Details Make the Reader See

Posted on September 9, 2012 by Mark E.P. Roberts

I am teaching four courses this school year.  I apparently oversold myself during my interviews.  I have seniors and sophomores.  It has been an adjustment getting used to classes which meet daily for forty-five minutes.  For the first two weeks, the bell invariably caught me in mid-sentence.  As a testament to their conduct, the students remained seated until I completed my thought.

I have pulled the students into my world with the old stories I told and retold at my old school.  They already know my refrain, “I’m from Shipley Terrace.”  They all smile when I tell them about how I met my wife while “doing the DC dance.”  I demonstrate my moves on the dance floor all those years ago, and they invariably ask me to “do the DC dance” when we pass one another in the cafeteria.

I have learned almost all the names.  Senior English focuses on world literature, while sophomores concentrate on literary analysis.  I again begin the year with short stories I enjoy.  Seniors read “Mrs. Dutta Writes a Letter” by Chitra B. Divakaruni, while sophomores explored Edward P. Jones’ “The First Day,” and Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl.”  My first writing assignments lean more on autobiographical musings, as they tend to relax the students before we tackle more formalized structures.  Everyone likes to write about themselves.  “You are an authority on you,” I remind them.

Whether reading or writing, I also emphasize the importance of details in writing, especially fiction.  On the first day, in all classes, I hand my students a blank sheet of white paper.  I tell them that every writer begins at the same place they do–with an empty slate.  Onto it flow words carefully selected to lure the reader in.  I tell them about diction and syntax and the impact both have on understanding.  I point to the many books in my class library and then at one of the paintings I hung on the wall.  “Just as the artist uses techniques to create a multi-dimensional representation on a flat surface, so too do writers.  This year,” I continue,”we will study and master those techniques.”

“Details make the reader see,” I repeat over and over again as we read.  “The tighter you weave the image, the more warmth it will provide.”  “Like a blanket,” one boy asks.  “Yes, like a blanket.”

Seniors are doing a descriptive writing assignment on “the oldest thing you own.” Sophomores are describing their childhoods.  In both classes, students must engage all five senses and tell a story.  “I am the lazy reader with many things to do.  Why should I take time out of my hectic day to read your words. The ultimate purpose of writing is to be understood.  Make me understand.  Details make the reader see.”

They seem to believe me.  The first writings are crisp and laced with the figurative language flourishes we also studied in the first few weeks.  Many proclaim their pieces to the “best writing they are ever done,” and, while revisions are still in order, I appreciate their enthusiasm.

“Don’t you ever sit down,” one student asks one afternoon, and I realize that I do not.  I am in constant motion, gesticulating or moving around desks I have arranged in groups of four.  The apple-cinnamon incense slowing rising from my Glade plug-in gives my classroom the scent of home, and I like that.  Bright posters pop off the white walls, and the yellow mums I bought are still alive.  I love my room, and the multi-colored  lamp the previous teacher left behind gives just the right glow to the space.  Students seem genuinely eager to enter.  And one student told me, “I look forward to your class all day.”

Of course, they could all just be angling for a better grade.  But they will soon learn I am tough grader not easily influenced by niceties.  Besides, I already like them all.  I tell them I am privileged to be their teacher.  Then I tell them how lucky they are to have me.  That last part is always good for a laugh.

–teachermandc

 

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Hidden Objects and the Teaching Game

Posted on September 2, 2012 by Mark E.P. Roberts

So much has happened…but I am moving pass all that.  A troubled student lied about something I said in an open classroom, and the powers-that-be believed her.   She turned a well-meaning admonishment about attitude and altitude into a dirty joke–and they believed her.  Four students were interviewed and none recalled the alleged remark–and still they believed her.  The administrators at my old school never even bothered to ask me about it, despite seven years of unblemished, stellar service.  So I moved on, but not before reflecting on the meaning of it all:

In my down time, I sometimes like to play the games my laptop provided me.  My favorites are hidden object games.  I avoid the dialog-heavy adventures targeted for preteens.  I never actually purchase a game, so I am granted only sixty minutes of demo time to explore.  I gravitate towards more sophisticated puzzles where tiny clues and obscure items are expertly tucked in a chaotic scene.  I tell myself it improves both my patience and eyesight.

As I concentrate my vision on some jumbled haystack searching for a needle, I recall the feelings I had during my last year with the District’s public schools.  As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I received a “minimally effective” rating at the end of the 2010-11 school year, despite doubling the AP English passing rate for my school.  My debate team successfully defended their city championship against higher ranked public and private schools–and still the newly-hired administrator found my effort lacking.  I knew then my stay at DCPS would be short-lived.  Impact was being used, at least at my old school, as a weapon to bludgeon those who, for whatever reason, did not fit a certain profile.  Or to lavishly reward others who did–regardless of the actual results on national assessments like AP exams and SAT’s.

I was one of the older teachers, a kiss of death it seemed.  Students flocked to my classroom during their lunch breaks–another practice frowned upon.  Each day, high fives and enthusiastic exhortations greeted me as I threaded my way through the rush of students in the hallways making their way to classes.  The bond forged between my students and me was real and enduring.  Many wrote me letters in the final days, letters I shared with my new administration.  Some still call with updates about their collegiate careers.  Whenever I encounter a former student at the Safeway or 7-11, there are hugs all around.  Still, as much as I miss those exchanges, I do not mourn the loss of confusion and quick judgement that permeates too much of DCPS these days.

I know hidden objects and obstacles are part of the teaching game.  This year, as I faced a new band of students in a private school, I briefly considered all the things that could go wrong.  Were the administrators really as helpful as they seemed?  Would colleagues welcome me, or assume the professional aloofness I had come to expect?  Now that teachers wore a shirt and tie, instead of the blue jeans and flip flops too pervasive at my old haunt, would my teaching style have to change?  Could I continue to build the casual rapport I found so essential for learning, or would I have to become more formal and removed?

At my new school, parents pay money to lift their children to new heights.  I vividly recall the sacrifices my mother made to send my siblings and I to private schools.  Often, neighbors and friends chided her on the choices she made.  We were one of the only families on the block without a car.   Tuition came first.  I asked my mother once–a single parent not by choice–why she continued to struggle to send us to schools she couldn’t afford.  She turned to me and said, “You let me worry about that.  Education is everything.  I want my sons to have everything.”

