I don’t really don’t think that I have the emotional strength and energy to completely do this “update” of sorts justice, but I’ll try.
You are reading this because you are a person of love – for me, for the poor, and for children. Having this knowledge of who you are is important because I know that no matter what I write in this update, I will still be loved and supported – and this comforts me because I hardly have much energy to write.
All I ask of you is that you ponder and think about the title of this update – “Public Schools in America is Where Class Becomes Caste.” Think about what this means…think about the implications of what this means to my children – 99% new immigrants from down south (Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Panama, Ecuador, Mexico, and El Salvador). Most of my students have had the poorest and most interrupted educations in the world and now they are asked to completely turn things around to make a life for themselves. They are asked - with 3rd grade level skills, parents using welfare stamps, very little knowledge of English, and warped perceptions that education makes you less Latino – to compete with the wealthy, privileged students who have grown up with the best education, parents that always provided a meal and a place to sleep (a much, much more), in a house where education and going to college means everything from early on. How are they supposed to – or how could they want to, rather – compete in this type of society? Why should they even try?
They should try because they deserve the same opportunities, They should try because we know better – we know that God created all of us. We know that these are our young brothers and sisters. We know that they come from another country, but country and language are worthless in the Nation of God – the Nation of Humanity – the Nation that has no borders or prejudice. I ask that you fight this gap by doing your part to provide for my students some very needed resources that will allow me to catch these students up – or try at least; resources that will give them the incentive and engagement that they need to break stereotypes and become invested.
My students are incredible kids and have high ambitions and it is our job, our obligation, as the resourced to provide the equality in opportunities that the system will always fail to provide. Email me if you’re interested: andreweatworld32@gmail.com
for the wild,
andrew
The Feeling
Dear Loved Ones,
As I sit here, waiting for my laundry to dry in the Laundromat next to my apartment, I watch three alcoholics, wasted out of their minds, attempt to fight anyone who doesn’t shake their drunk hands or say hi when walking by. (They are all over 50 years old.)
This sight is more than just a terribly sad one. This sight inflicts a tense feeling inside me that I have felt almost every day over the past few weeks. I have experienced this feeling on the Subway, walking back to my apartment, and outside the window of my school. Although I can’t quite describe this feeling I can remember feeling it for the very first time.
It was a normal morning two and a half weeks ago. I took the 6 train up one stop and got out on 125th street station to transfer to the 4. I was in my normal place on the platform, at the normal time, feeling the normal state of extreme sleepiness only to find the normality interrupted by a haunting sound and motion behind me. Quick to turn my neck with the rest of the crowd I noticed a tooth fly to ground as a 17 or 18 year old girl holds her bleeding mouth, in shock. The woman who smacked her harder than any hit to the face I have ever seen was an unrelated, unknown 30 something mother. She had her 4 or 5 year old son right behind her. Waiting for the girl to strike back, the platform was silent. That was it though, and as the mom yelled at the girl something about protecting her son and old Hispanic woman screamed “Llame la policia! Llame la policia!” (call the police)
As confused as you probably are about what caused the altercation, I stepped onto the train. Two minutes into the ride I learned that the girl shoved the mom’s son out of the way as she walked off the train moments before and mouthed off to her when the mother informed the girl of her mistake. I learned this from the father who had to calm his young 5 year old son down. I listened with that feeling in full tact as the son showed extreme fear in his eyes asking “Daddy, are we safe?” The Dad informs the son why the young girl was hit and said “This is why we are on the way to school…so you can become smart and use your head instead of your hands to solve problems. Only people who aren’t smart enough use violence as an answer.”
As the feeling died down that day it crept up again on me the next day. Doing work in the teacher’s center at my school my attention was disrupted by the change in the noise outside. Instead of hearing the sound of kids playing I heard noise that sounded a bit off; it sounded like fighting. I was right and it took longer than what should be expected to stop it too. (the fighting wasn’t between students at my school but the school below us).
I felt the feeling again the next day as I was sharing my stories with another teacher who told me one of hers. Walking back from our school to the subway station she said she witnessed a horrific sight. She heard a man yelling at another man, “Give me my money!” while a third man was being chased by a pit bull. The dog caught up to the man and began tearing at his leg. At this sight the man who was yelling said, “This is what happens when you don’t give me my money” as his ‘associates’ were laughing hysterically at the violence.
Rather than share with you more stories of violence I have witnessed or heard about, thus furthering your fear for my safety, I’ll choose to discuss what this feeling has taught me or got me thinking about here. (And, by the way, I have never felt unsafe. Though there is violence around me it is directly a cause of the actions and bad choices of the participants. You should not fear for me, for I am safe). This feeling is one that gets my heart beating, my blood boiling, and my mind wandering. I think about what the father said to the son: “This is why we are on the way to school…so you can become smart and use your head instead of your hands to solve problems. Only people who aren’t smart enough use violence as an answer.” How do I get my students to see this? How do I stop my students from joining gangs and instead open up books and become community leaders? How do I invest them?
Seeing this violence makes me hurt so much for the state of our nation; for the state of our world. How is it that people come to find survival through violence? It’s one thing to read about it in the newspapers or see it in movies, but when you see it and it’s raw, it’s altogether different. This feeling is not one that is unique, I’m sure, because I know you would feel it to. This feeling hits me right in the face as to what my job has the potential do. If I can invest my students, show them how to solve conflict and teach them to succeed and rise above then maybe I can keep another young child from having to fear for his or her safety while waiting for the morning 4 train.
for the wild,
Andrew
As I sit here, waiting for my laundry to dry in the Laundromat next to my apartment, I watch three alcoholics, wasted out of their minds, attempt to fight anyone who doesn’t shake their drunk hands or say hi when walking by. (They are all over 50 years old.)
