Commitment to the Rescue!

Writing is a funny thing.  It is that paradoxical zone where nothing and everything is sacred; where real life and the spectacle we create on the page coexist.  One cannot exist without the other, fear has no place here because it will offset the delicate balance that one must achieve to write something worthwhile.  I am completely aware of this because I am afraid.  I guess celebrated writers like Hemingway and Poe relied on substances to alleviate their fear.  Although I am no expert on these writers or what they actually feared, I do know mine.  Yes, I know them well. 

The first is good old fashioned confidence.  Do I have what it takes to be a good or even great wielder of words?  I guess this remains to be seen.  But it goes even deeper than this.  I think that this greatness might only be discovered if I am willing to pull the veil off of some of the things that make me unhappy.  And when I do this I have to be unapologetic.  So here it comes.  Last night I had a date night with my wife, which is already a step in the wrong direction because the very sound of words “date night” are analogous to nails on a chalk board to me.  I remember my friend once clowned us for having such a night.  He decided to announce to everyone on the street as we passed by him on our way to the restaurant where our legendary night would take place.  I was mortified, because in my mind his laughter highlighted the cliché’s that are cosigned by so many married couples because in our search for sanity, common ground, and spontaneity, there is the irony that marriage by its very nature is often in direct conflict to these goals.  I suppose last night was no different.  Every date night I find myself saying a little prayer to God that my cynicism doesn’t rear its ugly head and undermine our efforts.  I guess I’m a purest in the sense that I feel like date nights, Valentine’s and anniversaries seem too unnatural to evoke any real bliss.  Not to mention, it always helps when you have something in common with your date.  There are days when I feel that besides bills and parenting my wife and I are often hard pressed to find something that we both enjoy immensely.  Of course there are those things that we both kind of enjoy, but that immense joy seems to always be out of our grasp.  And whenever we are given the rare opportunity of a date night it doesn’t take long before this unfortunate reality is exposed.  Now here’s the part where I must be honest and unapologetic.  Although I love my wife and I know she loves me, I can’t ignore the nagging little buzzing in my brain that says “you are boring her to tears” whenever we go out and I would be lying if I said that she didn’t bore me a little as well.  Feelings like this scare the shit out of me because there is always another gremlin in the back of my mind that makes me wonder what will happen if I continue to bore her or vice versa.  We have had countless discussions, which often morph into long drawn out arguments where ex-boyfriends and girlfriends are thrown into the mix and the conversation spirals into a dark murky place that sometimes takes days to dig ourselves out. 

One of the major catalysts for these explosions comes when she starts going on about her past and how glorious it was when she was in her twenties, a time that was not as glorious for me because I was in my thirties and dealing with the pre-midlife crisis that occurs after obtaining a liberal arts degree and the bubble bursts on all of the rock star fantasies that artsy folk like me hold so dear.     Although it was a time when I obviously fell in love with her (We met when she was 23 I think), there were many growing pains that came after, most of which could be attributed to her adjusting to life in committed relationship with a man who was 7 years older.  I of course had to adjust as well.  Needless to say these adjustments led to many painful moments that I would sooner bury than engage in nostalgia.  Another factor is that our nostalgias don’t match.  Her coming of age occurred in the nineties, the age of Bad Boy entertainment and Biggie Smalls, soon to be followed by everybody’s friend Jay-Z, a time that I view as the dark ages of music and art in general.  My time came just before that in the age of Native Tongue, A Tribe Called Quest and De La Soul.  Need I say more?  So the question remains, how do two people with such contrasting sensibilities manage to hold it together?  The answer of course is love but often more paramount is our value of commitment. 

Commitment is the blessed and cursed glue that holds us together.  So during those times when I’m rolling my eyes when she is shoving pictures in my face from Instagram or going on and on about her hair or how her sense of fashion has evolved since the nineties; when she feels a migraine coming when I’m going on about how much pop culture has changed for the worst or raving about some comic book I just read, commitment often swoops in and saves the day.  Commitment is the caped crusader of our marriage.  Although it saves us often from imminent disaster, its methods are unconventional and often messy.  Like when extinction level events like arguments occur it will unabashedly send in children armed with cute little faces and high prepubescent voices to redirect our attention to seemingly trivial things like juice and Chef Boyardee.  It will often redirect our attention from internal strife to greater threats of stability like shut off notices and threats of foreclosure.   It’s in moments like these when we transform from enemies to allies never questioning why we must band together.  And when the dust settles, we discover that without love, commitment means nothing.  And sometimes getting to that place requires superhuman strength.   I think the theme of our next date night should be a celebration of our collective superpowers. 

