods. I cannot find my way out. I yell and yell. No one answered me. I climbed a tree then I fell out of the tree and broke my arm." (Rose 120)
Harold was lonely. He was an invisible student. Teachers could "see through [Harold's] behavioral smokescreen to the pain and fear underneath", but they were hindered heavily due to "class load, bureaucratic protocol... and a dozen other factors" that caused a betrayal of instinct (Rose 128). Passed grade to grade, Harold was quickly lost in the shuffle.
He wasn't illiterate though, and he definitely could spell. As Mike continued to work with Harold, he discovered facts about Harold's personal life- how he loved to fish and kick a football. Mike found his true personality and character as "his writing took a dramatic upswing" (Rose 116).
Through an extensive amount of work and dedication to Harold, Mike was able to make an impact. He was able to release Harold from a jail of invisibility and inspire a long lost hidden potential.
In my Algebra 1 class there is a student named Delonte. Delonte emits a gentle aura. The expression on his face is sad yet unaware, fitting the frame of his short, slender body. His eyes are brown and foggy, but shed an overwhelming sensation of kindness. Over the course of my time in the classroom, Delonte has said maybe three or four sentences to me- and this was a struggle (fewer to classmates and teachers). Mr. P, the teacher, has his hands full with what feels like a jungle of volcanic insanity- giving him little time to give attention to a quiet student like Delonte. At the beginning of the year, I worked frequently with him. But as more and more students fell into my workload, it grew impossibly difficult to provide the necessary instruction to Delonte. I used to sit next to him, trying to get him to say things. I would ask what video game he liked, what he did in his spare time, what was his favorite subject, and many other questions. To him, it must have felt like a barrage on his comfort zone. But I didn't understand, and slowly, Delonte drifted away. Delonte is an invisible student.
I would love to do something to show Delonte that I care. That I am there, that he can talk to me, that I can help him, teach him, enable him to pass the class. But I, like the teachers Mike Rose described, am inhibited by my responsibilities. The best I can do is attempt to convince him to stay after school for tutoring, but very few students find the thought of staying in the castle of education longer than needed appealing.
The idea of an invisible student is a problem on a great scale. It doesn't lie only within inner-city schools, but extends to the suburbs, to charters, to catholic schools. And, it goes to show that not even someone in my position (one meant to focus on specific students) can reach everyone. There are still kids that remain invisible. Still kids that float along in a river, content with drowning yet waiting to be rescued
Quotes I've heard in Philly:
1) "You a fuckin' Quaker dog?"
2) "What was she doing with a pink tu-tu and a thong on?"
We are always asked, "What does it take to succeed?" Well, I think that it's a combination of things. The equation [Attitude x Ability = Success] fits. Attitude can be motivation, courage, whatever. Ability can be talent, brains, smarts, or memory. Success can be happiness, money, fame. You get the idea.
A student named Darnell is in a couple of my classes. He's a brilliant kid- picks up on everything in a moments notice. But he is always unprepared, always zoning out, always out of focus. Whenever I ask him why he isn't doing his work (which is quite frequently) he always tells me he doesn't have paper. He doesn't have a pen. He doesn't have a pencil. Is it so hard to bring these writing utensils, or to secure and keep a hold of them? If I used my equation, Darnell would be multiplying by zero.
This scenario is one that my entire team, as well as many other City Year corps members at other schools struggle with. Kids don't bring nor hold on to pens or pencils, and we end up judging each and every new student in the same manner. But that's not right- they shouldn't be judged. Who knows, maybe one day a student will come along with so much pens that he/she can give them out to the entire class!
In the book I just recently finished, "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter" by Seth Grahame-Smith (which was incredibly good and surprisingly witty), one of the characters, Henry Sturges, says "Judge us [them] not equally". In the situation Henry is talking about his race, Vampires. But I really took a liking to the quote and I think it can be adapted to almost everything- especially troubled students. As I said above, if there have been previous hardships with a certain kid, one can't judge the next kid to behave the same way.
-TWO-12
Why do these walls
look like toilet stalls?
Posters scream at me.
This room marinates in steel
and I feel trapped.
So I rap, steal-
I swear to feel alive
But still I'm invisible.
I don't know what she preaches.
Make it stop. I want no more.
Can I just go outside and enjoy the weather?