This sight is more than just a terribly sad one. This sight inflicts a tense feeling inside me that I have felt almost every day over the past few weeks. I have experienced this feeling on the Subway, walking back to my apartment, and outside the window of my school. Although I can’t quite describe this feeling I can remember feeling it for the very first time.
It was a normal morning two and a half weeks ago. I took the 6 train up one stop and got out on 125th street station to transfer to the 4. I was in my normal place on the platform, at the normal time, feeling the normal state of extreme sleepiness only to find the normality interrupted by a haunting sound and motion behind me. Quick to turn my neck with the rest of the crowd I noticed a tooth fly to ground as a 17 or 18 year old girl holds her bleeding mouth, in shock. The woman who smacked her harder than any hit to the face I have ever seen was an unrelated, unknown 30 something mother. She had her 4 or 5 year old son right behind her. Waiting for the girl to strike back, the platform was silent. That was it though, and as the mom yelled at the girl something about protecting her son and old Hispanic woman screamed “Llame la policia! Llame la policia!” (call the police)
As confused as you probably are about what caused the altercation, I stepped onto the train. Two minutes into the ride I learned that the girl shoved the mom’s son out of the way as she walked off the train moments before and mouthed off to her when the mother informed the girl of her mistake. I learned this from the father who had to calm his young 5 year old son down. I listened with that feeling in full tact as the son showed extreme fear in his eyes asking “Daddy, are we safe?” The Dad informs the son why the young girl was hit and said “This is why we are on the way to school…so you can become smart and use your head instead of your hands to solve problems. Only people who aren’t smart enough use violence as an answer.”
As the feeling died down that day it crept up again on me the next day. Doing work in the teacher’s center at my school my attention was disrupted by the change in the noise outside. Instead of hearing the sound of kids playing I heard noise that sounded a bit off; it sounded like fighting. I was right and it took longer than what should be expected to stop it too. (the fighting wasn’t between students at my school but the school below us).
I felt the feeling again the next day as I was sharing my stories with another teacher who told me one of hers. Walking back from our school to the subway station she said she witnessed a horrific sight. She heard a man yelling at another man, “Give me my money!” while a third man was being chased by a pit bull. The dog caught up to the man and began tearing at his leg. At this sight the man who was yelling said, “This is what happens when you don’t give me my money” as his ‘associates’ were laughing hysterically at the violence.
Rather than share with you more stories of violence I have witnessed or heard about, thus furthering your fear for my safety, I’ll choose to discuss what this feeling has taught me or got me thinking about here. (And, by the way, I have never felt unsafe. Though there is violence around me it is directly a cause of the actions and bad choices of the participants. You should not fear for me, for I am safe). This feeling is one that gets my heart beating, my blood boiling, and my mind wandering. I think about what the father said to the son: “This is why we are on the way to school…so you can become smart and use your head instead of your hands to solve problems. Only people who aren’t smart enough use violence as an answer.” How do I get my students to see this? How do I stop my students from joining gangs and instead open up books and become community leaders? How do I invest them?
Seeing this violence makes me hurt so much for the state of our nation; for the state of our world. How is it that people come to find survival through violence? It’s one thing to read about it in the newspapers or see it in movies, but when you see it and it’s raw, it’s altogether different. This feeling is not one that is unique, I’m sure, because I know you would feel it to. This feeling hits me right in the face as to what my job has the potential do. If I can invest my students, show them how to solve conflict and teach them to succeed and rise above then maybe I can keep another young child from having to fear for his or her safety while waiting for the morning 4 train.
for the wild,
Andrew
It's Their Culture
It’s their culture…the three words that have gotten me thinking lately…the three words that have made me feel both resistant and naive. These three words are the basis of what I need to share with you.
Although not all my students are Dominican, these three words are ones that refer most to the DR (Dominican Republic), and I will therefore be describing mostly stories from interactions with my Dominican students and my readings from celebrated (and incredible) Dominican author Junot Diaz. (I know I have told many of you that 100% of the students at my school are Dominican, but I was incorrect…it’s about 95%).
When you walk into my school – Academy For Language and Technology – it’s more likely that difficult-to-understand Spanish will be the first language you hear spoken – Spanish that takes the speed of Puerto Rican Spanish and mixes it with the cutting off of consonants that Cubans are famous for. This is Dominican Spanish, and I have grown to love it. (I find that if you put me near any Latin American culture for more than a couple weeks it’s not gonna be hard for me to find love for it).
More than the language, though, I have come to realize what makes a Dominican a Dominican (in a lot of ways) – social roles. Now, again, my opinions or theories have come from my brief interactions with my students, readings of Junot Diaz, and conversations with both American and Dominican teachers. Let’s start with the mujeres – that is the females. The role of Dominican woman seems to be a familiar one, but with a little bit of spice. A Dominican woman is expected (at least in the DR) to be in the house, cooking and taking care of the kids. This absolutely does not mean she is quiet and submissive though (that spice part). Rather she tells you how it is – especially to her kids. I know many parents in America tell their kids “You don’t know how good you have it.” Or begin sentences like, “When I was a kid…” (you fill in the rest). But, man, when these women say “When I was a kid” they make their children feel twice as angry and twice as crappy. They’ll even throw in a few “fea’s” (“ugly’s”) and “no te quiero’s” (“I don’t love you’s.”) This knowledge comes from a few places. One was when, today, the Dominican school counselor gave an amazing speech to my students in one of my classes on why graduating from high school is so important. She, in incredible Dominican Spanish, explained that she knew the place my students were in: New to the country, taking part in the great Dominican Diaspora (massive movement of peoples to a new place), with the same mami and the same papi who never seem to care. “They tell you things like “No te quiero” but they care. They love you.” She animatingly mimicked her mother, “I came to this country to give you all the opportunities in the world, hija! I came from the campo!“ (Hija meaning daughter, campo meaning Dominican ghetto). “She expected a lot from me…more than I was capable of.” The students silent, nodding their heads, wanting no one else to see that this too was, in fact, their home life. “And my Dad, machisimo as they come.” (We’ll get to the Domincan Father next.) “I would come home from school and show him how well I was doing in school…show him my ‘A’ papers and he shrugged it off like it was nothing.” The students paying attention more than ever. “I’ll tell you this: On my graduation day, my Dad, who never showed up to anything I have ever done in my life was there…sitting in the grandstand. As I received my diploma, I looked at him in the crowd as I saw tears running down his face.” The students tearing up at the imaginary sight of their fathers crying, so full of orgulloso (pride) and amor and physically showing it.