As I told the parents on “Back to School” night, I intend to honor my mother’s commitment.  I see her face in the faces of the parents I meet.  I see me in my students, and the laughter comes easily.  Already, we are learning so much, and I am pleased with the range of abilities I encounter.  According to my principal, I have been deemed “cool” by a number of students–high praise I am told.

I have missed the classroom–hidden objects and all.  I look forward to a year of growth for .them and for me.  Thus far, I have enjoyed the clever repartee I share with other teachers, especially those in my department.  There is a noticeable lack of tension in the building, not just with students, but with teachers as well.  The heavy security apparatus is gone, and students seem to respond to the implicit trust permeating the hallways.  At my old school, an operations director would rush to the teacher  sign-in sheet and circle anyone who was not in the building by 8:05.  Two arrivals at 8:06 resulted in the loss of twenty points on Impact scores.  At my new stomping ground, there are no circles, and everyone arrives early or on time.  Traditions I cherished in my high school are in full force, including study hall, senior privileges, student governance, and school jackets come wintertime.  Gone are all those silly morning meetings we teachers were forced to attend, or risk losing another twenty points on Impact.

The year is still young, and I am sure practices will arise that annoy me.  Some students will be harder to reach than others.  A few parents will shift the entire educational weight on me.  These things are inevitable.  But Friday, as I sat in the bleachers surrounding the football field and cheered students frolicking at the annual Labor Day weekend bar-b-que, I made a note to praise God again and thank Him for understanding the change I needed even as I questioned His wisdom and cradled my doubts.

–teachermandc

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Trayvon Martin is Me

Posted on May 11, 2012 by Mark E.P. Roberts

A little over a month ago on a colorless, wet Saturday, I happened to catch the end of a “hoodie” protest in Freedom Plaza.  Around one hundred mostly African Americans had gathered to show solidarity with Trayvon Martin, the seventeen-year-old killed in Sanford, Florida by George Zimmerman, the self-appointed neighborhood watch avenger.

In the crowd that day were a number of children with mothers and fathers.  As I waited for a red light, one family in particular held my attention.  Two boys, around seven and ten, held the hands of their mother, while the father pushed a stroller holding a little toddler girl.  Every one in the family wore sweatshirts of various shades with hoods pulled over their heads, sheltering them from the rain.  On the father’s dark hoodie, fairly large white letters proclaimed, “Trayvon Martin Is Me.”

In the aftermath of this tragedy, sides already appear drawn largely on the basis of race.  It has been suggested that it is reasonable to assume that Martin, a tall, thin, young, black man, might have appeared threatening to Zimmerman.  Much has been made of the bruises Zimmerman might have sustained in a scuffle.  Less has been noted of Martin’s “state of mind.”  Who was this man following him? Some media coverage appears more inclined to accept the notion that Trayvon might have seemed threatening, rather than recognize how threatened he must have felt as an armed stranger approached.

It makes me recall my own brushes with fear.  Back in early fall, while sitting in my car in Rock Creek Park, a park policeman passed me slowly and circled back around.  The air had become nippy, and I rolled my car window up as he passed.  The officer, a white male in his early thirties, decided my action was suspicious.  He decided I was smoking some kind of drug and trying to conceal the odor.  He flashed his lights, made me exit my car and sit on the curb while he searched it.

The scene itself appeared harmless enough to me, embarrassing, but I did not feel threatened.  I knew I was not smoking anything, and there were no drugs concealed in my vehicle.  What made me nervous were his mannerisms while he searched.  When he stared over at me, there was a cold glare in his eyes.  I had seen that look before in Florida and Mississippi and New York.  I knew he had contempt for me.  His right hand was never far from his weapon.  There were no other cars in the lot, and I realized that man could kill me if he wanted, and later claim some odd movement on my part.  I know it sounds crazy or paranoid, but everything in my being told me I was in danger.

Then, suddenly, another patrol car pulled into the lot.  I could see the two additional officers were black.  Just as they stopped and opened their car door, the officer with the cold eyes said, “Great.  Here come the darkies.”  That was when I realized my trepidation was real.  The three of them then combed through my car.  The original officer kept remarking that “something smelled funny.”  Before they let me go, they concluded the offending odor emanated from the tree-shaped Black Ice car freshener hanging from my rear mirror.

Two years before that, I was again parked adjacent to the Rec Center near my home.  I was performing that night at a karaoke spot.  While practicing a song I thought I might sing, a burgundy car drove slowly down the street.  When I was younger, I would sing into a comb, but none was handy, so I sang into my hand.  Suddenly, the burgundy car screeched to a halt, slammed into reverse, and stopped just inches from my car.  A tall, burly white male jumped from the vehicle with both hands wrapped around a gun aimed at my head.

“Don’t move,” the man shouted.  He wore  blue jeans and a flannel shirt.  I saw no badge, only the gun.  As he walked slowly towards me, all I could do was pray.  Then the man flashed a police badge and yelled for me to slowly get out of my car.  He had seen my hand near my mouth and assumed I was “smoking crack.”  After looking at my driver’s license, he had me sit on the curb with my hands behind my back.  He put the gun back into a shoulder holster and methodically searched my odorless car.  He later apologized and explained that reports of young people doing drugs in the park had surfaced.  The fact that I was older and lived two blocks away did not seem to matter.  When I drove home and told my family about the incident, my middle daughter cried.

One Friday, when I was thirty-five and walking from the business I owned to the subway in New York, three police cars suddenly surrounded.  Two young white males sat in the back of one of the cars.  I later learned the police were looking for “a black male in a yellow jacket.”  The two young men had been robbed of twenty dollars.  I have more money than that in my wallet, and I wore a $150 ankle-length designer raincoat.  But it did not matter.  I was handcuffed, arrested, fingerprinted, and spent the next three nights sleeping on the floor in a huge holding cell packed with black and Latino men.  On Monday morning, the charges were dropped and the record “expunged,” but not before I felt myself changing inside.

These three experiences with authority symbolize a larger reality.  As a black man, it is easy to fall prey to the expectations of others.  During one class exercise, I draw representations of four men on the board.  I tell the students the men are Asian, black, white, and Latino.  I then ask a series of questions:  who makes the most money?  who is the smartest?  who works the hardest?  who is the best father?  who is the angriest?

Each year, the answers are the same.  The Asian is smart, and the Latino works the most.  The white man is the wealthiest.  For them, children of color themselves, the black man is invariably mean, but athletic; he has swag, but no meaningful job.  He is an absent father and an unreliable mate.

