Reading an English translation of an 1890s essay titled “Our America” by José Martí, one day after watching Hamilton for the first time
Is an interesting morning journey.
Many lines from the work have given me reasons to pause, today, perhaps more than they otherwise would have…because I just saw the play (on TV) during a quarantine during a time of unprecedented tyranny (or so I thought)…this is a time of evolution within revolution…
This line “the resistance of the book against the lance” speaks of the metaphors used to describe the normalcy of war and violence and cutting (away) and pain and liberation and conquest and conflict and colorism and classism and fighting (among other references) during the Spanish-American War.
All of the systems are there: the invention of race, politics, economics, aesthetics, education, crime and punishment, associations, intimate life…so normalized in their tie to domination that any illusion of progress is impossible to see.
From 1894 to 2020, the narrative is the same: the harrowing dysfunction of tyranny by incompetent leaders is resisted by the people. There is fire this time. No duel. No lance. Just shots…fired.
We need to know because there are loop-holes that protect interests of those who know…for those who don’t know, well, they fall subject to “the extra”.
The Fair Housing Act of 1968 made it illegal to discriminate in housing for everything imaginably relevant at the time, except, age. The rights of children are not included. The rights of the elderly are not included. Guarantors (cough, cough, parents) have no rights.
Owners are protected by this phrase:
“No exception can be made for financial hardship, academic changes, family matters, medical issues, roommate conflict or any other reason.”
Written before 2020, no date is indicated, this standard phrase keeps tenants locked into bad deals…
This clause–States that nothing in this Act requires that a dwelling shall be made available to an individual whose tenancy: (1) would constitute a direct threat to the health or safety of other individuals; this clause…
Familial status is defined with numbers (<18) and a context. Living with a parent was not cause for discrimination but he sits in the shadows–older than 18, not technically living with parents and yet dependent…
Then there is the impotence of state-level legislation that includes statements like this:
“There is currently no state agency that enforces provisions in the Act, and because most landlord/tenant relations are private transactions, disputes that arise between landlord and tenants are generally considered private matters.”
What good is an Act or a law that cannot be enforced? This clause falls with the thud of a dropped phone on carpet. It is meaningless.
Laws are designed to protect capitalist interests of land owners, until they are written to protect the people.
With only a few months before November and days before my mail-in ballot is due, I review the work of progressive congressional representatives from my father’s home state of New York. Challenging Act 20 and 22 in Puerto Rico, Serrano, Velázquez, Grijalva, and Ocasio-Cortez demand transparency for Puerto Rico.
All of this brings me back to my two passions: my family sun-shine and my teaching/learning experiences.
The concept of fair housing in times of pandemic has brought me to an important understanding about a few things…still thinking…Hamilton comes on tomorrow. You say you want a revolution? Yes. In fact I do.
And turn the soil to expose hidden roots that creep
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
And sometimes imitating “good things” in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
Where cover turns things white ‘cause there ain’t been no light
No LIGHT cast on the goodness
No healing from your BRILLIANCE
So boy, don’t you turn back.
So manchild, don’t you stop marching
The promised land is ours to be occupied
Even though I fear for your safety
Knowing that no education of your mind or body in this system
Will protect you from her [false] allegations
Will keep you from his rage or fragility
Will minimize your threat to the weak…becauseyou are strong
Don’t you set down on the steps
Please, sit down
On those and in dem streets
Set your burdens down
On the steps that are at the courthouse if you are tired, needing rest,
Take pause and make space
BUT don’t give up
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
‘Cause you find it’s kinda hard
Don’t you fall now—
When you stumble, allow yourself to fall and get back up again
Like that old gospel song says
It is a source of your joy, our joy, my joy, Black joy…the memories in the car, singing…
But God is the source of your strength and
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’m still goin’ son,
I’se still climbin’,
I’m still climbin’
Even when they don’t really see me
YOU give me courage
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
Did you see this Titus Kaphar cover in Time this week, son? You, my artist, my creative, my gift from God, my sun…being Black and blue…is less than I am, we are…we are Black joy. With eyes closed I carry you, I feel you, I love you more than my sadness mourns you.
1970–the novelty of ‘Say it loud. I’m Black and I’m proud‘ had worn off and was drifting into nostalgia among youth transitioning into their roles as parents as they welcomed children of their own. Their edge being worn by the reality of life and mortality of [hu]man existence, a sentiment lifted by Kendrick Lamar, a Pulitzer prize winning rapper and Tupac, a dead rapper Black man. Revolutions are usually led by the young. Is that [still] me?