My knowledge of the Dominican mother comes also from Junot Diaz and his writings that have been called painstakingly realistic.
“ For a long time I let her say what she wanted about me, and what was worse, for a long time I believed her. I was a fea, I was a worthless, I was an idota. From ages two to thirteen I believed her and because I believed her I was the perfect hija. I was the one cooking, cleaning, doing the wash, buying groceries, writing letters to the bank to explain why a house payment was going to be late, translating. I had the best grades in my class. I never caused trouble, even when the morenas used to come after me with scissors because of my straight-straight hair. I stayed at home and made sure Oscar was fed and that everything ran right while she was at work. I raised him and I raised me. I was the one. You’re my hija, she said, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing. “ (Now I know that I said the ‘woman’ was supposed to stay at home, but the mother in this book is a single mother and therefore has to work, but I think you get the idea. You can also see where my Spanglish inspiration comes from).
The girl in who’s voice this passage is written in could very well be one of my students.
Now for the Dominican man; the manly man; the “machisimo.” Dominican men “never die virgins” it has been said. El hombre is expected above all else to be a ladies man…and to cheat...and to learn how to be a player from age 12 so future days of cheating won’t get a man caught. Even the “ugly” and “fat” ones find chicas to sleep with (Diaz writes). Last year one of the students at my school had a problem with a “maricon” student (the ‘f’ word that means gay) and said he would never work with a maricon again. The parents were called in to discuss matters and Papi, fresh from working on his car in his wife-beater and bling in sight, proceeds to tell the school administrators that his son shouldn’t have to be near a “mariposa” (butterfly, fairy). That’s that. “It’s their culture” we hear as an explanation of what we’re supposed to do when we encounter these positions.
My administration and colleagues are not the type of people who give up, who think that this mentality is ok. But what can we do? It’s their culture. Our students will be having sex, molding into their expected social roles so what am I supposed to do? It’s their culture…how can I change that? Who am I to even think it’s okay to try? It is, in fact, their culture and not mine.
I have decided this much: my class is not the DR. My class is not your home. While you are in my class you will learn to treat everyone with respect, work as a team, shake my hand and be courteous. You will not use derogatory language, and sexism and homophobia will warrant a discussion. In my class you will be expected to be leaders and to act like leaders.
If I have learned anything about change over the past month it’s this: Change comes from you; it comes from within. If you don’t change, try to do something different, streak, then you can’t expect change a thing in this world. So I will first change me, then bring change to my classroom, and only then can I expect any change from my students. Only then can I even come close to making an impact on their lives when they leave the classroom.
So, yes, this is their culture. But it’s also my culture. When you are in my classroom this is my culture, and your culture, and when cultures collide it’s a beautiful thing.
For the wild,
Andrew
Although not all my students are Dominican, these three words are ones that refer most to the DR (Dominican Republic), and I will therefore be describing mostly stories from interactions with my Dominican students and my readings from celebrated (and incredible) Dominican author Junot Diaz. (I know I have told many of you that 100% of the students at my school are Dominican, but I was incorrect…it’s about 95%).
When you walk into my school – Academy For Language and Technology – it’s more likely that difficult-to-understand Spanish will be the first language you hear spoken – Spanish that takes the speed of Puerto Rican Spanish and mixes it with the cutting off of consonants that Cubans are famous for. This is Dominican Spanish, and I have grown to love it. (I find that if you put me near any Latin American culture for more than a couple weeks it’s not gonna be hard for me to find love for it).
More than the language, though, I have come to realize what makes a Dominican a Dominican (in a lot of ways) – social roles. Now, again, my opinions or theories have come from my brief interactions with my students, readings of Junot Diaz, and conversations with both American and Dominican teachers. Let’s start with the mujeres – that is the females. The role of Dominican woman seems to be a familiar one, but with a little bit of spice. A Dominican woman is expected (at least in the DR) to be in the house, cooking and taking care of the kids. This absolutely does not mean she is quiet and submissive though (that spice part). Rather she tells you how it is – especially to her kids. I know many parents in America tell their kids “You don’t know how good you have it.” Or begin sentences like, “When I was a kid…” (you fill in the rest). But, man, when these women say “When I was a kid” they make their children feel twice as angry and twice as crappy. They’ll even throw in a few “fea’s” (“ugly’s”) and “no te quiero’s” (“I don’t love you’s.”) This knowledge comes from a few places. One was when, today, the Dominican school counselor gave an amazing speech to my students in one of my classes on why graduating from high school is so important. She, in incredible Dominican Spanish, explained that she knew the place my students were in: New to the country, taking part in the great Dominican Diaspora (massive movement of peoples to a new place), with the same mami and the same papi who never seem to care. “They tell you things like “No te quiero” but they care. They love you.” She animatingly mimicked her mother, “I came to this country to give you all the opportunities in the world, hija! I came from the campo!“ (Hija meaning daughter, campo meaning Dominican ghetto). “She expected a lot from me…more than I was capable of.” The students silent, nodding their heads, wanting no one else to see that this too was, in fact, their home life. “And my Dad, machisimo as they come.” (We’ll get to the Domincan Father next.) “I would come home from school and show him how well I was doing in school…show him my ‘A’ papers and he shrugged it off like it was nothing.” The students paying attention more than ever. “I’ll tell you this: On my graduation day, my Dad, who never showed up to anything I have ever done in my life was there…sitting in the grandstand. As I received my diploma, I looked at him in the crowd as I saw tears running down his face.” The students tearing up at the imaginary sight of their fathers crying, so full of orgulloso (pride) and amor and physically showing it.