I then ask for a list of men, black men, who defy these stereotypes.  Finally, we examine the challenges confronting a black boy who wants to be smart and successful.  Inevitably, we discover that the obstacles impeding his growth come not only from society “out there,” but also from formative pressures internalized in the communities from which most of my students come.

Education, we all agree, is the ultimate equalizer, even for the aspiring NBA standout or “take-no-prisoners” rapper.  But we also almost always end the discussion with the realization that sometimes, no matter what you do or how hard you work, someone who knows nothing about you will assume everything about you based solely on how you look.

Just ask Trayvon’s parents.

–teachermandc

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The Giving Gift

Posted on March 17, 2012 by Mark E.P. Roberts

Last Thursday came rolling in like the Pacific Ocean, gently and with purpose.  By 6:30 AM, the yawning sun lit the rooftops on my block with a soft glow as alluring as candlelight.  As I stared out the open window of the attic, I inhaled the fertile air reeking of spring.  Already, red flowers blanketed the bush in my front yard. I sensed it would be a great day, but I had no idea what blessing lay in store.

I was off that day and decided to celebrate my good fortune weather-wise with a leisurely drive through Rock Creek Park.  I got dressed, fixed a bowl of Raisin Bran, read the paper, and then headed for my car around 9:30.  One of my favorite routes is to take the Parkway from uptown all the way down to the monuments.  I often stop just before the zoo exit to listen to the water gurgling over heavy boulders.  Thursday was no exception, and I spent a good half hour just keeping time with the music of the rocks.

Back in my car, after passing under the comforting eaves of the Watergate, I moved to my right and then edged towards the street adjacent to the Dr. King Memorial.  I secured a great parking spot just diagonal to Dr. King’s statue, rolled down my window, and listened to vintage soul music and my twisting thoughts.

The enormous white rocks framing the memorial’s entrance sparkled in the sunlight, and the Tidal Basin just beyond appeared lazily lost in its own business, were it not for the fat, white cherry blossoms framing the portrait with majesty.   Each time I visit, the look on Dr. King’s face changes.  I like the imposing statue facing the Lincoln Memorial, but cannot decide what Dr. King seems to be thinking.  At times, his folded arms and stern face suggest anger and disappointment; other times I see only conviction and strength.  On Thursday, the unusually warm day gave his countenance an aura of serenity, and that idea pleased me.

I took Georgia Avenue for the ride back home, stopping at Howard University for a stroll.  Whenever I walk the grounds, I imagine the young, optimistic girl my mother was in the faces of the co-eds streaming in and out of class.  I think of my in-laws holding hands along the campus green.  All attended Howard.  I make a note to take my students on a tour of the campus one day.  I want them to taste what knowledge yields.

Back on the road and nearing my home, I veered into my neighborhood CVS parking lot for a quick purchase.  As I entered the store, I noticed an elderly man leaning against the side of the gaudy, brick building.  His hands tightly squeezed the red handles of an empty shopping cart.  He seemed lost.  I preceded into the store and bought the chocolate-topped butter cookies I craved.  Upon exiting, I turned to where the man had been standing.  He was still there, a lonely figure in grey pants with a deep ironed crease and a blue stripped shirt rolled at the sleeves.

His arms were thin, and he leaned against that shopping cart as though his very life demanded it.  He felt my stare and turned his head towards me.  “Are you OK?” I asked in as casual tone as I could manufacture.  I remembered news stories about Alzheimer victims losing their way home and wondered if he would be lucid.

“Are you going to Northwest?” he asked in a voice stronger than I expected.  I placed his age at around eighty.

“We are in Northwest,” I said.  “Do you know where you are going?”

“I have been standing here for two hours waiting for a cab,” he said.  “I took one here to get my medicine, but he wouldn’t wait for me.”  Then he looked into my eyes, paused for a moment, and asked, “Will you take me home?”

“Do you know your address?”

“Yes,” he said and then told me.  I was not exactly sure where the street was, and neither was he.  He remembered something about North Capital–it is the way my daughter goes, he said–and I imagined I could find my bearings from that.

He had a hard time walking over to my car, parked not fifteen feet away.  When he reached the curb, he slumped his head down on my hood and gathered his resolve before lowering his leg slowly down onto the ground.  He wore expensive-looking loafers and no socks.  I held the car door open and pushed the passenger seat back as far as it would go.  He still struggled getting into the seat, slowly lifting his left leg up and over the door jamb with both hands cupped under his knee.  I had seen my own mother make that same move too many times.

“The cab came that way,” he pointed, and off we went.  I asked him why he had ventured out.  Did the weather speak to him also?  He volunteered that he battled late stage prostate cancer, and the need for medicine brought him to the pharmacy that day. “I can’t walk much anymore,” he said.  “The cancer makes your bones brittle.  My right leg is still pretty good; I got a hip replacement back in ’91.  But the left is getting so weak.”

As I made a lucky guess down a side street not far from his daughter’s home, I asked him, “Why didn’t your daughter just pick up the medicine for you?”

He hesitated before answering, “Every time I ask her to do something, she just gets upset.  So I do it myself.”

As we turned onto a street I had never driven down before, and he began to recognize where he was, I saw him reach into his pocket and pull out some crisp dollars from his pants pocket.  “What are you doing” I asked.  “I don’t want any money from you, and I will not accept it.”  It turned out his daughter only lived about twenty blocks from the store.

“This isn’t money,” he said.  “It’s appreciation.  You didn’t have to do this.  It’s just appreciation.”

“Thanks, but don’t.  I insist you keep your money.  I was happy to help,” I said.  And I was.  As I drove away after letting the man out at a neighbor’s driveway which had no curb, I felt good about what I had done with my Thursday.  I helped somebody just because he needed it.  It made me remember all the little things people do for others, not headline worthy, but valuable in the way human beings too often forget–including me.

For all the difficulties and miscommunications we face, there is always an opportunity to find in another person a better part of  self.  Then I realized that the look on Dr. King’s face is the look of hope and generosity–and the underlying frown simply comes from the weight and courage it sometimes requires simply to give a damn.

Granting that man a ride did more for me than for him.  Maybe it gave me a chance to right some wrongs.  I think part of me became a teacher because I am convinced that we–like firefighters–get a partial pass to Heaven’s gate.