How did we get to 2020–my year of fifty–a year whose promise of clarity invoked by the health system code for good vision–has been opaque and layered, complex with interstitial moments of hard and soft, granular and strained…
I wonder, how we got to this moment? When Breonna was snuffed out by over-policing not in a school but in her home, with a [her] man in the house…who would be charged for attempt on an officer’s life, because he was willing to die protecting her. The legacy of “man in the house” policy–racist policy–strikes again. The paralysis of men who choose to be present…
As a teacher, for truly that is who I am (and what I am allowed to do and be), I am forced to reckon with the realness of my responsibility to
1. accept that I am shook, at my core by what is happening and
2. use what I do and who I am to put all of this in context for myself and for them…the ones who I teach and who I lead.
How did we get here–to a place when men, all under the age of 65–meaning, if they were educated in the United States or in a place influenced by the gleam of the American brand of education, they for all intents and purposes went to integrated schools, after Brown v. Board. Presuming that a child is about 7 when they must go to school, they would have started school at some point later than 1955 so…the experiment, should have been conducted over enough time that reliable results could be analyzed for effect. Let’s say, these same men who are now “serving” communities started school in the mid-seventies, the experiment of democratic and egalitarian multicultural schools was in full swing. The lessons and pilot studies from leaders like Jane Elliot were accepted as transformative and worth understanding. Then all of these men have been exposed to enough students NOT like them, that fear would not be the explanation for their casual disregard for people NOT like them–or is that the exact and precise reason why we are here?
This is how I think (from my teacher’s perspective) we got to this moment, this is what racism in schools does and looks like at each level:
Young families leave “the city” for a “safe” community where they can raise their family to have a diversity of friends
Families create lovely “play dates” with new neighbors and a few remnant neighbors from back in the day, carefully orchestrating birthday parties and outings so young children can be socialized “not to see difference”, the more well-resourced families ask guests to donate to a local charity (or they re-gift useless presents to Goodwill or donation bins) all the while teaching their privileged children it is better to give rather than to receive–perhaps planting seeds of savior-complexity that comes later.
The children become used to that ritual long enough to come to school and celebrate (appropriate) cultural traditions of the populations in the building, announced by flag-lined halls and bulletin boards. It is new and fresh and exciting and vibrant. By the third year of never being changed, students realize the showmanship of the display and barely even see it any more. Because teaching content matters more than teaching humanness, we care less about what is happening outside of the desk-lined classroom than the messaging from traditional voices (read classics, read canon, read White, read Christian, read male, read heteronormative, read able-bodied) that are upheld in textbooks where the biggest mirrors are upheld to all that tradition. This is the place where mirrors, sliding glass doors and curtains (thank you Dr. Reese) are betrothed to the others…the one’s that are dominated. The colonized-settler relationship of school is becoming apparent to teachers forced to carry things as a teacher in the form of curriculum, that even they find problematic, yet they teach whiteness and norms of American-branded education that marginalize many, maybe even most.
By fourth grade, testing starts and the “it” kids rise to the top while “those who ain’t it” fall to the bottom. The families with resources get support through outside tutoring and psych evaluations. Those with fewer (or no) resources, are dependent on what an overtaxed system gets around to identifying and providing. Counseling and therapy are illusive mirages seen through double-sided glass. Masks (as in “we wear the masks” not the current medical PPE but perhaps in the same vein as the “racism, vulnerability and pathology” that Dr. Benjamin describes) start being worn as every aspect of the school life and day separates and divides the haves from the have nots and curriculum violence rises in its impact. If we understand what is really being taught by the curriculum (explicit, null and hidden), we realize that we are being assaulted…and we are only 10.
Adults stop forcing kids to play together, because they are tired of the charades and contrived ways they must BE “together”…it is too much work…besides, it is time to devote your time and talent and money toward extra-curriculars and college savings.