Good Days in February

It is African American History Month again and I find myself with the same anxiety that I feel every year about this time when my students start getting restless, questioning why they must endure my lessons, answer my questions and read my required texts.  And although keeping them motivated is a monumental task, it is a labor that always bares fruit.  I am no psychologist but I am certain that each time I lead my students through the tumultuous annals of our complex history there are distinct psychological effects.  Students rebel against this history in ways that are both varied and intriguing.  It seems that the very thought of reading any piece of literature that involves Jim Crow, slavery or racism sometimes hurls even the most docile African-American student into attack mode.  These assaults fluctuate between the passive aggressive to the overt, ranging from students falling asleep to flat out causing disturbances aimed at the primary goal of removal from class.  At first, I thought that I was imagining such behavior but now that I am in my ninth full year of teaching, I know that the correlation between the month of February and student behavior is real.  

But there is one variable in these occurrences that I have not mentioned; me.   Although I have often questioned my part in all of this, I am only just now discovering that I am just as affected by oft-difficult to-digest parts our history as my students. The beginning of my discovery began in AP English class when I introduced Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.  In week one of the text reactions were mixed.  Although some were excited about the aspect of finally leaving Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 behind, they soon discovered that in terms of complexity they might have been leaving the frying pan meeting the fire.  What I didn’t expect however, was the level of resistance that I would receive in getting them to accept it.  Much of the rebellion came from the promise of reading The Color Purple, another African-American classic, which many of them were familiar due to its Hollywood interpretation. Although I could blame my decision to teach Ellison on my principal’s suggestion, I must confess I was more interested in giving my students a literary experience that was not as influenced by the big screen.  And not to discount Alice Walker’s work, what I have discovered is not only can Ellison’s writings cause discomfort in students, but in educators as well especially the educator is Black and male. 

About two days ago I gave these students the task of finding a pivotal moment in the text that marks the beginning of the narrator’s journey to maturity.  One such moment is in the prologue when the narrator’s grandfather gives him deathbed instructions on how to survive in the white man’s world.  My first reading of Invisible Man was over twenty years ago.  And although I cannot recall any deathbed instructions from my elders, I remember my father once telling me that my life would always be difficult and that things would never come easy for me.  His words have now come full circle especially in my last five years as a teacher where I have met at least three incarnations of Dr. Bledsoe, the head of the college where the narrator attended and the man who later removed him from that same school teaching him the true meaning of power and the trappings and disappointments that admiring our own can sometimes entail.  It is only now at age 43 that I am able to recognize my father’s words as a pivotal moment in my life. And because of that moment, much of my life’s journey has been a quest for confidence. On the other hand, my students are in the middle of their pivotal moments and I can only assume that many if not most don’t grasp their significance.  And it would seem that they resist any connections that they may have to Ellison’s text because many of the pivotal moments that his main character experiences are painful at best. Either they don’t think that the events that render this character invisible are possible in their lives or they choose to ignore them if they are.  I cannot find fault in this because it is a symptom of youth.  But even my awareness of this does not alleviate the tension that exists in my African-American and Afro-Caribbean classroom; a tug of war between what the world was and what it will be for blacks in this country; one side pulling for the memories no matter how tragic to remain alive, the other pulling with all its might to remain unaware.