That was why not taking the money was so important to me.  My mother never drove, and she was always doling out “gas money” to neighbors for a lift up the hill.  As I child, I vowed to never, ever ask anyone to pay me for taking someone where I was headed anyway.

That evening, I phoned each of my daughters and told them about the man.  I shared with them my renewed understanding that giving is a gift, and I made them vow to never leave me standing for two hours waiting for a cab to go twenty blocks.

“You know, Dad,” my youngest said after laughing.  “There probably is a serious back story to all that.  No telling what he put her through growing up.”

We both chuckled, but I secured the promise anyway.  Later that night, while readjusting the passenger seat, I found four folded dollars neatly tucked under the floor mat.  I guess the last laugh was on me.

–teachermandc

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Remembering Whitney Houston: Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

Posted on February 29, 2012 by Mark E.P. Roberts

The other day I stopped by what remains of the Occupiers enclave at McPherson Square here in DC.  Most of the tents are gone, exposing the castle brown of dirt and mud where there was once the greenest grass.  The remaining tents, empty now with one flap open as ordered by authorities, stand like tombstones from a frenzied past.  A few folks congregate near the statue of Major General James B. McPherson, a Union hero during the Civil War, immortalized near the southern entrance to the park.  Both McPhearson and the horse he sits upon are locked in mid-stride, as though time, and not they, stood still.

There is a scent of unfinished business in the air, even as the surrounding businesses and lobby firms reclaim their rhythm.  It is as though the issues once percolating there did not die, but just elected to hibernate and prepare for an early spring.  Beside a deep blue tent with black handwritten letters proclaiming “No Justice, No Sleep,” I stopped to ask a middle-aged white woman in a brown parka why she was there.  She just looked at me for the longest time with steel-gray eyes before finally asking, “Why aren’t you?”

It got me thinking about Whitney Houston.  She had died the day before.  I had been a fan of her mother for many years, going back to her days with The Sweet Inspirations.  For some reason, I happened to see the Merv Griffin show back in 1983 when Cissy Houston introduced her daughter to the world.  Whitney was twenty-one then, and as she performed a duet with her mother, I made a note to keep my eyes open for her debut.

When her inaugural  album released in 1985, I too flocked to her sound.  Over the years, I listened and sang along to so many of her offerings.  Like most, her range, beauty, and class touched me.  But what really moved me was the truth in her voice.  Somewhere between the notes and instruments, her voice revealed its own purpose and story.  I believed her as much as anyone I knew.

So I rooted for her unprecedented success.  My album collection is heavily laden with outstanding black female vocalists whose astonishing talents never pierced anyone’s top ten list.  But times had changed, and Whitney, like Michael Jackson, was too big to be contained.  That both died at hands at least partially guided by their own volition is a difficult reality to process and to accept.

My wife thinks Whitney died from a heart broken by a ravenous world intent on gobbling every light in sight.  Much as we covet and envy celebrity, we secretly long for recompense.   We bottleneck at the scenes of their fashion miscues, misplaced loves, and sinewy addictions.  Perhaps we find in the glare of their obstructions some road map for our own lives.  Or maybe we just long for distractions as we clamor away in our own dungeons, waiting to be heard.

Whatever the cause, the consequence is the same.  The pursuit of art has always required cost.  Rare is the individual talent which remains unscathed by the unfolding.  Whenever I consider someone whose name has become commonplace, I always wonder about the teachers they experienced.

As the young Whitney sat at her desk, that incredible voice and empathetic soul trapped in her uniform, did some teacher suspect the journey to come?  As her English teacher read her essays and poems, did he pause to consider how he might help her find the means to release her spirit in a sometimes angry world?  Did he know, as he must, that growing in his classroom was a miracle bidding her time?

Passion is not an easy thing to manage.  It tends to burn where it might and obey only the wind and the whim giving it flight.  I keep forgetting sometimes that every student in front of me is a gem waiting to be discovered by a knowing hand.  Fame will, of course, elude most of them–and that’s not such a bad thing.  But each of them will be celebrated by someone in their adult lives.  There they will find both glory and pain.  I must remember to give them what I can to carry with them on their travels.  I must do what I can as a teacher to add morsels of sustenance for the long ride ahead.

I must remember to look into their eyes and see a young Whitney taking hold.  I must choose my words with more care lest my clumsy attempts to bolster sound like nothing more than just another gawking voyeur in a thirsty crowd.

As scintillating as it might seem, no one should have to live his or her one life out loud.  If you are not careful, you will become nothing more than a colorful diversion in a beige world, or an empty tent flapping in a fickle wind.   Either way, you tend to expire much too soon.

–teachermandc

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A Forever Love

Posted on February 6, 2012 by Mark E.P. Roberts

“Are you sure?” I asked, being careful to avoid her eyes.

“Yea, I’m sure.  But I go to see the doctor on Friday,” she said.

“So how do you feel about it?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m good,” she said.

I could feel it in her voice–a genuine gladness.  We moved on to talk about other things.  I followed her lead.  Finally, she returned to her “situation.”

“I told the father,” she said.

“And what did he say?”

“Oh, he’s glad.”

I caught my tongue before I said it.  “Have you lost your good mind?” I wanted to ask.  “Don’t you know in two years he will be a hostile stranger to you?  Not because he didn’t want to handle the challenge, but because he couldn’t.  He will blame his failing on you.  Raising at baby at your age is more than difficult.  A new life is demanding and greedy and selfish and loving all at the same time.  What about college?  What were you thinking?”

But I swallowed my rage.  I held back all the familiar admonishments.  I did not rattle off data about newborns, and teen age mothers, and poverty, and hardship, and test scores, and incarceration, and bone-deep disappointments.  I tried to be upbeat and helpful because I knew that was what she needed.

The bell signalling the end of second lunch rang.  The young lady disappeared in the rush of incoming students.  She always had a way of slipping in and out of doors.  I have known her for two years, taught her for one.  She is a dreamer, though I am sure the description might surprise her.  She believes in her ability to subdue life’s pitfalls–something she has had to do many times in her life.  ” My mother had me early.  She is like a sister to me,” she once said.  “And my father and I are just learning to get along.”

I understand her joy.  A baby is coming, and, with it, a warm beginning.  She later shared, “Everybody needs somebody who’s gonna love you forever.”  And she’s right.  I haven’t the heart to argue.  She says she knows all about the statistics, but she whispered,  “if I let that bother me, I’d have quit a long time ago.”  There is a wisdom about her, but still I wonder if she really knows what sacrifices lay ahead.