My knowledge of the Dominican mother comes also from Junot Diaz and his writings that have been called painstakingly realistic.
“ For a long time I let her say what she wanted about me, and what was worse, for a long time I believed her. I was a fea, I was a worthless, I was an idota. From ages two to thirteen I believed her and because I believed her I was the perfect hija. I was the one cooking, cleaning, doing the wash, buying groceries, writing letters to the bank to explain why a house payment was going to be late, translating. I had the best grades in my class. I never caused trouble, even when the morenas used to come after me with scissors because of my straight-straight hair. I stayed at home and made sure Oscar was fed and that everything ran right while she was at work. I raised him and I raised me. I was the one. You’re my hija, she said, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing. “ (Now I know that I said the ‘woman’ was supposed to stay at home, but the mother in this book is a single mother and therefore has to work, but I think you get the idea. You can also see where my Spanglish inspiration comes from).
The girl in who’s voice this passage is written in could very well be one of my students.
Now for the Dominican man; the manly man; the “machisimo.” Dominican men “never die virgins” it has been said. El hombre is expected above all else to be a ladies man…and to cheat...and to learn how to be a player from age 12 so future days of cheating won’t get a man caught. Even the “ugly” and “fat” ones find chicas to sleep with (Diaz writes). Last year one of the students at my school had a problem with a “maricon” student (the ‘f’ word that means gay) and said he would never work with a maricon again. The parents were called in to discuss matters and Papi, fresh from working on his car in his wife-beater and bling in sight, proceeds to tell the school administrators that his son shouldn’t have to be near a “mariposa” (butterfly, fairy). That’s that. “It’s their culture” we hear as an explanation of what we’re supposed to do when we encounter these positions.
My administration and colleagues are not the type of people who give up, who think that this mentality is ok. But what can we do? It’s their culture. Our students will be having sex, molding into their expected social roles so what am I supposed to do? It’s their culture…how can I change that? Who am I to even think it’s okay to try? It is, in fact, their culture and not mine.
I have decided this much: my class is not the DR. My class is not your home. While you are in my class you will learn to treat everyone with respect, work as a team, shake my hand and be courteous. You will not use derogatory language, and sexism and homophobia will warrant a discussion. In my class you will be expected to be leaders and to act like leaders.
If I have learned anything about change over the past month it’s this: Change comes from you; it comes from within. If you don’t change, try to do something different, streak, then you can’t expect change a thing in this world. So I will first change me, then bring change to my classroom, and only then can I expect any change from my students. Only then can I even come close to making an impact on their lives when they leave the classroom.
So, yes, this is their culture. But it’s also my culture. When you are in my classroom this is my culture, and your culture, and when cultures collide it’s a beautiful thing.
For the wild,
Andrew
Four
Loved Ones –
The last thing I want “Stories From a Streaker” to turn into is a political blog, but I feel before I can move on I need to revisit my last post, one that prompted many of you to respond; one that I feel didn’t quite reflect my political beliefs; beliefs that I would consider to be in the incubation phase.
To be quick: I pledge allegiance to a Kingdom not of this nation (as Shane Claiborne and my wise friend Daniel put it). Now, I know that not all who come across this blog have the same Spiritual beliefs that I have…and for this to be relevant to those of you who differ (as I believe it is still relevant), then I would argue that many of you still have beliefs that go beyond the boundaries of a single nation; that you believe in people, in helping others; that this is in fact the foundation of who we are as humans. Many, if not all, of us believe that we are communal beings, born to be just as supportive as we are to be supported. So, again, I pledge allegiance to a Kingdom not of this nation. I pledge allegiance to a Kingdom that has no borders. It is because I pledge allegiance to this Kingdom that I feel the need to tear myself away from our political system (in some respects). Barack Obama will not bring the change we need. John McCain will not bring the change we need. I will bring the change we need. YOU will bring the change we need. Ghandi brought the change we need. Mother Theresa brought the change we need. I do still believe that my vote on November 4th can contribute to putting a person in the presidency who will do more good than harm, as I’m sure you do, and this is why I will vote and always stay informed. That’s all it should be though; a single vote. Not an argument, not a division, not something that tears apart from the Kingdom we are actually serving…the mission of Loving.
So as I hope this clarifies my last post, I also hope that it gets you to take a deep look at the Kingdom you serve as well, prompting you to ask the question: How can I best serve, or pledge allegiance to, my real, borderless Kingdom? How have I been doing?
A quote from Mother Theresa puts my beliefs into words perfectly: “Do not wait for leaders; do it alone, person to person.”
Let’s not wait. Let’s streak.
for the wild,
Andrew
The last thing I want “Stories From a Streaker” to turn into is a political blog, but I feel before I can move on I need to revisit my last post, one that prompted many of you to respond; one that I feel didn’t quite reflect my political beliefs; beliefs that I would consider to be in the incubation phase.
To be quick: I pledge allegiance to a Kingdom not of this nation (as Shane Claiborne and my wise friend Daniel put it). Now, I know that not all who come across this blog have the same Spiritual beliefs that I have…and for this to be relevant to those of you who differ (as I believe it is still relevant), then I would argue that many of you still have beliefs that go beyond the boundaries of a single nation; that you believe in people, in helping others; that this is in fact the foundation of who we are as humans. Many, if not all, of us believe that we are communal beings, born to be just as supportive as we are to be supported. So, again, I pledge allegiance to a Kingdom not of this nation. I pledge allegiance to a Kingdom that has no borders. It is because I pledge allegiance to this Kingdom that I feel the need to tear myself away from our political system (in some respects). Barack Obama will not bring the change we need. John McCain will not bring the change we need. I will bring the change we need. YOU will bring the change we need. Ghandi brought the change we need. Mother Theresa brought the change we need. I do still believe that my vote on November 4th can contribute to putting a person in the presidency who will do more good than harm, as I’m sure you do, and this is why I will vote and always stay informed. That’s all it should be though; a single vote. Not an argument, not a division, not something that tears apart from the Kingdom we are actually serving…the mission of Loving.