My awareness of this tension was further enhanced when I introduced my tenth graders to text called A Lesson Before Dying by Ernest Gaines where the main character is an African-American teacher in the Jim Crow south that has been given the task of helping Jefferson, a native of the town a chance to die with dignity after being wrongfully accused of murder and sentenced to death. In contrast to the twelfth graders, tenth grade students are a bit more expressive about their feelings about the goings on in a classroom and unlike the seniors, they expressed their disdain for this book from day one.  I have come to expect this from them.  In fact many of the comments that I have heard since we have started have been somewhat innocuous. But other behaviors such as sleeping in class and incessant talking have increased.   In addition to these behaviors, two recent comments have provoked my interest. They were both related to my blackness and they both questioned its authenticity.  Again, I must state my biases.  Like the main character, I have experienced many moments of frustration working for a system that doesn’t always have the best interests of the students at heart.  And there are some passages in this book that echo my occasional feelings about my job in general.  For example, the main character Grant often reflects on the lives of his former students that have been stifled by Jim Crow and wonders whether or not he is even making a difference.  Although the Jim Crow era is long past, I have still witnessed my students fall to unemployment and the criminal justice system.  And coincidentally one of the comments I mentioned earlier was made by a student who is currently facing such a dilemma.  I don’t think I will ever forget the look of sincerity in his face when he asked me “are you black?” simply because I used the word “outstanding” in class.  The other comment of course was that black men don’t use that word.  I thought about this later and thought to myself how can I teach my students to be outstanding if they can’t even say the word?

These occurrences have taught me that there is an abundant fear of words in black class rooms; words that tell where we have been and words that tell us where we should be going.  This is why as a black male English teacher there are times when I feel just as invisible as the narrator in Invisible Man and just as disillusioned as Grant Wiggins in A Lesson Before Dying; but not every day, just the bad ones. So with that in mind I can only hope and pray that the pivotal moments in my student’s lives involve words of encouragement that alleviate fear and that the good days outnumber the bad.  And if I’m lucky, maybe some of those good days and pivotal moments happen in my classroom.

Obama's Speech: Are Our Kids Better?

Last night I had a remarkable conversation with my mother.  And although I am ashamed to admit the rarity in which we talk, I am even more ashamed that we rarely get passed small talk and family updates.  During our discussion two interesting topics came up.  The first was a recent concert she attended where the popular 1960-70's band Sly and the Family Stone performed.  The other topic was Barack Obama’s recent speech concerning race and the Trayvon Martin verdict.  

While we discussed Sly my mother confessed that although she had an excellent time at the event, she didn’t possess the stamina to wait for Sly and his band to finally enter the stage.   And when she confessed this point I had remembered from old pictures from an old photo album that she didn’t need to.  She was fortunate enough to have witnessed him in his hay day.  And in my envy of such an historic moment I started thinking about any moments in my life that could compare.  I came up with two, the time I saw Prince at Madison Square Garden and the time I saw David Bowie at Jones Beach.  My mother marveled at the latter confessing that in all of her 62 years she had never paid to see a white performer.  In my attempt to explain the appeal of Bowie the best I could come up with was that he was cool and composed kind of like a white Marvin Gaye who plays rock music. And from that description we both agreed that there is something very special about people who command the attention of large amounts of people without all of the drama and jumping around like many of today’s artists.  While we discussed all of these things I started to realize that although we are both very capable conversationalists rarely did we ever at least knowingly devote so much time to discussing music, politics and race at the same time. 

My mother’s statement about never witnessing a white performer started me thinking about the president’s request for the country to have more personal conversations in their homes, churches, etc. about the topic of race.  I also thought about Obama’s optimistic statements about the future and how he believes that based on his observations of his own children, they are better than us.  This statement evoked many thoughts and questions in my mind.  For example, it is only now in my adult life that I can even mention without shame that I attended a Bowie concert.  If I had asked my parents for money to see him when he was in his hay day, I don’t think that my request would have been met with much enthusiasm.  It would be safe to say that seeing Sly would have been much more acceptable.  And although some of the blame can be placed on them for this attitude, I can’t deny that the times were also a major factor.  In those times our education about race began at birth.  We had to be conscious of both our identities and the ‘enemy’s’.  And although I attended a school that was 50% white and 50% black and I studied and played on the same sports teams as this so-called enemy, their was still a voice in my head that kept me constantly aware that getting too close to him would be frowned upon by my family and my black peers.  The blatant economic and legal inequities that my parents experienced of course were the reason for this distrust.  So when they reached adulthood they were content living their lives in a community where everyone looked like them.  In this regard they were no different than any other working class Americans in any other homogeneous community.  My parents knew that the melting pot that many politicians had spoken about was an illusion and our conversations about race although rare reflected these feelings.  Any discussions about this topic with them or other black mentors were to protect us from the realities that affected their lives when they were young.  They intended to give us tools of awareness to deal with those realities.  Their preparation I believe has yielded varied affects. 

