Fourth of July

Charles W. Cullen Bridge

I just ran across the CW Cullen Bridge, a new suspension bridge spanning the Indian River Inlet near my mom's new house in Delaware.  Aside from awe at the view and at the feat of engineering, the bridge also awed me as a testament to the collective work, collective decision-making, and collective commitment of the people of this state.  Over the past 75 years, the people of Delaware have paid for, planned, and erected five bridges over this inlet, and this one is particularly stunning.  Today, on the 4th of July, I am craving reassurance that Americans still value commitment to the public good and are still capable of working together for the benefit of all of our citizens.

The bridge, illuminated at night, is visible from Mom's deck.

This place that I'm in, surrounded by Delaware Seashore State Park, is one of the places where our tax dollars work.  And it reminds me, as the Douglas State Forest reminds Pierce, that "there are things we all own together."  And that they're worth valuing and worth defending.  For as Pierce points out, "We are deciding, in 100 different ways, whether or not a political commonwealth is actually something we can afford any more. The conversation is going on out of earshot, but it is the low murmur behind dozens of different decisions being made as regards budgets and spending and, of course, The Deficit, which is many things, but most egregiously, it is an alibi for selling off our national birthright piecemeal . . . "  Contrary to the dominant discourse, these are decisions - not necessary sacrifices.  It is a decision in Pennsylvania to invite Shell oil to help itself to our state's natural resources while systematically starving the schools and libraries of Philadelphia.  It is a decision to give Philly students 20% less state funding than the students in neighboring school districts.  These may not seem like decisions - because no one asked us - but our representative bodies are quietly making these choices for us.  And I fear that they will quietly dismantle our entire commonwealth if we don't find new, more forceful ways to speak up.

Red Tails

As an avid film-goer, I was disappointed in Red Tails. The corny dialog and clunky editing either constrained or mangled the performances of the many talented actors involved. The film seemed intent on rushing through its more dramatic scenes to get to the fast-paced, CGI-enhanced action sequences. One reason I went to see the film was to show my support for the first action movie with an all-black cast; I left feeling that the film had denied that cast the opportunity to showcase their considerable talents.

As an educator, I think the film provides an exciting, relatable snapshot of an important contribution to American history but does not, on its own, invite a critical investigation of that history. Many of the people involved in the film, from producer George Lucas to screenwriter John Ridley, cited their interviews with the Tuskegee Airmen as the most inspiring part of the project. Honoring these brave citizens’ stories was a driving force in bringing the film to the public. For me, the film did not do enough to harness the power of those testimonies. If I were to show this film in my class, I would hope to pair it with testimony – either filmed interviews with Tuskegee Airmen or even better, an actual visit. The website of the Greater Philadelphia Chapter, Tuskegee Airmen, Inc is a great resource for personal histories and information on scheduling a visit in my area. I would ask students to compare the primary sources (actual testimony) with the secondary source of the film. How might the demands and constraints of making a movie (satisfying plot, exciting characters, a “happy ending,” a time limit, etc.) distort its portrayal of history?

Another approach to using this film in a history class would be to ask students to explore the larger context that is occasionally hinted at but largely absent in the film. What was it like for African American soldiers to travel in Europe, where there was less institutionalized racism than in the US? To what extent are European attitudes about race reflected in the film and especially in the romance between Joe and Sofia? How did the soldiers’ experiences in Europe help shape the civil rights movement in the United States? What was it like for the Tuskegee Airmen to bear the double burden of representing their country and representing their race in combat? I might ask students what scenes they think are missing from the film, and I would invite them to pen or perform their own scenes.

Finally, I find the most compelling aspect of the film to be its role in the history of African Americans in the film industry. What challenges have African Americans faced in the American film industry? What are some of the stereotypes of African Americans in film and to what extent does Red Tails defy or reinforce them? Why were major studios unwilling to fund the production of Red Tails? What does the future of African American film look like? Are there any films that focus on contemporary issues of race and injustice in America? What films still need to be made?

In a brief interview at the NYC Premier, actor Nate Parker suggests that the film might inspire young people to tackle some of today’s injustices: “You look at these men and the adversity they faced. It’s not too different from the adversity we’re facing right now, the issues we’re facing whether it be education, the prison industrial complex, the economy, unemployment in our community . . .” This is what I imagine to be the best possible outcome of the film, and as always, I'm hungry for resources and strategies that will help me engage my students in conversations around these critical social justice issues. The latest New Yorker article (on mass incarceration on America) and the latest issue of Rethinking Schools (on the school-to-prison pipeline) have me brainstorming ways that I can incorporate an examination of the prison system into my curriculum. But unfortunately, kid-friendly resources on this topic are few and far between. Who's gonna make the exciting, relatable action movie about the prison industrial complex?