So as I hope this clarifies my last post, I also hope that it gets you to take a deep look at the Kingdom you serve as well, prompting you to ask the question: How can I best serve, or pledge allegiance to, my real, borderless Kingdom? How have I been doing?
A quote from Mother Theresa puts my beliefs into words perfectly: “Do not wait for leaders; do it alone, person to person.”
Let’s not wait. Let’s streak.
for the wild,
Andrew
Three
Yet another deviation from my typical “Stories” format (as school doesn’t start until September 2nd), I sit here in frustration with politics and with our nation. Why do we allow ourselves to constantly be divided? How do I allow myself to think one candidate will create the change necessary to help the least of these to the point that I get into petty arguments that only tear down instead of build up? These “Stories” have challenged me in so many ways because I have vowed to stay away from endorsing one candidate or one political stance over another and instead bring you my real stories…stories that will build rather than tear down. It is because of this vow that I have viewed the election in a different light.
One of my favorite authors, Shane Claiborne, writes in his book Jesus For President that “The [distinctly Kingdom] question for us is not how do we vote on November 4th, but how do we live on November 3rd and November 5th...voting is something we do everyday with our lives.” It is because of this that I have stayed away from campaigning for the candidate that I intend to vote for in the streets of New York. My time as a Christian, as an American, as a human being with privilege would be better spent by actually serving the poor, looking out for the widows and the orphans than annoyingly try to get others to vote for a candidate that I feel will be able to provide help to those same people. Certain and direct action vs. uncertain and indirect action. Easy, right?
It is still a problem to me, however, that in traveling back to my less-than-affluent neighborhood of Spanish Harlem from Lower Manhattan I notice that nearly all of the white, well-dressed folks get off the subway by the 96th St. stop…20 blocks south of my place on 116th. After discussing such observations with ten, twenty, and even forty year residents of Manhattan I find that the stop used to be 59th St…past that nearly no whites would be seen. (I know I discuss race a lot, and sometimes it’s more of a socio-economic commentary, but I can’t help but see the implications my skin color has every single moment of every single day where I live and where I work…a process that minorities have been studied to go through at a much earlier age…a process that many of the privileged never go through). The reason for the northern migration of “safer” and “cleaner” communities is directly attributed to the gentrification that residents below the poverty line continue to face and fight in Upper Manhattan and Harlem today.
There are still racial and economic divisions in our country that are staggering. Just a couple weeks ago statistics on high school graduation rates in New York City were released and, as my eyes are going from dry to a bit watery, only 32% of black males graduated….only 1/3 of African American males graduated high school on time this year. This, mind you, is in the midst of one of the crowning achievements of the Bloomberg (Mayor) and Klein (Chancellor of Education) administration that 51% of all high school seniors graduate this year. How has the New York public school system not graduated more than 50% of its seniors in decades? I can’t respond to that, other than the fact that local, state, and national politics inevitably plays a role. No one, still, gets it right. Clinton failed the system just as much as Bush has…and it’s not their fault…it’s our fault…it’s the American peoples fault for not doing more, for sitting back, for simply running the race and NOT streaking in it. Don’t mistake my point for thinking you personally have the obligation to involve yourselves in education through direct action…but those issues that you hold so dear in your decision to vote for a candidate, or better yet to not vote for another candidate, need to not just be beliefs that you vote for on November 4th, but guiding values that lead you to action on November 3rd, November 5th, and every other day of the year. If you think a big government is the wrong way to go, then do your part and act. You probably say that you would rather give money to organizations and contribute your time than give it to the government in taxes…well do it then! And don’t simply donate your money, but donate your time, your skills and resources that you have been blessed with. A big government would pay workers to do some of these community service jobs…so if they don’t exist then your money isn’t the only thing that can provide the help. And if you think big government is the answer to the suffering in our nation, than don’t sit on your behind and expect government to do all the work. You might think that you are more selfless because you vote for what’s perceived as the “bleeding heart” party, but you are no selfless person if you don’t act or give.
I myself struggle with all of these things and don’t perceive to be above my own words. These are reflections of mine…and reflections are more of a personal thing than anything else. I need to continue to act if I want the world to be changed. This is the first time that I have truly understood Ghandi’s now (overused) words.
This is why we must streak.
for the wild,
andrew
One of my favorite authors, Shane Claiborne, writes in his book Jesus For President that “The [distinctly Kingdom] question for us is not how do we vote on November 4th, but how do we live on November 3rd and November 5th...voting is something we do everyday with our lives.” It is because of this that I have stayed away from campaigning for the candidate that I intend to vote for in the streets of New York. My time as a Christian, as an American, as a human being with privilege would be better spent by actually serving the poor, looking out for the widows and the orphans than annoyingly try to get others to vote for a candidate that I feel will be able to provide help to those same people. Certain and direct action vs. uncertain and indirect action. Easy, right?
It is still a problem to me, however, that in traveling back to my less-than-affluent neighborhood of Spanish Harlem from Lower Manhattan I notice that nearly all of the white, well-dressed folks get off the subway by the 96th St. stop…20 blocks south of my place on 116th. After discussing such observations with ten, twenty, and even forty year residents of Manhattan I find that the stop used to be 59th St…past that nearly no whites would be seen. (I know I discuss race a lot, and sometimes it’s more of a socio-economic commentary, but I can’t help but see the implications my skin color has every single moment of every single day where I live and where I work…a process that minorities have been studied to go through at a much earlier age…a process that many of the privileged never go through). The reason for the northern migration of “safer” and “cleaner” communities is directly attributed to the gentrification that residents below the poverty line continue to face and fight in Upper Manhattan and Harlem today.