In the communities where I have taught the African-Americans who reside there have inherited their parents’ sensibilities about race. Distrust of “the man” is still an acceptable way of life because their education about him and the threat he represents is especially apropos when these same individuals arrest their fathers or kill their peers on a regular basis.  The president to his credit did touch on this, but the question that remains is how do the tools from the past apply when the discussion reaches outside of the community where the enemy could be a professor who grades them unfairly or boss who doesn’t give a much deserved promotion?  As a teacher how do I show my students that the purpose of the endless discussions, homework and essays is to prepare them for the larger world where individuals that have zero regard for them have the power to manipulate their destinies?  This is hard to achieve when the very individuals you want to prepare regard you as the enemy because of your pattern of speech or because you wear a tie to work. 

Many of these kids attend schools where they are 99% of the population. In many of their minds the enemy that exists outside of their communities is still invisible even though he casts a long shadow called the NYPD. I have often wondered if they even care about this apparition that so many have warned them about.  And why would they even consider having a discussion about him if in their immediate realities he doesn’t even exist?   The president said that the younger generation is better.  I have personally witnessed this in the advanced English class I taught.  But I still wonder if discussions are being held when we, possibly the last generation to be so preoccupied with the subject is not in the room?   Are the discussions the president witnessed happening because of his status as president?  Does class play a role in these discussions? Are the youth better because they are better equipped to discuss these matters or have they just decided that the subject is just not that interesting? I decided to ask my own children.  Both of their responses were quite telling.  The first was from my son CJ age 3. 

Me- CJ what color are you? 

CJ- I don’t know.  Can I have some apple juice?

I asked my daughter Autumn, age 10 a different question.  This was her response.

Me:  When you are around your friends and family your age, do you ever talk about race?

Autumn:  What do you mean race? 

Me:  You know black people; white people; how we relate to one another?

Autumn: No, we never talk about race.

I noticed that in both of these conversations neither of my children had any concept of race, which may prove one thing.  All of these concepts like race, politics, etc. are preoccupations of older generations that have possibly been using too much jumping around and drama to get their point across.  Maybe we have done so much talking about these issues amongst ourselves and when given the opportunity dictating them to our children that maybe they are unifying under the common goal of escaping the drama. Maybe all they want is a little peace and quiet and some damn juice.  Maybe our kids are better.  We’ll just have to wait and see.

Two Responses to the Verdict via Q-Tip

1.  "What are laws if they ain't fair and equal?"
- Q-Tip

2.  "Chill for a minute Doug E. Fresh said silence"
- Q-Tip

 "

A Moment of Silence

4/17/13

I was listening to my favorite podcast this afternoon and during the introduction the host +Aisha Tyler made some brief but heartfelt remarks about the Boston Marathon tragedy.  She basically encouraged her listeners to not let this tragedy get us down and that a few evildoers in the world should not destroy life for the rest of us.  I agree of course and I also feel like kind of an asshole since the only thing that I have been writing about for the last two days is a trivial issue with work.  It is unfortunate that it takes major tragedies like this to remind us that our troubles are not really that bad.  Lives were lost and limbs were separated from bodies.  My life is really not that bad.  I am also grappling with the idea that since things like this are a part of our history, I should find a way to rip myself away from my occasional self-absorption and recognize what I should be putting in print.  Is this what separates the good writers from the bad?  Since I have been bold enough to take on the mantle of writer is it now my responsibility to be aware of every cataclysmic event that happens around the world? I’m not sure if that is even possible, but I guess I should try.  It is possible that my insights on things like Boston would probably matter to more people, because in tragic times like these people want someone to articulate what they cannot.  The only problem is I’m not sure if anyone would want me to speak for them.   I realize that it takes a tremendous amount of confidence bordering on arrogance to put myself in the position to represent what a mass of people might be thinking, which is why I mostly speak for myself.  But what I have found is that this habit has left me with a very short list of readers.  

There is one thing that I’m sure of though.  This was a horrific event and the citizens of Boston showed tremendous courage in finding their way through the maze of emotions that have resulted from it. And before I go into another self-absorbed rant about my writing process, I’ve decided that not much can be said except that my prayers go out to those people and the most prolific thing that I can offer at this moment is silence…