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…

A Portrait of the Artist as a 42 year-old man in Brooklyn

3/29/13

My journey began with a dream about an apple.  I’m not sure if I was eating the apple or if it was simply half eaten on the floor somewhere in a room where more significant events occurred, but for some reason it was the first thing that I remembered when I woke.  Nevertheless, my first thoughts as I jumped out of bed had something to do with technology being a metaphor for life, creating this artificial narrative that continues to develop out of the ether causing needs where none existed before.   The rest I admit is a bit murky.  I’m finding it hard to recall all of it. But such is the nature of dreams. 

One thing that I do remember is the urgency I felt immediately after I awoke to get it all down.  I’m pretty sure that the details of the dream do not concern me.  I’m more concerned with the epiphany that I received from the experience.  It seems to be gone now but something else lies remaining in its wake.  Along my journey I notice some things. I guess I could call them obstacles, but as my periphery reveals a half full glass of water next to my laptop I’ve decided to instead call them guideposts.  I remember back pain, a smelly garbage bin, a piece of misplaced mail, a crazy singing lady and a long overdue trip to the bathroom. To give these obscure items context, I have to reference the movie The Matrix.  There is a scene when Morpheus informs Neo that all inhabitants of the matrix were programmed to be his enemy and would do any thing to protect the program.  The primary protectors of this artificial reality were the agents who would kill anyone who did not belong.  My writing process is kind of like this; a process filled with obstacles both internal and external, which threaten my ability to put thoughts on paper.  I assume that every writer has his or her own unique version of this; today mine started with a pain in my back. 

It was only one of a series of aches that I have been experiencing since the beginning of the week when I discovered I was sick…again.  For some reason, my immune system has been compromised this winter and I have been getting sick quite frequently.  The frustrating thing about it all is that of all the times that my body could have shut down it chose to do so during my week’s vacation from my very stressful teaching job.  The same job that I have constantly complained is the number one distraction to my writing process.  So, my first waking moment after my apple dream was a reminder that even though I am feeling much better than I did in the beginning of the week, I’m still not quite over this bug.   That realization was kind of like a moment in a video game when the hero takes some enemy fire and his energy level gets reduced from a hundred percent down to ninety.  But even with ninety percent inspiration left I was still determined to sit at my computer and write about my dream and the fading epiphany it left me. 

Guidepost number two revealed itself in the form of a full garbage bin.  On my way to my laptop, which will serve as the Holy Grail in this Knight’s tale, I smelled the foul stench of garbage coming from my kitchen.  And since I am the only male in the house capable of taking out the garbage and since garbage day is today, it is of course my responsibility to gather and bag all of the garbage and recycling in the house and make sure that it is promptly placed on the corner before the garbage men come to collect it.  The alternative of course would be waiting until Monday, which of course is unacceptable.  This seemingly minor distraction might not be a big deal to most, but to a guy like me who sometimes lives in his head it is a major shift in the delicate balance of the universe.  I sometimes resort to silly self-absorbed practices like thinking back to the days when I had nothing but time to sit and contemplate both my navel and my next great literary work.  Household responsibilities in my mind become nothing more than obstacles created by the ongoing conspiracy to suppress free thought and dampen creativity.  Damn that infernal garbage!  Energy level now at eighty percent. 

Once I decided to man up and take out the trash I noticed another looming responsibility in my periphery.  It was a piece of misplaced mail.  We have recently been assigned a new mailman who has acquired the remarkable skill of dropping off a piece of misplaced mail in our box every single day since we became a part of his route.  The package in question had been sitting by the door for about a week and it looked important.  And since the inner boy scout in me could not bare to look at this important looking package any longer, I dropped off the garbage and did the mail man’s job.  This particular guidepost has to do with my O.C.D. tendency tie up loose ends and reset the universe when it seems to be going off balance. The only down side is that this obsession sometimes distracts me from balancing my own universe.  I realize this and the effect is almost paralyzing.  Energy level: sixty-five percent. 

At this point of my journey, writing began to feel pointless.  The Advil I took had not yet taken effect, and as I trudged forward to the stranger’s apartment to deliver her mail I was tempted with thoughts of going back to bed and sleeping until noon until my thoughts were abruptly interrupted by some peculiar singing. Normally I wouldn’t have paid it any attention especially since Brooklyn is filled with atonal crooners who I’m sure sound good in their own minds. But the strange thing about this woman’s song was that it was a single word repeated over and over, a word that sounded oddly like my wife’s name Devasha.  “Vasha Vashaaaa…Vasha Vashaaaaa” Coincidence? Probably. But I could also attribute it to my subconscious and the little matrix agents at work creating more barriers to my creative process.  One of the hardest things that any struggling writer or artist can admit is that the ones we love can sometimes unwittingly distract us the most.  It is not their fault of course.  They just want our attention. They also remind us that we play a major role in handling the daily minutia of taking out garbage and making sure that the neighbors a block away receive their mail. The constant awareness of this paradox that suggests that in order to be a responsible man I must give up what makes me a person is constantly looming.  Even since I have started writing these observations my wife has already interrupted me three times with news about mechanic estimates on her car and other house and family related things, some of which do not fall under the category of minutia.  Soon, my children will be awake and the last of my energy will be spent getting cereal for my son as he asks me repeatedly to turn on The Power Rangers and my daughter asks for my help on her English homework.  And there is a fifty/fifty chance whether or not I will do any writing for the remainder of the day.  But again, they’re my children and it’s not their fault.  Energy level: twenty-five percent.

I finally reached my epiphany during the last slightly vulgar but much needed interruption of my journey to the grail.  Let’s just say that before I took my seat at my desk I required some place else to sit.  I mention this inappropriate subject because many parents are aware that the bathroom is often the only place of refuge to momentarily escape the pressures of this sacred duty.  I wouldn’t be surprised if many of our greatest conundrums of parenting and life in general were solved there.  It is also the place that marks the end of illnesses like colds and flu.  On this day it was the last destination that I visited before I realized that the epiphany I was looking for from my apple dream was that I was just full of shit. All of the obstacles that seemed to be getting in the way of my process were just constipated thought. Ironically, it was the one place on my road to the page where I became focused enough and healthy enough to write this narrative created out of the ether on m Apple laptop.  Thanks to Steve Jobs for giving the expression "an apple a day" a whole new meaning.