Sit alone in the breeze,
watch leaves grow on trees
and slump in my misery?
Get me out of here.
What I'm Doing: Admiring the ingenuity of the novel, "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter".
212:
The sun has finally returned from hibernation. It is now doing a stellar job of heating up the air with its steamy breath. Even though it's supposed to rain all weekend, I can't help but feel recharged and energized. It's great to see something besides eternal darkness in the sky. Besides, the flaming sphere took a tough shift to come back on. I mean, lighting the entire globe has got to be exhausting, so I guess it can take a long weekend to recover.
My blue notebook is completely filled with pen ink and pencil lead. I still try and cram a couple words in around the perimeter of sketches and doodles, or spam a sentence into a margin, but it's just not the same. I need clean lines. What I need is a new notebook.
One of my last entries appeared on loose-leaf on March 3rd. Every Wednesday, I co-run a writing club with a young teacher named Mr. Z. We usually get a showing upwards of eight students, and our format revolves around discussion. This can include anything from the Haiti earthquakes to the screaming shrieks of freshmen on the second floor of school. We discuss, then write. And these students are great- they are incredibly insightful. The topic we discussed on the 3rd was the idea of an invisible student. It was intriguing and powerful, mainly due to its relevance within the school. Needless to say, thoughts were flying like molecules in the air.
We produced a rough definition of an "invisible student". Here it is:
1) A student that comes to class and sleeps. He/she feels no need to do work.
2) A student that begs for attention (either physically or verbally).
3) A student that creates a classroom disruption, often with violence.
Google defines "invisible" as: impossible or nearly impossible to see; imperceptible by the eye.
This may seem very vague, and it is. From my personal experience this could mean that 90% of the students in my classes are invisible. But I still think that what is laid out is relevant and provides an ideal talking point. Also, I'm intrigued. I plan to delve deeper to create a specific meaning.
Of all the books I'm currently reading, "Lives on the Boundary" by Mike Rose is the most relevant. The book details Rose's experience in South L.A- first as a student, then the firsthand account as a member of the Teacher Corps. As a TC member, we worked in a rough elementary school. Many of the students he worked with were very poor, and lived in single parent homes (very similar to those I work with). One of the kids that really stood out to him was a 5th grade student named Harold. Harold had been passed through all his classes tentatively- each time being classified with a new learning disability, a new issue that attempted, and eventually did define him. These issues could be illiteracy, they could be failure to recognize words or spell, or properly comprehend a story. When Mike first began working with Harold, he wrote:
"I am lost in the woods. I cannot find my way out. I yell and yell. No one answered me. I climbed a tree then I fell out of the tree and broke my arm." (Rose 120)
Harold was lonely. He was an invisible student. Teachers could "see through [Harold's] behavioral smokescreen to the pain and fear underneath", but they were hindered heavily due to "class load, bureaucratic protocol... and a dozen other factors" that caused a betrayal of instinct (Rose 128). Passed grade to grade, Harold was quickly lost in the shuffle.
He wasn't illiterate though, and he definitely could spell. As Mike continued to work with Harold, he discovered facts about Harold's personal life- how he loved to fish and kick a football. Mike found his true personality and character as "his writing took a dramatic upswing" (Rose 116).
Through an extensive amount of work and dedication to Harold, Mike was able to make an impact. He was able to release Harold from a jail of invisibility and inspire a long lost hidden potential.
In my Algebra 1 class there is a student named Delonte. Delonte emits a gentle aura. The expression on his face is sad yet unaware, fitting the frame of his short, slender body. His eyes are brown and foggy, but shed an overwhelming sensation of kindness. Over the course of my time in the classroom, Delonte has said maybe three or four sentences to me- and this was a struggle (fewer to classmates and teachers). Mr. P, the teacher, has his hands full with what feels like a jungle of volcanic insanity- giving him little time to give attention to a quiet student like Delonte. At the beginning of the year, I worked frequently with him. But as more and more students fell into my workload, it grew impossibly difficult to provide the necessary instruction to Delonte. I used to sit next to him, trying to get him to say things. I would ask what video game he liked, what he did in his spare time, what was his favorite subject, and many other questions. To him, it must have felt like a barrage on his comfort zone. But I didn't understand, and slowly, Delonte drifted away. Delonte is an invisible student.