There are still racial and economic divisions in our country that are staggering. Just a couple weeks ago statistics on high school graduation rates in New York City were released and, as my eyes are going from dry to a bit watery, only 32% of black males graduated….only 1/3 of African American males graduated high school on time this year. This, mind you, is in the midst of one of the crowning achievements of the Bloomberg (Mayor) and Klein (Chancellor of Education) administration that 51% of all high school seniors graduate this year. How has the New York public school system not graduated more than 50% of its seniors in decades? I can’t respond to that, other than the fact that local, state, and national politics inevitably plays a role. No one, still, gets it right. Clinton failed the system just as much as Bush has…and it’s not their fault…it’s our fault…it’s the American peoples fault for not doing more, for sitting back, for simply running the race and NOT streaking in it. Don’t mistake my point for thinking you personally have the obligation to involve yourselves in education through direct action…but those issues that you hold so dear in your decision to vote for a candidate, or better yet to not vote for another candidate, need to not just be beliefs that you vote for on November 4th, but guiding values that lead you to action on November 3rd, November 5th, and every other day of the year. If you think a big government is the wrong way to go, then do your part and act. You probably say that you would rather give money to organizations and contribute your time than give it to the government in taxes…well do it then! And don’t simply donate your money, but donate your time, your skills and resources that you have been blessed with. A big government would pay workers to do some of these community service jobs…so if they don’t exist then your money isn’t the only thing that can provide the help. And if you think big government is the answer to the suffering in our nation, than don’t sit on your behind and expect government to do all the work. You might think that you are more selfless because you vote for what’s perceived as the “bleeding heart” party, but you are no selfless person if you don’t act or give.
I myself struggle with all of these things and don’t perceive to be above my own words. These are reflections of mine…and reflections are more of a personal thing than anything else. I need to continue to act if I want the world to be changed. This is the first time that I have truly understood Ghandi’s now (overused) words.
This is why we must streak.
for the wild,
andrew
Two
This week I became a teacher…but I don’t really feel all that different. No epiphanies have come, no revelations…not even much pure excitement or intense frustrations…just more stress than I’ve ever experienced before, which has come mostly from putting together all of my lesson plans and creating posters for them with 18 hours of work each day and a “lucky” 5 hours of sleep each night. I know it’s all going to be worth it though, especially once I can stop treating my students like guinea pigs. I am, after all, their actual summer school teacher doing real instruction, unlike student teaching. This is definitely real and I still haven’t grasped it yet, which is pretty difficult when the direction of your life has shifted as dramatically as mine has in such a short period of time. Just three months ago I was waiting to hear from Teach For America, waiting to turn them down if I were accepted into the corps. I thought my immediate post-college life was supposed to be lived in Los Angeles for a few years, working with companies I was equally as passionate about entailing working with college (or prospective college) students. New York wasn’t even a thought on my mind since it wasn’t my top choice for placement. All I knew for sure was that I was going to return to Argentina for the month of May, leaving just 2 days after my graduation.
One moth in Argentina, a week in NYC, and three weeks at home later I found myself taking on the greatest challenge I have faced in my life up to this point, in a brand new place with brand new people learning brand new skills. While I’d love to go on and on about my feelings, my stresses, my difficulties, and my joys here I really want to write about a 30 second conversation that I was a part of today that has, so far, had the greatest
impact on me (during my interaction with my students).
Just 3 days into being a teacher and I have already faced my first collision with racial awareness. Part of the preparation for Institute was to read specified texts on all sorts of topics: lesson planning and delivery, elementary and secondary literacy, and many more. They were all great, necessary, and engaging texts that I have begun putting into practice and am using in my teaching. The one that hit me the most, however, was not about instruction or instruction planning at all. It was, rather, the diversity and culture text. At one point I was even called out pretty clearly within the book. When discussing the idea of racial identification and white privilege, it read that all future corps members, of all races, genders, and sexual orientations, need to be aware of these things in their classroom. It emphasized, however, that those who are white, male, affluent, straight, able-bodied, Christian, or able speak English need to pay special attention to what’s discussed in this text. What I found was that I did not resonate with much of thoughts on racial awareness that was discussed, which was the point of calling me, and corps members like me, out. I had never even been faced with the thought that being white gives you privilege in this nation and in this world. I also have never identified with a “white group” or “male group” or “affluent group” or any of these groups (well, except Christian but I don’t’ count that because it’s comfortable often times to be a Christian within these white, affluent communities…which is interesting when you read in the Bible that Christians are supposed to face ridicule…maybe something to think about.) The text explained that there is a process by which black, Latino, poor, and other minority children go through in identifying with one of those descriptions. This was demonstrated today when one of the girls in my class, Julia we’ll call her, made a comment to another student while we were reading:
“You sound white when you read.” she said to the other student we’ll call Joe.
“…Thanks.” responded Joe, seriously and defensively after a pause.
“No offense Mr. Simmerman,” said Julia as I was trying to figure out how to respond.
Both Julia and Joe are Hispanic.
While the readings in the text prepared me to understand why comments like these are made and where they come from, it didn’t offer a crash course on tackling these issues. As a brand new teacher, let’s just say my response was less than preferable (I favored ignoring the comment and quickly moved on rather than address the situation).
There are two primary questions about this conversation I would like to pose. The first is why did Joe respond in that way? Why did he say thanks, and what does that mean? This is almost as troubling to me as the comment made by Julia. The second question, one that’s more of a reflection that I will surely be thinking about throughout my time in the Bronx, is how can I combat the view that being educated and being able to read is viewed by many students as being “white” – something that is clearly not desirable by these adolescent students? The no offense part tells me that Julia doesn’t necessarily categorize me as the “white” person that has brought her to the conclusion that “white” is something bad, but still, when you have peer pressure saying that the moment you strive to be educated you are no longer a part of your race, then how can students find any desire to advance their learning in school?