B Corps and the American Dream

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the cracks in the American Dream. The idea – founded on capitalism – is that anyone with some ingenuity and a willingness to work hard will be able to make it in our country. We are supposed to be a “meritocracy” – a place where individual merit matters more than family background. But the latest news is that it’s “Harder For Americans to Rise From Lower Rungs,” that there is in fact more social mobility in countries like Canada, Britain, and Denmark. This – along with so much of the news of the past few years (Citizens United, the financial fiasco, the privatization of schools and prisons, the Occupy movement) – have me convinced that the wealthy have grown far too powerful in America.

How did we stray so far from our ideals? Why are we letting the middle class shrink? Why is this graph (part of a study published last spring) so ridiculous?

Is the American Dream crumbling? Has capitalism gone too far? Is America at the end of its rope?

Despite my temptation to entertain apocalyptic scenarios, I do think there’s some hope. And today, it comes from an unlikely source – The Economist – where I read a recent article on B Corps.

I first learned about B Corps (short for benefit corporations) last spring from a New York Times article called “A Scorecard for Companies with a Conscience”. Basically, B Corps are a new type of legal entity – a corporation that is not only beholden to its shareholders but also to its social and environmental mission. It allows corporations like Patagonia to make decisions that benefit its workers and the environment even if it means their profits won’t grow as quickly.

I was psyched. Ever since then, Steve and I have been buying our coffee from One Village, a certified B Corp. I haven’t seen a lot of other products bearing the B Corps label. Apparently, there are only six states that have passed B Corps legislation. California is the latest (the new legislation there is what prompted the Economist article), but legislation has been introduced in five other states (including my very own PA!).

For me, B Corps represent a step forward in reconciling capitalism and our responsibility to humanity. Some folks that I’ve talked to (or raved to in an idealistic frenzy) about B Corps have suggested that because they don’t rely on “pure” capitalism, they actually mess with the economy and could end up doing more harm than good. My two thoughts on this are: 1) Tax breaks and subsidies for big corporations aren’t “pure” capitalism either, and 2) Even if it turns out hard to prove B Corps’ direct benefit to society and the environment, I will still believe that they are a step in the right direction. They represent an effort to divorce capitalism from greed and unite it with social and environmental responsibility, to combine business savvy with ethical intelligence. This kind of thinking is what our economy needs in order to begin to mend the cracks in the American Dream.

P.S. Cool Philly side note: While checking out the B Corps website, I came across this: "In December 2009, the City of Philadelphia passed legislation creating the country's first tax break for certified sustainable business." Yeah Philly! Apparently, the non-profit behind B Corps, B Lab, is based in Pennsylvania. And apparently, Mayor Nutter was serious about distinguishing Philadelphia as a forward-thinking green city. And apparently, we're awesome.

Happy New Year (for real this time)

My last post in 2011! And my first in four months. The school year hit me hard, and I've been struggling to keep my head above water. I've also been writing in a few other places. I have been blogging for Teaching Tolerance here, and I wrote my second piece for Upside Down World, published here. But my resolution for 2012 is to establish a real writing routine, and I hope that leads to more posts for On My Way. The winter break has afforded me some time to get out of the city, to reflect and write. Since my 9th graders and I are in the midst of a poetry unit, I have felt inclined to linger on poetic paradoxes, think in metaphors, and indulge in the sensory details that make good imagery. The resulting poem (below) was inspired by making squash soup, running in the Wiss, walking on the beach in Cape May, and a glass of red wine.

The Knife I Have And The Knife I Don’t Have

The knife I have

Pries open a butternut squash,

And a door to ten thousand years ago

Gives way with a reluctant creak.

Globules of water

Rise from the orange flesh

And two round pits stare up at me,

Ready to be excavated.

Creamy baldness on the outside,

Nest of wild hair within.

I sink my hands into cold tangled guts,

Into the rich, ancient brain of a squash,

Buttery tendons, stringy synapses

Grown in perfect darkness

(darkness that never knew light,

never knew it was darkness)

slimy tentacles wrapped

around hard, slick thoughts

that I squeeze into the light.

I wonder, Women of Oaxaca,

How did you open your squash?

And did you cook it?

Or eat it raw?

And how did you know

That the seeds you culled

From the soft, fertile mess

Were fatty diamonds?

Like meat that did not need

To be tracked, hunted, killed.

Only planted.

Planted and replanted

Until cities grow up around it

And fall and grow again.

Until I am sitting on my kitchen floor,

Wet diamonds dazzling on my countertop,

A hot river churning in my dishwasher,

Neat chunks of squash roasting in my oven.