I would love to do something to show Delonte that I care. That I am there, that he can talk to me, that I can help him, teach him, enable him to pass the class. But I, like the teachers Mike Rose described, am inhibited by my responsibilities. The best I can do is attempt to convince him to stay after school for tutoring, but very few students find the thought of staying in the castle of education longer than needed appealing.
The idea of an invisible student is a problem on a great scale. It doesn't lie only within inner-city schools, but extends to the suburbs, to charters, to catholic schools. And, it goes to show that not even someone in my position (one meant to focus on specific students) can reach everyone. There are still kids that remain invisible. Still kids that float along in a river, content with drowning yet waiting to be rescued
Quotes I've heard in Philly:
1) "You a fuckin' Quaker dog?"
2) "What was she doing with a pink tu-tu and a thong on?"
We are always asked, "What does it take to succeed?" Well, I think that it's a combination of things. The equation [Attitude x Ability = Success] fits. Attitude can be motivation, courage, whatever. Ability can be talent, brains, smarts, or memory. Success can be happiness, money, fame. You get the idea.
A student named Darnell is in a couple of my classes. He's a brilliant kid- picks up on everything in a moments notice. But he is always unprepared, always zoning out, always out of focus. Whenever I ask him why he isn't doing his work (which is quite frequently) he always tells me he doesn't have paper. He doesn't have a pen. He doesn't have a pencil. Is it so hard to bring these writing utensils, or to secure and keep a hold of them? If I used my equation, Darnell would be multiplying by zero.
This scenario is one that my entire team, as well as many other City Year corps members at other schools struggle with. Kids don't bring nor hold on to pens or pencils, and we end up judging each and every new student in the same manner. But that's not right- they shouldn't be judged. Who knows, maybe one day a student will come along with so much pens that he/she can give them out to the entire class!
In the book I just recently finished, "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter" by Seth Grahame-Smith (which was incredibly good and surprisingly witty), one of the characters, Henry Sturges, says "Judge us [them] not equally". In the situation Henry is talking about his race, Vampires. But I really took a liking to the quote and I think it can be adapted to almost everything- especially troubled students. As I said above, if there have been previous hardships with a certain kid, one can't judge the next kid to behave the same way.
-TWO-12
March 3, 2010
Analysis of a Lost Man
Channeling Walt:
The steep lines of the hillside define green, gentle giants-
giants that wear ecosystems and habitats,
that drink sunlight and bathe in the calm pools of blue showers.
Their laughter, a joint effort, shakes the air itself
creating a tranquil wave that ventures the earth.
What does it mean to be an emerald titan?
To stand tall above the dirty soil,
with the warm glow of relaxation
simmering beneath a birch brow?
The soft scent of water's perfume
drifts like lilac on a breeze,
causing the peaceful ogres to blush.
Puffy slates of smoke
gaze at the rainbow beauty of the sunset.
The great audience points,
with slight hesitation,
and the ball of flames waves goodnight
while tiny violins ignite below.
What I'm Doing: Watching the Kansas (2) vs. Kansas St. (5) basketball game and cooking pizza.
212:
Today was my first day in a new class. I started because I had some open time during the beginning of my day. Since it was my first day, I decided to just observe and take notes, occasionally talking to kids. Here is my recollection, detailed below, from the pages of my blue, 70 page spiral notebook.
Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
Class started twenty-five minutes ago. Noise boils from a hodgepodge of students who are bustling in and out an open door. A couple of them sit in desks. They are bored, yet apathetic- their will burned by the classroom demeanor. I sit down, checking the underside of a table for gum. Today I am an observer. Soon, I'll be a performer, a teacher, an integral piece of the puzzle.
Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
Mr. M is now in front of a file cabinet near the door. He's muttering to the air as he shuffles a key into a lock. It opens. He looks inside with a sense of lost meaning- a man with a purpose undefined but yet, acknowledged by his own, confused eyes. I can almost see the gears inside his head clanking, turning, hitting each other in a mosh-pit fashion. The keys drop from his hands, and clank on the dirty tiles below.
Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
It's been forty minutes since the bell rang, but since it's first period, time has been extended. Breakfast has been handed out, and thrown wild like snowballs across the room. Mr. M struggles to hold a pair of random transparencies and paper, as he limps to a makeshift screen for the overhead. A kid screams from across the room at a student blaring techno from his laptop. "Yo, is that some new Beethoven shit or somethin' bull?"