As part of something I hope to do in every installment of “Stories from a Streaker,” I will leave you with (or put somewhere within the story) a quote that either specifically pertains to something within the installment or has simply came to mind while writing. The following quote is one I just ran across from President Lyndon B. Johnson:
“Until justice is blind to color, until education is unaware of race, until opportunity is unconcerned with the color of men's skins, emancipation will be a proclamation but not a fact.”
Four decades later, we have a long way to go, and this is why I streak.
for the wild,
andrew
One moth in Argentina, a week in NYC, and three weeks at home later I found myself taking on the greatest challenge I have faced in my life up to this point, in a brand new place with brand new people learning brand new skills. While I’d love to go on and on about my feelings, my stresses, my difficulties, and my joys here I really want to write about a 30 second conversation that I was a part of today that has, so far, had the greatest
impact on me (during my interaction with my students).
Just 3 days into being a teacher and I have already faced my first collision with racial awareness. Part of the preparation for Institute was to read specified texts on all sorts of topics: lesson planning and delivery, elementary and secondary literacy, and many more. They were all great, necessary, and engaging texts that I have begun putting into practice and am using in my teaching. The one that hit me the most, however, was not about instruction or instruction planning at all. It was, rather, the diversity and culture text. At one point I was even called out pretty clearly within the book. When discussing the idea of racial identification and white privilege, it read that all future corps members, of all races, genders, and sexual orientations, need to be aware of these things in their classroom. It emphasized, however, that those who are white, male, affluent, straight, able-bodied, Christian, or able speak English need to pay special attention to what’s discussed in this text. What I found was that I did not resonate with much of thoughts on racial awareness that was discussed, which was the point of calling me, and corps members like me, out. I had never even been faced with the thought that being white gives you privilege in this nation and in this world. I also have never identified with a “white group” or “male group” or “affluent group” or any of these groups (well, except Christian but I don’t’ count that because it’s comfortable often times to be a Christian within these white, affluent communities…which is interesting when you read in the Bible that Christians are supposed to face ridicule…maybe something to think about.) The text explained that there is a process by which black, Latino, poor, and other minority children go through in identifying with one of those descriptions. This was demonstrated today when one of the girls in my class, Julia we’ll call her, made a comment to another student while we were reading:
“You sound white when you read.” she said to the other student we’ll call Joe.
“…Thanks.” responded Joe, seriously and defensively after a pause.
“No offense Mr. Simmerman,” said Julia as I was trying to figure out how to respond.
Both Julia and Joe are Hispanic.
While the readings in the text prepared me to understand why comments like these are made and where they come from, it didn’t offer a crash course on tackling these issues. As a brand new teacher, let’s just say my response was less than preferable (I favored ignoring the comment and quickly moved on rather than address the situation).
There are two primary questions about this conversation I would like to pose. The first is why did Joe respond in that way? Why did he say thanks, and what does that mean? This is almost as troubling to me as the comment made by Julia. The second question, one that’s more of a reflection that I will surely be thinking about throughout my time in the Bronx, is how can I combat the view that being educated and being able to read is viewed by many students as being “white” – something that is clearly not desirable by these adolescent students? The no offense part tells me that Julia doesn’t necessarily categorize me as the “white” person that has brought her to the conclusion that “white” is something bad, but still, when you have peer pressure saying that the moment you strive to be educated you are no longer a part of your race, then how can students find any desire to advance their learning in school?
As part of something I hope to do in every installment of “Stories from a Streaker,” I will leave you with (or put somewhere within the story) a quote that either specifically pertains to something within the installment or has simply came to mind while writing. The following quote is one I just ran across from President Lyndon B. Johnson:
“Until justice is blind to color, until education is unaware of race, until opportunity is unconcerned with the color of men's skins, emancipation will be a proclamation but not a fact.”
Four decades later, we have a long way to go, and this is why I streak.
for the wild,
andrew
One
So I’m sitting on the bus on my way to school, getting ready to meet the children I will be teaching and responsible for passing on during summer school as part of the Institute and I decided that I would try and collect some thoughts to share. It’s long.
First, the 2008 NYC Corps is awesome! Everyone here is so amazing and nice and accomplished. I have two roommates from Princeton, my teaching partner went to Yale, and have met students who went to Columbia, Stanford, Brown, UPenn, and nearly every top school in the nation. Needless to say I feel a little inadequate in the intelligence arena, but that’s ok because we all got into TFA and we are all here and leadership and relentless pursuit is more key than where we got our education. Oh, and there are about 7 girls for every guy, so I’m pretty stoked about that ratio.
Also, as some of you may be surprised to hear, I’m one of the most conservative corps members here. There is something comforting about being around people with similar political ideologies, however as a Christian there are certain beliefs I have that alienate me. I would still consider myself morally conservative, so being in this environment has been a little tough, and surprising.
What’s been tougher, however, is hearing the stories from colleagues of very diverse and low-income backgrounds about their interactions with the affluent white community, especially those calling themselves Christian. One of the girls in my small group got thrown out of her house in high school as gentrification began taking over this city. They speak of Harlem being an up-and-coming city: more investment bankers are locating there; it’s becoming “cleaner” and “safer”; and new affordable sky-rises are being built. What happens to the “thriving culture” all the books use to describe this area of the city though? What happens to the people who have live there for years? The residents of Harlem, some of the poorest people in our nation, are now being placed on the streets, or forced to live in the dangerous projects. It’s no wonder these people turn to drugs, have a distorted view of white people, and decide to solicit themselves for sex. I am reminded of my favorite quote by (my favorite) artist Banksy:
“The human race is an unfair and stupid competition. A lot of the runners don’t even get decent sneakers or clean drinking water. Some people are born with a massive head start, every possible help along the way and still the referees seem to be on their side. It’s not surprising some people have given up competing altogether and gone to sit in the grandstand, eat junk food and shout abuse. What we need in this race is a lot more streakers."