She, and the other young ladies I have known in similar sorts, are not stupid children.  They knew about the risks.  But they also considered the reward.  Theirs seems to be a reflective version of planned parenthood.  I fear too many near adulthood and panic.  They do not yet feel fully grown.   I remember.  Tomorrow seems remote and unattainable sometimes.  Here is a adult something at last that they can do now.   A child will deliver purpose, and schedules, and all the things good mothers do.  So maybe they decide to jumpstart their adult lives early, and once they reach that decision, there is really nothing left to wish them but good things.

I hope this young lady finds that spot where everything is perfect, even if it is temporary.  I told a fine, young man once, “Only the dreamer can kill the dream.”  Five years ago, that young man revealed to me a lifelong ambition.  He wanted more than his “good government job.”  He wanted to spin records from his coming-up days.  He wanted to DJ like he did in college when every dream was free.   On Friday–after planning, and putting on hold, and doubting, and revamping, and wondering again– he hosted his first club night at this great place on H Street.  As I watched him work the room (it was a good crowd), I recalled our conversations so many nights before.  I don’t know if I truly believed what I said back then about dreams and dreamers, but I know I wanted to.

It is the same with this young lady.  I want her life to be lush and bountiful.  I make a note to tell her about a time when I was burdened–and sang my songs anyway.   Sometimes things work out just the way naysayers predict, or an unexpected rain washes your bridge away.  Sometimes your plans hit a boulder, and the only real choice is to sit a while, gather your strength, sharpen your faith, and move on.

But sometimes life surprises you in a delightful way.  Everything aligns perfectly, and all you have to do is grab hold of the ladder extended–and climb.  I must remember to tell her what I know about community college and daycare.  I must find a way to show her that, while life can frequently fail to grant wishes, and blessings are not always what they seem–sometimes things  really do work out just the way you imagined.

I just wish she had waited a little longer to find out.

–teachermandc

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Epiphany

Posted on January 24, 2012 by Mark E.P. Roberts

Sometimes, the best part of teaching occurs outside the classroom.  As I sail through the halls at my school–usually singing some old soul song–I make it a point to interact with as many students as I can.  Seniors and juniors I no longer teach are a particular target of mine.  We talk about colleges, or grades, or family issues.  The few minutes spent with a student matter.  You never know where a knowing word or kind gesture will land.

I spend my lunch time in my classroom with a wide range of students who have somehow found their way to my room.  Some are regulars from years past, but many are new, including freshman and sophomores I have yet to teach.  I enjoy our informal chats about whatever it is they wish to discuss.  Young people have such enthusiasm when you let them.  Away from the immediate weight of grades and judgement, they turn into fascinating human beings, at once silly and sad, witty and wise.  I enjoy their company.

On Saturday, twenty-three of my debaters braved the icy snow to participate in a debate tournament sponsored by the Omega Psi Phi fraternity.  I make it a point to participate because I want them to see young professionals of color successfully engaging in a host of enterprises.  Many of my students have limited exposure to the world outside their gates.  I know I did growing up.  I want them to meet lawyers, engineers, system analysts, scientists, and entrepreneurs.  They need to see that dreams need not be limited to make-believe.  They need to understand that hard work and diligence really are rewarded with options and varying degrees of independence.  The tournament provided an excellent lesson plan for the highest objective I know–teaching students to believe they can reach beyond wherever they are.

There is one young lady I am worried about.  Her life story has been a difficult journey, and adults have not always been as protective as they should.  I can almost hear the panic in her voice as graduation nears.  She fears outcomes–especially her own.  Her mother died young and somewhat broken by life.  I know this young lady, despite her keen intelligence, fears a similar ending.  She seemed depressed throughout much of the tournament.  Always a competitor, she did fine in combat, but wilted between matches.

I moved to sit beside her.  I told lame jokes and teased her about her boyfriend.  I made her promise to come see me at school for a long talk.  She donned a braver face, but I knew she was still troubled.  Her team finished the day strongly, losing only one match.  As we waited for the cash awards to be announced, the men of Omega burst into an unannounced step show replete with chants and frat songs.  The young lady sat mesmerized by the action.  Grabbing the arm of two other young ladies, she left her seat and found another one closer to the “show.”  I had not seen her smile so freely in a while.  When it was over, she approached me and exclaimed, “I just had an epiphany (one of our vocabulary words from two years prior).”

“What?” I asked.

“There is so much out there,” she beamed.  “These guys are young, handsome, and strong.  There are people like that out there.”  Then she added, as though some decision had finally been reached, “I want to be a part of that.”

“See,” I replied.  “Now you know why I wanted you here today.”  It was corny, perhaps, but true.  Later, a young man who has made my classroom something of a school home for three years now asks for a ride.  He is a brilliant mind who has also had to navigate a difficult journey.  His father is a stranger, and his mother is unique–to say the least.  I have tried to teach him to “honor his power” and his innate love of knowledge.  He is an unconventional thinker, an old soul, trapped in an adolescent’s insecurities.  But he is also a strong competitor who loves to win.

His three-person team learned at the start of the day that one of their members was sick and would not be coming.  He and the young lady on his team began to panic.  They had not prepared for this.  I reminded them of their strength and the inevitable turns life takes.  The young man was particularly agitated.  He would now have to tackle both the first and second constructive speeches.  He had never delivered the opening before, and he claimed he could never meet the challenges inherent in that placement.  “I can’t do it,” he insisted.

“Of course, you can,” I told him.  “Just breath deep, take your time, and speak.”

At the cash award ceremony, they called his name.  He and the young lady were undefeated for the day and placed third as a team.  After posing for a picture, he returned to his seat, grasping the check they gave them like it a life preserver at sea.

Then, the top speaker awards were announced.  Fourth and third place honors went to capable competitors from other teams.  My hesitant debater is not used to hearing his name called, and he shook briefly as they read his name again.  He came in second in a room full of strong debaters.  The way he moved towards the front to receive yet another check made my smile almost as wide as his.

I gave him a ride home.  “Finally, I have some money,” he said.  I decided not to ask him how he intended to spend his treasure.  Some things are not meant to be shared.  But I did decide to add something just as we stopped at the tall apartment building where he lived.