The overhead turns on and two images flash against wrinkled paper. Someone sings, "Shut your fuckin' face Uncle Fucker" as Mr M. mumbles a 30 second lecture. I am surprised by the South Park reference.
Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
Almost releasing a transparency as he retreats to the security of his cluttered desk, Mr. M glares at a student. Then, he awkwardly bends down, licking his furrowed red-gray mustache. His glasses slide to the edge of his nose, as the slamming sound of a knock rises above the concert-level clamor of the classroom. As he walks over, a girl I know from another class, Tanya, asks, "Yo, why would you ever go to this class? It's terrible, and he's retarded." Her finger points o Mr. M, who, like a wounded animal is conversing with Ms. C, the disciplinarian.
Nervous fingers.
She's yelling at him. He's an idiot. A fool. He's lower than a child to her.
They fiddle. They twitch.
The students put on an act when they notice Ms. C. Hoodies are thrown off to reveal uniforms, and one kid (who is wearing a long-sleeve, green Polo shirt) fakes sleep to avoid confrontation. As the tall figure of Ms. C fades into the hallway, so does the dramatic play. Hoodies on, volume up. New Beethoven shit pumps from a very recently restarted laptop. The bell rings, adding to the cacophony. I stand up, the kids bolt out. I walk to Mr. M and clearly address why I'm present in his classroom. I outline that I'm observing now, but I'll be helping next week, stating we'll be having meetings together soon. He mutters, "They just keep goin' in and out," as the unshaven hairs on his chin hide in the loose skin of his neck. They mirror the cluttered state of his mind, the war-zone of the classroom.
"But they don't know... I'm watching... I'm watching them."
Many things can be pulled from my notes. It may be reasonable to question the purpose of having a teacher who seems mentally unstable (let alone severe lack of self-confidence) teaching a physical science class to a group of freshmen. Or, one could ask what thoughts course through a student of Mr. M's class on a day-to-day basis? Are they bored- would they rather learn than have what feels like a wacky study hall?
I don't know the answers to these questions, nor do I pretend to. But from what I've seen, I would think the kids prefer a learning environment over one without a purpose. As far as Mr. M goes, I believe he was once a much stronger guy, emotionally. From what I'm told, he was a chemist before a teacher, so he knows his stuff. His social skills are lacking however, although, deep down he seems like he wants to teach, like he wants to be the one that passes his knowledge on. He is just confused, he doesn't know how.
I'm not the only one in Mr. M's classes. My teammates (Siobhan, Misty, Cassie, and Samantha) have been there since we've been inside of our school. They've done an incredible job in his other periods- one that few adjectives can describe. To try and help the kids, they've recently been doing small group pull-outs, teaching whatever students they can reach in an attempt to create a positive impact. So, a quick shout-out to them for being so awesome. They deserve it.
Since I have been so drawn to nature recently (maybe because I'm missing the Arizona sun and wanting nice, Spring weather to kick in), I'll end by once again, channeling my inner Walt Whitman. The great, bearded transcendentalist once said, "I accept reality, and dare not question it." Reality is reality, and it is to be challenged, not questioned. Face reality head on and smile at its daring snarl.
-TWO-12
The steep lines of the hillside define green, gentle giants-
giants that wear ecosystems and habitats,
that drink sunlight and bathe in the calm pools of blue showers.
Their laughter, a joint effort, shakes the air itself
creating a tranquil wave that ventures the earth.
What does it mean to be an emerald titan?
To stand tall above the dirty soil,
with the warm glow of relaxation
simmering beneath a birch brow?
The soft scent of water's perfume
drifts like lilac on a breeze,
causing the peaceful ogres to blush.
Puffy slates of smoke
gaze at the rainbow beauty of the sunset.
The great audience points,
with slight hesitation,
and the ball of flames waves goodnight
while tiny violins ignite below.
What I'm Doing: Watching the Kansas (2) vs. Kansas St. (5) basketball game and cooking pizza.
212:
Today was my first day in a new class. I started because I had some open time during the beginning of my day. Since it was my first day, I decided to just observe and take notes, occasionally talking to kids. Here is my recollection, detailed below, from the pages of my blue, 70 page spiral notebook.
Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
Class started twenty-five minutes ago. Noise boils from a hodgepodge of students who are bustling in and out an open door. A couple of them sit in desks. They are bored, yet apathetic- their will burned by the classroom demeanor. I sit down, checking the underside of a table for gum. Today I am an observer. Soon, I'll be a performer, a teacher, an integral piece of the puzzle.
Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
Mr. M is now in front of a file cabinet near the door. He's muttering to the air as he shuffles a key into a lock. It opens. He looks inside with a sense of lost meaning- a man with a purpose undefined but yet, acknowledged by his own, confused eyes. I can almost see the gears inside his head clanking, turning, hitting each other in a mosh-pit fashion. The keys drop from his hands, and clank on the dirty tiles below.
Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
It's been forty minutes since the bell rang, but since it's first period, time has been extended. Breakfast has been handed out, and thrown wild like snowballs across the room. Mr. M struggles to hold a pair of random transparencies and paper, as he limps to a makeshift screen for the overhead. A kid screams from across the room at a student blaring techno from his laptop. "Yo, is that some new Beethoven shit or somethin' bull?"
The overhead turns on and two images flash against wrinkled paper. Someone sings, "Shut your fuckin' face Uncle Fucker" as Mr M. mumbles a 30 second lecture. I am surprised by the South Park reference.
Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
Almost releasing a transparency as he retreats to the security of his cluttered desk, Mr. M glares at a student. Then, he awkwardly bends down, licking his furrowed red-gray mustache. His glasses slide to the edge of his nose, as the slamming sound of a knock rises above the concert-level clamor of the classroom. As he walks over, a girl I know from another class, Tanya, asks, "Yo, why would you ever go to this class? It's terrible, and he's retarded." Her finger points o Mr. M, who, like a wounded animal is conversing with Ms. C, the disciplinarian.
Nervous fingers.
She's yelling at him. He's an idiot. A fool. He's lower than a child to her.
They fiddle. They twitch.
The students put on an act when they notice Ms. C. Hoodies are thrown off to reveal uniforms, and one kid (who is wearing a long-sleeve, green Polo shirt) fakes sleep to avoid confrontation. As the tall figure of Ms. C fades into the hallway, so does the dramatic play. Hoodies on, volume up. New Beethoven shit pumps from a very recently restarted laptop. The bell rings, adding to the cacophony. I stand up, the kids bolt out. I walk to Mr. M and clearly address why I'm present in his classroom. I outline that I'm observing now, but I'll be helping next week, stating we'll be having meetings together soon. He mutters, "They just keep goin' in and out," as the unshaven hairs on his chin hide in the loose skin of his neck. They mirror the cluttered state of his mind, the war-zone of the classroom.
"But they don't know... I'm watching... I'm watching them."
Many things can be pulled from my notes. It may be reasonable to question the purpose of having a teacher who seems mentally unstable (let alone severe lack of self-confidence) teaching a physical science class to a group of freshmen. Or, one could ask what thoughts course through a student of Mr. M's class on a day-to-day basis? Are they bored- would they rather learn than have what feels like a wacky study hall?
I don't know the answers to these questions, nor do I pretend to. But from what I've seen, I would think the kids prefer a learning environment over one without a purpose. As far as Mr. M goes, I believe he was once a much stronger guy, emotionally. From what I'm told, he was a chemist before a teacher, so he knows his stuff. His social skills are lacking however, although, deep down he seems like he wants to teach, like he wants to be the one that passes his knowledge on. He is just confused, he doesn't know how.
I'm not the only one in Mr. M's classes. My teammates (Siobhan, Misty, Cassie, and Samantha) have been there since we've been inside of our school. They've done an incredible job in his other periods- one that few adjectives can describe. To try and help the kids, they've recently been doing small group pull-outs, teaching whatever students they can reach in an attempt to create a positive impact. So, a quick shout-out to them for being so awesome. They deserve it.
Since I have been so drawn to nature recently (maybe because I'm missing the Arizona sun and wanting nice, Spring weather to kick in), I'll end by once again, channeling my inner Walt Whitman. The great, bearded transcendentalist once said, "I accept reality, and dare not question it." Reality is reality, and it is to be challenged, not questioned. Face reality head on and smile at its daring snarl.
-TWO-12
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