Teach For America corps members are streakers.
Last year at Pepperdine I was able to have an incredible small group discussion with one of my favorite authors Shane Claiborne. When asked about his political beliefs and stances on controversial issues within the “Church,” he said that he refrains from telling people what to think, or even what he thinks. Rather, he explained to us how he simply tells stories that convey meaning. He said this is what Jesus did; what Mother Theresa, who he studied with, did. He said that no one can argue with stories. (Now of course in politics stories are used out of context all the time; but they usually aren’t stories that come from real experiences the candidates have with real communities…they were simply stories from a five minute conversation with or the reading of a letter of a “real person” in America). I bring this up because this is how I am going to choose to frame my emails, hopefully. I won’t tell you that I think you should vote for candidate X because he has a better education plan; I won’t tell you I think it’s important for everyone to fight for educational equity or seek justice. I will, rather, write to you stories of my 9th and 10th grade students reading on a 5th grade level; I will share my interactions with students who fall asleep in class, unable to concentrate because they didn’t eat last night or have a bed to sleep on. I hope that my experiences will speak to you in whatever way they should. I hope that you won’t allow my experiences to be something to look at and say you are proud of me because I am fighting for equality. I hope they instead that they spark a reaction for you to look for ways to create your own stories as well; to step out of your comfort zones and embody a different “white” or “affluent” or “Christian” person that the poor are used to being affected by. I know many of you have created these stories and experiences…but continue to find more, to do more. I hope that reading my emails won’t be easy because I want to challenge you as I am challenging myself; I can’t be alone in my efforts or it won’t be for much. This isn’t going to be easy for me, I can already tell. But I am doing it. It’s only the beginning for me and there will be times that I want to quit, but with your support I know that it won’t be an option for me.
I apologize for this long email but it has been an accumulation of thoughts over the past week as I haven’t had enough time to sit down and finish all my thoughts in one sitting. I love you all and your support means the world to me.
for the wild,
andrew
First, the 2008 NYC Corps is awesome! Everyone here is so amazing and nice and accomplished. I have two roommates from Princeton, my teaching partner went to Yale, and have met students who went to Columbia, Stanford, Brown, UPenn, and nearly every top school in the nation. Needless to say I feel a little inadequate in the intelligence arena, but that’s ok because we all got into TFA and we are all here and leadership and relentless pursuit is more key than where we got our education. Oh, and there are about 7 girls for every guy, so I’m pretty stoked about that ratio.
Also, as some of you may be surprised to hear, I’m one of the most conservative corps members here. There is something comforting about being around people with similar political ideologies, however as a Christian there are certain beliefs I have that alienate me. I would still consider myself morally conservative, so being in this environment has been a little tough, and surprising.
What’s been tougher, however, is hearing the stories from colleagues of very diverse and low-income backgrounds about their interactions with the affluent white community, especially those calling themselves Christian. One of the girls in my small group got thrown out of her house in high school as gentrification began taking over this city. They speak of Harlem being an up-and-coming city: more investment bankers are locating there; it’s becoming “cleaner” and “safer”; and new affordable sky-rises are being built. What happens to the “thriving culture” all the books use to describe this area of the city though? What happens to the people who have live there for years? The residents of Harlem, some of the poorest people in our nation, are now being placed on the streets, or forced to live in the dangerous projects. It’s no wonder these people turn to drugs, have a distorted view of white people, and decide to solicit themselves for sex. I am reminded of my favorite quote by (my favorite) artist Banksy:
“The human race is an unfair and stupid competition. A lot of the runners don’t even get decent sneakers or clean drinking water. Some people are born with a massive head start, every possible help along the way and still the referees seem to be on their side. It’s not surprising some people have given up competing altogether and gone to sit in the grandstand, eat junk food and shout abuse. What we need in this race is a lot more streakers."
Teach For America corps members are streakers.
Last year at Pepperdine I was able to have an incredible small group discussion with one of my favorite authors Shane Claiborne. When asked about his political beliefs and stances on controversial issues within the “Church,” he said that he refrains from telling people what to think, or even what he thinks. Rather, he explained to us how he simply tells stories that convey meaning. He said this is what Jesus did; what Mother Theresa, who he studied with, did. He said that no one can argue with stories. (Now of course in politics stories are used out of context all the time; but they usually aren’t stories that come from real experiences the candidates have with real communities…they were simply stories from a five minute conversation with or the reading of a letter of a “real person” in America). I bring this up because this is how I am going to choose to frame my emails, hopefully. I won’t tell you that I think you should vote for candidate X because he has a better education plan; I won’t tell you I think it’s important for everyone to fight for educational equity or seek justice. I will, rather, write to you stories of my 9th and 10th grade students reading on a 5th grade level; I will share my interactions with students who fall asleep in class, unable to concentrate because they didn’t eat last night or have a bed to sleep on. I hope that my experiences will speak to you in whatever way they should. I hope that you won’t allow my experiences to be something to look at and say you are proud of me because I am fighting for equality. I hope they instead that they spark a reaction for you to look for ways to create your own stories as well; to step out of your comfort zones and embody a different “white” or “affluent” or “Christian” person that the poor are used to being affected by. I know many of you have created these stories and experiences…but continue to find more, to do more. I hope that reading my emails won’t be easy because I want to challenge you as I am challenging myself; I can’t be alone in my efforts or it won’t be for much. This isn’t going to be easy for me, I can already tell. But I am doing it. It’s only the beginning for me and there will be times that I want to quit, but with your support I know that it won’t be an option for me.
I apologize for this long email but it has been an accumulation of thoughts over the past week as I haven’t had enough time to sit down and finish all my thoughts in one sitting. I love you all and your support means the world to me.
for the wild,
andrew
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