“Never forget,” I told him, “how you felt this morning.  All the things you said you couldn’t do, but then did anyway.  Sometimes, we are the clouds blocking the sun.  You are so talented.  Don’t make the mistake of getting in your own way.  Ok?”

“Ok,” he said as he opened the door.  “Thanks for the ride.”

–teachermandc

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Traversing the Wall–Why Teachers Teach

Posted on January 16, 2012 by Mark E.P. Roberts

I finally got over it.  When I received my “Minimally Effective” rating over the summer, it hit me a little hard.  Every teacher wants to feel appreciated, not just by students, but also by the powers-that-be.  I officially appealed, of course, shortly after receiving the certified notice.  I provided multiple attachments documenting the work I did last year with my students–the writing awards, test scores, championships, and outreach.  In December, I received my response.

All those things were deemed “irrelevant.”  In essence,  my “core professionalism” was found lacking, and that was that.  I pouted some more–not in my classes, but elsewhere, mostly on my drive home after school.  I did not think the assessments I received were accurate or fair.  That youthful part of me that always sickened at the scent of  injustice turned its indigestion towards me.  “Leave the school,” it demanded.  “This isn’t worth it,” it cried.  At times, I simply felt I was too old, or maybe too black, for the mold the system seemed to be seeking and rewarding.  Perhaps at the dawn of my seventh year of teaching, the profession I entered late in life had outgrown me.

I stopped blogging because I wanted to uphold my vow not to turn these pages into a political screed against all things Rhee.  Having experienced the workings of DCPS as both  parent and teacher, I understood the challenges and miscues inherent in educational reform.  I had devoted more than a few posts to my own impressions in both those pools.  As the system frantically works to pull its head above water, it is inevitable that good teachers will get wet.  Still, I felt like I had hit that wall marathoners write about–the 20 mile mark where the distance ahead appears deceptively longer than the one behind, and the trophy at the end seems hardly worth the prize.

I think I just needed a little time to spew silently and then refuel my focus.  I spent that time with my new crop of students as we came to recognize in each other kindred spirits on on the loose  We all seek acknowledgment that someone is watching the good things we do. How ironic that my last post some four months ago focused on the subject of “Gratitude.”  Today, after leaving the King Memorial, I realized it was high time I stopped looking behind at things I cannot change and start celebrating the things I can.

It is an exciting time in my classes.  In two weeks, the last of my “reluctant debaters” will finally stand up and present their arguments in a competition.  I am certain they will discover, as have the ones before them, that the hardest part of speaking in “public” is not finding your voice, but rather believing your voice is worthy to be found.  I look forward to their awakening.

In AP English, I have taken a different approach to a similar problem.  I have twice as many students as I did last year.  All love the vocabulary and the concept of rhetoric, but too many falter when it comes to the reading.  In taking timed tests from past exams, too many chafed at the lengthy passages in the multiple choice section, or the occasional dense text in the rhetorical analysis selection.  For others, managing their writing proved a challenge.  I sought to repeatedly assure all my students that mastery came with practice–but it became apparent to me in December that I needed something more.

I turned to history.  I focused their eyes on Birmingham, Alabama in 1963.  We read racial segregation ordinances and other original documents outlining the climate in the city and the nation at the time.  We combed the text for figurative language, repetition, parallelism, antithesis, context, exigence, and the like–but we also used these materials to prepare for the inquiries to come.  We turned our attention to the four little girls killed in the September bombing at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church.

Only a handful of students had ever heard of the horrible event Walter Cronkite termed “The Awakening.”  I wanted them to understand that real sacrifices had been made in their name.  I wanted them to embrace our opportunity, so we read about Addie Mae, Cynthia, Carole, and Denise.  We learned their stories.  We watched Spke Lee’s documentary 4 Little Girls, and we annotated pages of background material related to both the bombing and the later (much later) prosecution of several responsible persons.

Just before Winter Break, we took turns doing a dramatic reading of Dr. King’s eulogy at the funeral for three of the young girls. Students were then assigned to read and annotate Dr. King’s lengthy Letter over the break.  Owing to the interest generated by our background work and their own innate cultural interest, most completed the reading as assigned.

Finally, after break, we analyzed Dr. King’s seminal Letter from a Birmingham Jail, a treasure trove of rhetorical techniques, counterargument, diction, and syntax.  First, we read aloud the original letter from the eight white clergymen which precipitated King’s response.  We identified seven specific charges contained in the “complaint.”  I then divided the class into seven groups, each responsible for one claim.  Each group had to select text from the Letter which best countered the issue cited.  The group also had to identify all rhetorical devices utilized by King in the passage selected, determine which appeal (ethos, logos, or pathos) the passage most established, and then link text, device, and appeal to King’s larger purposes as brainstormed in a prior class.  We even charted it all on the board.

This linkage between text, technique, and purpose is exactly what AP English Language is all about at its core.  Students must move beyond summary to analysis.  They must articulate not simply “what” a writer says, but rather “how” and “why” he or she crafts it.  Suddenly, students who were experiencing difficulties making the connections understood the direct relationship between words, impact, and intent.  I can now use that platform to move to other text “outside” their comfort zone.  The whole journey made for powerful moments in class and reminded me again of why teachers teach.

–teachermandc

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On Gratitude: Lou Gehrig and the Old Man

Posted on September 4, 2011 by Mark E.P. Roberts

I had a wonderful week.  All my students are almost in full swing, and they seem to be appreciating the caliber of work they are receiving.  “Great class,” one yelled upon leaving the room.  “This is going to be fun,” added another.  I cherish those remarks probably more than I should.  Sometimes they are directed at the lesson, but other times they actually refer to one of the many “life stories” I share to keep the class moving while illustrating a point.

I tell them about growing up in Southeast Washington.  “You must not know who I am.  I’m from Shipley Terrace,” remains a popular refrain from me.  I tell them about the summer camp at Fort Stanton, the long walks home from Catholic school, the riots, and prep school.  I tell them about my days at Harvard and Columbia.  I paint pictures about my stint as “Dr. Love” on the radio, or about the times in the hospital when my daughters were born.  Always, I use cultural landmarks with which they can relate.  My tone is breezy, like when I describe the 9/14 day, way back in my freshman year of college, when I first met my wife–a miraculous day.