The knife I don’t have

Slices through the surface of things,

The fine skin of light and color

That coats the world’s hot guts.

It pierces the predictable light of the city.

The thin soup that fills my apartment,

The fluorescent tedium of my classroom,

The geometric patches,

Shrinking on sidewalks

And glossy on windowpanes.

It stirs up the sun on the water,

Makes a hot shivering wound

On the creek in the Wissahickon,

A glare that I can’t look into

And can’t look away from,

A scrape in the skin of the woods.

On a cloudy afternoon,

When the light lies on the sea

Like a broad, flat fish on display,

I wish I had a knife.

Silver scales stretched

From shore to horizon,

And one cut could expose

The red flesh of the sea,

Waiting just beneath the

Skinny shimmery skin.

Waiting with its seeds

And its slimy brain,

Its immaculate darkness.

But that is the knife I do not have,

The knife to cut open the ocean

And dig out the world’s wet soul.

Happy New Year

I’ve noticed that teachers have a different sense of time than most people. For us, the year begins in September and ends in June. So when I say “last year,” I’m talking about last school year, not necessarily 2010. And when I think about “this year,” I’m thinking about the inexorable cycle that will be set into motion as soon as my students walk into school.

Starting Tuesday, students will show up in my classroom. They will cycle in and out, surging through the halls in rhythmic throbs like blood pulsing through the body. I will hand them papers, and they will hand those papers back to me, and then I will hand them back to them. The papers will go out and back, out and back, relentless as the tide. And just like hearts don’t stop beating and waves don’t stop breaking, there will be no stopping the cycle – of students, planning, and grading. The only things that stop the cycle are heavy snow and June.

So this Monday, Labor Day for most people, will be my New Year’s Eve. These weeks in late August and early September are times of fervent repentance and reflection, honoring last year’s successes and atoning for last year’s failures. Always the New Year’s resolutions are valiant and numerous: I will read while my students read, write while my students write. I will update my grades every week on Tuesday without fail. For every phone call home to problem-solve, I will also make a phone call home to praise. I will maintain my sanity and compassion throughout the year. I will maintain my relationships with my colleagues. I will journal about my practice. I will take care of myself.

The cycle tends to batter these resolutions, sometimes beyond recognition. “Maintaining my relationship with colleagues” goes from meaningful discussions about our lives and practice to perfunctory grunts in the copy room. “Taking care of myself” goes from leaving work by 4:30 so I can get in an afternoon run to buying myself a large bag of Cheetos on my way home at 6:00.

Still, it feels good to make new resolutions at this time of year. It gives me a sense of purpose, clarity, excitement; crafting my own resolutions helps me to counterbalance the heavy resolutions that are imposed on my colleagues and me by the District. And each year, I am getting a little better at it – better at creating the kinds of resolutions I can keep and keeping the resolutions that matter. I’m learning to listen for the melodies above the steady drumbeat of the cycle, and I’m finding ways to balance structure and improvisation, the routine and the novel.

My New Year’s Eve will bring high expectations, gnawing anxiety, and no champagne. But I’ve had two months to get perspective, to engage with the world outside my classroom, and to imagine what this new year could be. So, unlike January 1, my New Year’s Day will feel like a real fresh start - fresh eyes, fresh challenges, and a fresh sense of what’s possible.

Email to SheRox

Hello,
Thanks for contacting me. My mom, sister, and I participated in last weekend's SheRox triathlon in Philadelphia, and I wanted to get in touch with you about an issue related to the staff and volunteers at the event. What attracted my group to the SheRox triathlon was our impression that it would be a fun, empowering experience to swim, ride, and run with other supportive female athletes. In many respects, this was true! Unlike co-ed triathlons in which I've participated, there was a great feeling of camaraderie, support, and shared enthusiasm among the women that we met. For many of the women I spoke to, the all-women, no-judgment aspect of this event seemed to be an important factor. It seemed odd to me (and to many of the women I spoke with) that the announcer for the event was male. In my view, some of his comments were clearly charged by the difference in gender. For example, he referred to all the participants by first name. In all the of the athletic events I've ever witnessed or participated in, this was never the case. He also made comments about the women (participants in the triathlon) that he had met at a bar the night before and about women's bodies in general (for example, that we were "hot"). I imagine that he meant well and was aiming to be supportive, but some of what he said could still be interpreted (and was interpreted - by many of the women I spoke with) as insensitive or even offensive. I chose to do this triathlon because I wanted to be in the presence of other female athletes; I would have felt a lot more comfortable if the announcer had been one of them.

Also, when I was starting my 5k, I had the disturbing experience of being referred to as "gorgeous" (as in, "go for it, gorgeous!") by one of the volunteers. I would take offense at this comment in my normal everyday life, but at a triathlon exclusively for female athletes, I found it to be entirely unacceptable. I would have liked to spend the first 5 minutes of my race concentrating on my performance instead of feeling irked and objectified by someone who had volunteered to support me! Is there any kind of training for volunteers in this regard? It seems that at least a little sensitivity training would be appropriate for this type of event.

I would like to participate in this event again next year, and I would like to encourage my female friends to join me. I will not do either, however, unless I know that things will be different in the future.

Many thanks,
Kathleen Melville

Finding my way in Mexico

It’s Friday afternoon in Oaxaca, and thunder has just driven me inside from our patio. We’ve had a lot of rainy days and few sunny ones. Last weekend brought an unexpected adventure: During breakfast Sunday morning, the crown on Steve’s front tooth came loose. Luckily, we were able to arrange an emergency appointment with a very kind, very capable dentist. One of the first things he did, however, without any warning, was yank the dead tooth out of Steve’s mouth. It didn’t cause him any pain, but it made me pretty woozy. I was really trying hard not to pass out as I translated the dentist’s explanation of Steve’s X-ray, but before long, I was dizzy, ashen, and having trouble feeling my fingers. The dentist helped me into his chair to recover, and Steve smiled down at me, gap-toothed, urging me to “jutht relakth”. It’s one of those images that immediately inscribed itself into my lasting memories of our relationship.

This weekend finds me a little homesick (for family and friends but also for the liberty to make myself a bowl of cereal at midnight or to sink into my own squishy couch) but also swimming in thought about all the new experiences that this place and my program have provided. I’m chipping away at an understanding of the culture here - both prehispanic culture and contemporary culture. I’m learning that “culture” – as a word, an idea, a lived reality - is even more elusive and complex than I thought, but I’m also slowly piecing together a new understanding – of people here and of my own cultural identity.

I am wondering about the two indigenous boys (brothers from the countryside who speak Chontal as their native language) who are living in our guest house and who Magdalena, our hostess, introduced as “new members of the family.” She is kind to them, but they do the work of servants – sweeping, washing dishes, cleaning out the birdcages, mopping the floors. In exchange, they will be able to go to school, an opportunity they probably wouldn’t have in the villages where their families live. The arrangement – which I really know very little about – makes me a little uncomfortable. Is it okay to exchange child labor for educational opportunity? Do cultural factors (for example, large, inclusive families in which all members – young and old – work to support the family business) make this arrangement more tenable than it might seem to me? How do these young men perceive their situation?

Being here has also helped me notice some things about my own culture. After visiting archeological sites, puzzling over codices, reading, and talking with various professors, I’ve learned a little bit about the ways that Zapotec and Mixtec people saw the world before the Spanish arrived. The main thing that strikes me is that they didn’t seem to compartmentalize the world as much as my culture has taught me to. For example, the sacred and the secular were far less distinct. Praying was not a personal, spiritual pursuit but a practice essential to keeping the world going. Priests and leaders were experts in making clouds rise out of mountains and rain fall onto fields. I see “religion” as something that can be chosen or not chosen (not unlike a product) and “god” as a separate entity from myself and the world, someone that occasionally floats into my consciousness. I don’t think the words “religion” or “god” would have made much sense to a person living in the Zapotec empire. The powerful forces of the world pervaded their lives and their surroundings more deeply than those words suggest.

Here, in modern Oaxaca, I see other places where my categories don’t seem to fit. The boundary between indoor space and outdoor space is much less defined than I’m accustomed to. It’s easy to see through, hear through, and smell through walls or doors, and most homes are designed to allow for fluid passage between rooms and courtyards, inside and outside. “Art” is another category that doesn’t seem to fit the way I’m used to. Art is not a special realm where a special breed of people (artists) reign and where the rest of us sometimes visit on weekends. In so many of the communities I’ve visited, people do art because it’s part of life. Women make comales or pots from clay so they can use them to cook tortillas and beans or so they exchange them at the market for other things they need. People learn to carve and paint wood and teach their children and neighbors to carve and paint wood so that they can distinguish their community as a tourist attraction and earn money to build schools. People pave roads with stones, cover floors in tile, paint homes, make clothes; all of these are both necessary activities and acts of art. I feel lucky to be in a place where art is everywhere – the Virgen de Guadalupe painted in the knot of a tree, red poster art clinging to blue stucco walls, vessels made of clay or stone or gourds on the table, flowers and crosses arranged in stone in the road under my feet – and I hope I can bring some of this back with me. I hope that I can learn to see my world as less divided, that I will see fewer products (religion, art, space) and more opportunities to create something.