I believe much of the “achievement gap” arises from lessons which fail to make a connection with the students and the cultural landscape supporting them.  Because I share that landscape, it is, perhaps, easier for me to anchor lessons and essential questions with familiar allusions.  “Too much pathos in writing,” I tell them, “is like hot sauce on greens.  You don’t want too much.  You don’t want the fire to overtake the meal.”  They nod and then add their own stories about that one aunt who simply cannot cook–but thinks she can.

Teaching can be so much fun if you let it.  Students are such a ready audience.  For example, this week during AP English we completed our first examination of rhetoric and Aristole’s rhetorical triangle.  I emphasized the need for connection between speaker, audience, and subject if persuasion is to be achieved. After reading and annotating half of the first chapter of our textbook, I had the students tackle an in-class essay on the speech Lou Gehrig delivered on July 4, 1939 at Yankee Stadium.  Their task was to analyze the rhetorical effectiveness of his language.  But first, I had to tell them who he was.

I briefly related the basics of his baseball career, his record-setting 2,130 consecutive games (not broken until 1995 by Cal Ripkin), his steady bat, his hitting prowess, his tenure as a Yankee, his humble demeanor, and his horrible disease.  I told them how, feeling increasingly weak, he voluntarily pulled himself from a game on May 2, knowingly ending his appearance streak for the sake of the team.

I share with them my notes on amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), the disease confirmed on his 36th birthday in 1939, which would soon claim his strength, his limbs, and, two years later, his life.  I did the best I could to recreate that Fourth of July in 1939 when Gehrig took to the microphone to address fans who were no more ready to see him retire than he was to leave.  And yet…

Using this familiar AP English SOAPSTone chart, we decided Gehrig’s purpose that day was to express his gratitude for his life and career, rather than bemoan the disease he simply referred to once as his “bad break.”  In stating his claim–I am the luckiest man alive–Gehrig used plain language to highlight the incredible times he had spent with family, teammates, fans, and friends.  A short speech, we read it twice and then agreed with a reviewer who deemed it one of the most effective, arresting speeches ever given.

Student athletes, male and female, are, of course, naturally more engaged with stories drawn from sports.  But stories like Gehrig’s resonate with everyone.  By high school, all students have a story or two about some family member’s “bad break.”  The power of Gehrig’s simple yet astonishing farewell provides a perfect backdrop for a lesson on the power of diction, syntax, and words to achieve purpose and create impact.

At the beginning of the next class, I handed out a warm-up which reinforced our discussions about diction–the choice of words–and the role it plays in persuasive writing.  One of the books I use (Voice Lessons by Nancy Dean) reprinted an excerpt from Yeats’ poem “Sailing to Byzantium.”  In the two lines provided, Yeats writes, “An aged man is but a paltry thing.  A tattered coat upon a stick…”

After brainstorming and then confirming our understanding of the exact meaning of “paltry” and “tattered,” we turned to the electric charge contained in these words.  Like the old DC standards they replace, the nationally-adopted  Core Standards have a love affair with denotation and connotation–the precise and implied meaning of words.  We all agreed that, for the purposes of this poem, Yeats was clearly no fan of the elderly man.

Then I stepped away from the DCPS-prescribed lesson and told my students a story.  Two days prior, shortly after school let out for the day, I drove to this Dollar Store I favor on the edge of town.  I needed a few more supplies for the year.  Just as I parked my car, an old song by Rose Royce came on the radio that I wanted to hear.  I lingered in the parking lot as it played.

In the midst of singing along, I noticed an old black man exiting the barbershop on the corner.  It was a warm day, yet he wore a plaid jacket, a white shirt, and a brown tie.  He also sported brown dress pants and Sunday shoes.

He used a walker with two wheels on the front to steady his stride.  “He must have been 95,” I said.  “And he moved so slowly.  Maybe one inch every five minutes.  And he fascinated me.”

The old man’s car–a light blue compact with a large, handicap sticker hanging from the rear view mirror–was parked diagonally across from mine.  When the song ended, I turned off the radio, and my eyes charted his slow progression towards his automobile.  He would push the front of the walker an inch or two, then use the wheels and back legs,  cushioned with the half-shells of yellow tennis balls, to move his frame slowly forward.

His body sloop-shaped like a capital “C,” I momentarily imagined him years younger, a vigorous high school student just beginning his life.  As my eyes followed his laborious advance, I imagined all the wonders he had witnessed, all the loves he had enjoyed, all the losses he had endured, all the steps towards freedom.  “It would have been so easy,” I told my students, “for that man to stay in bed that day.  Who cares if his hair is cut?”

“Nobody,” one girl said.

“Wrong,” I said.  “He cared.  Rather than lie and wallow in whatever complaints he might have had, that man rose from his bed, made breakfast, got dressed in his best clothes, and went to the barbershop–something he has probably been doing since he was a boy.”

“Did you help him?” one boy asked.

“No,” I said.

“You just watched?” another asked.

“Yes,” I said.  “That man did not need help.  All he needed was time, and he had been granted plenty of that.  When he finally reached his car, he found his keys in his front pants pocket and removed them with a shaking hand.  Then he opened the front door, undid the latch to the back seat door, worked his way back to that walker, took a deep breath, folded it in the middle, took another breath, lifted it into the back seat, closed the door, inched his way back to the driver’s seat, slowly reclined into it, lifted his outside leg over the threshold with both hands, and sat for a minute, catching his breath again.”

How easy it is to stop living long before the final call.  This man, like Lou Gehrig before him, choose instead to celebrate life’s victory, rather than linger on its setbacks.  “For me, a haircut is an hour at best.  For him, it is a day’s journey.  And yet he still goes.  I admired and loved that man so much,” I said.  “I want to be him some day.”

Then the classroom grew quiet, the way it sometimes does when there is nothing left to say.

–teachermandc

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You Inspire Me

Posted on August 28, 2011 by Mark E.P. Roberts

I love the word “affirmation.”  Sometimes the universe just seems to click your way, and everything melds into place. The weekend before school began, I took full advantage of the beautiful weather to visit some of my favorite places.  At Rock Creek Park, I played gospel music from my car and envisioned the year ahead.  I vowed to remain positive–no matter what.  Then I drove around my neighborhood, stopping to chat with three grandfather types who sat on milk crates while solving the problems of the world.

I told them I was a high school English teacher, which seemed to impress.  One thought the youth of today are lazy and lost.  Another blamed the media for unfairly reporting only the bad things they do.  The third reminded the other two that they, too, had been teenagers once, which set off a lively discussion about life in the 1950s.  Older people always think they had it better, and I make a note to avoid that trap when my time arrives.

I then stopped at my neighborhood recreation center and blasted music for the retirees who regularly gather to play tennis.  The younger crowd near the basketball courts also grooved to the sounds, familiar and otherwise.  A father pushing his young daughter on the swings nodded my way and pumped his fists in the air.  A lady in her thirties walked over to my car and said, “You’re making the whole neighborhood feel good.”  It was a great day.

When Monday came, and with it the rush of students returning, I was ready.  At first, I hated losing my old classroom and the couches and chairs I had assembled.  But after I stopped complaining and accepted the change, things came together nicely.  I painted over the marks on the walls, hung all these posters about literature and writing, and found three tall wooden bookcases to house my books.  The room feels like a library, and, when you walk in, it just seems like education is taking place.  The students loved it.

This year, after some prodding on my part, I am teaching four sections of AP English Language and Composition and two sections of Debate.  It is my second year teaching AP English, and I know exactly where I need to take my students.  In the first few classes, I used the football Hall of Fame speeches of Shanon Sharpe and Marshall Faulk to illustrate the power of words.  It made for a nice segue into Aristole’s rhetorical triangle.  Thanks to the teachers who proceeded me, they are already annotating with precision, and I think they appreciated the easy rapport we established.

I made no apologies for the amount of work I expected. “If you came here for knowledge, I will not disappoint,” I told them.  “If you came here for hard work, worthwhile work, I will not disappoint.  But if you came here only to play, to waste time, to just get by, then I am not the one.” I said.  “Get to steppin’.”  Nobody moved.

The students were especially touched by Sharpe’s speech.  His impoverished childhood and courageous grandmother, who raised him and his two siblings, resonated with them.  I choose to begin the year with that piece not only because it illustrated the principles of rhetoric in “everyday language,” but also because I wanted them to know that excellence in life is always affordable if you are willing to do the work.  We will get to more formalized essays soon enough.

When I mentioned to the school counselor that my class seemed to be overcrowding with new faces each day, she said I was to blame.  Word had circulated among the juniors and seniors that my class was “interesting and fun.”  Of course, I am not alone in that.  My colleagues appeared equally engaged in their classrooms.  I just think it will be a productive year for all of us.

In Debate I, I again turned to the use of the N-word to demonstrate the key differences between argument and debate.  We had a very spirited discussion on the topic, and we will have a formal debate this upcoming week.  The students were divided on the issue.  Some felt the word was negative and should never be used.  Others saw it as an emblem of fellowship which should be worn with pride–but only by certain people.  It will be an interesting debate.  More importantly, students are thinking about diction and the impact of words.

When the earthquake struck on Tuesday, I was at lunch in my classroom.  Three young ladies from the class of 2011 had stopped by to visit.  We were chatting when the room began to rumble and then shake.  I thought the building was going to collapse.  As the ladies huddled under the door jamb, I moved down the hall towards the other teachers and students too unsettled to hide their panic.  We evacuated the building and spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the football field and texting family and friends.  Though the event itself was frightening, I think that time together with the whole school reclining on the bright green, artificial turf brought us together as a unit.  Call it the proverbial “silver lining.”

When school closed the following day, I wanted to find a way to express my gratitude that no one was hurt.  As I later explained to the students, I decided to use that Wednesday to visit the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial.  I found a great parking space near the 23rd Street entrance.  Sitting in my car, watching as people walked towards the impressive tribute, I loudly played the song “Heroes” by the Commodores.  It was the perfect sentiment for the moment, and a few passersby lingered and swayed by the car as it played.

“Heroes make the sun rise in the morning.  Heroes make the moon shine bright at night.  Heroes make our lives a little stronger.  In the heart of everyone, he can be found.”

I shared the song the next day with my students and distributed the lyrics.  I used it to illustrate a host of things.  I also gave each of them the printed program from the memorial. “Don’t lose it,” I said.  “It will be worth money some day on eBay.”

Then I grew serious.   “Think about it,” I began.  “At the young age of 26, Dr. King looked out over a segregated America and realized something had to be done.  But overtaking an insidious practice so deeply entrenched would not be easy.  He needed a weapon capable of shattering a heavy wall.  When he searched the arsenal available to him, he walked past the gun and the blade, the fancy car and the bling.  He rejected violence and hatred in every form, including self-hatred–the deepest kind.  Instead, he choose words as his weapon.  Think about it.

He used those words to help transform the most powerful nation on Earth.  Working with so many others, he confronted America with words.  Some of those words are etched on the base of the memorial, not just an excerpt from the ubiquitous “I Have a Dream” speech–a groundbreaking moment–but also his thoughts on economics, politics,  and war.”

“The statue itself is large and imposing,” I continued.  “Rising out of this blank rock of despair, the look on his face is neither happy nor sad.  It is the look of determination.  His arms are folded in contemplation and deep thought.  He neither smiles nor frowns.  He does not look into the eye of the beholder, but stares somewhere off, slightly above and to the side.  His pose suggests a man who knows there is still work to be done, even as we celebrate the sacrifice.”

“I want you to know,” I told them, “that words can change the world.  Words can unleash the hero in you.”

In debate, we took turns reading Dr. King’s “Mountaintop” speech delivered the night before his assassination.  In AP English, we read a piece about the Pawnee tribe and their belief that the universe was their progenitor.  They believed in “ours,” more than “mine” or “yours.”

We discussed the implications of such an approach.  If the whole world is your address, if the universe is your ultimate mother, then you will not lose yourself in silly associations.  It will not matter if you reside on this block or that block.  “If you see yourself as a child of the universe,’ I told them, “how could you become distracted by local disputes over turf or status?  A child of the universe is too focused on its wonders to die over dirt.”  I then pointed out that reading and words can bring that wondrous world to them.

When it was over, one male senior I taught in debate two years ago lingered after the bell.  I knew him well.  I knew his young shoulders had borne a man’s weight much too soon.  But I also knew the persistent light in his countenance was real and worthy of celebration.  “I just want to tell you something,” he said, staring down at his feet.  Then he looked up at me, looked me directly in my eyes, and said, “You inspire me.”

Startled, I mumbled a hasty “thank you.”  I just wish I had possessed the stamina and words to let him know how much he and his classmates return the favor in full.

–teachermandc

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