By the time of learning in middle-school, adult doubt in the experiment of multiculturalism resurfaces in lines of advice like “don’t bring _____ home, you know how your _______ is” reverberate through the child’s heart and mind, ringing in ears and spilling out of casual conversations online and in-person that on-lookers deem as HIB, all the while, the Black and brown peers of those who hear it, feel the widening of the gaps and slam their hearts, minds and mouths shut in nervous laughter with “I gotta go” declarations. Walking home, processing race in #TheTalk first about police brutality then about interracial relationships their own families gave them, Black and Brown children are simmering: trying to resolve racially stressful encounters (thank you for the language Dr. Howard Stevenson). It is all so confusing. Adults treat so many important life topics as taboo–we get sex because nakedness is kind of embarrassing for everyone but race and skin-color–is an external and very “social construct” right? Not quite…race, though defined in the context of social structures, is the dimension of power that makes racism so hard to process…it is a widely accepted/embraced infrastructure of e-VALUATION. Look at the faces of the children in doll study after doll study…words thrown around like “good” and “bad” are everywhere in school as if educators are resigned to using single-syllable praises. “Should” (as in what we should do), “Good” and “bad” (as in job), “right” and “wrong” (as in answers, behaviors, outcomes) could easily be moved to a “banned words” list like the books that have been cast away because fact or fiction, they present hard histories that need to be told like The Hate You Give…just why?
Then by 8th grade, we really start sorting students. The tracks are no longer narrowed or widened only, they are tiered and stacked. Catching up in the classroom…not likely. Maybe on the field or the orchestra pit??? We start allowing Black and Brown bodies to lead defensive tackle squads to protect the “smarter” more teachable quarterback…besides, they–those lean Bboys–are hungrier, run faster, jump higher, play longer, breathe better–they were built for that/this–to entertain and earn a scholarship right? Demands to be evaluated on different scales and accelerated beyond the common class have created all of this.
On a mediocre team, they will not be seen, even if they are the best on the floor. Can they read? Can they compute? Do they imagine life beyond the borders or their here and now…coach?
By high school…all the lanes have been fully drawn. For more than twenty years we have known exactly why all the Black kids are sitting together in the cafeteria: they are seen in the space with their peers. They are carving out an antiracist #fishbowl for themselves to be seen–admired and valued if only for the few moments they have between the overwhelming days of erasure and condescension, invisibility and overpolicing. All the while, the non-Black “friends” they had as children have been secret admirers and frienemies. Their Brown friends have become competitors trying not to get their own butts beat in the system–torn between the white-black bookends of the American racist narrative. Every encounter becomes awkward. Straight weird! There is no where for Black students to go until they find somewhere to go.
Then the biggest dividing force emerges at high school graduation day: life beyond compulsory education…the place where money separates us even further. Those families back in the first few paragraphs now celebrate “the hard work” they’ve all done to reach the elite institutions we call four-year colleges where class and willingness to incur ridiculous amounts of debt finally distinguish the privileged from the barely holding on…
This is how we got back to these moments when humans are lynched. This moment of tremendous loss and chaos where BM are feared, hunted and killed for simply being present on the planet by people whose own fragility, fear and rage fuels the fires that are fanned by social media. The technologies have changed but the techniques of de-sensitizing us to hatred are the same.
This is how we got to this moment when WF executives see themselves as more valuable than BM bird watchers who have the same if not more academic pedigree under their purple-label collar.
Schools and education are part of the problem. Educators are trench warriors, on the front lines, on both sides–the side of racist education and anti-racist education.
I can’t finish right now, because I need to develop a plan to build an army (if I cannot find one to join) ready for rebellion…some are in [comm]union with others trying to do this work. We have gotten to the place of writing public statements and organized for movements like Black Lives Matter at School…now we need enacted change. WE must mobilize beyond the protest. I am starting with my sphere of influence. It is not that large–my classroom, my school, my region…getting to work, again…
It is Monday after a weekend when my gaze was upon two queens “battling” softly to their tunes more like celebration than war…
They had surrendered that story–two nations at odds–years ago for that is a story that wasn’t theirs in the first place. Like two lovers of one man, pitted against each other until they realize that they both love him, unconditionally and in less profane ways than the ones, outside of the circle feeding on quarrels that don’t exist. The stuff that created a rift between East Coast and West Coast that only ended in untimely deaths of leaders like Tupac and Chris (better known as Biggie) in a world that doesn’t really care to know them…yet they consume them.
These queens play their firsts…
Their versions of the same song…
In love and respect, homage and honor…
You got me…don’t worry…you got me…
Part II. Watching Me
Surveilled by consent of a click
In order to see what I think might be there
Suspecting that no one is really there and yet ev’ry one is…
Who is in the room if all I see is a name, unallowed to be renamed…disallowed to be claimed and yet present in gallery view
From the Beginning
Perceiving the chain that school-issue
Marked for me and them
Part 3: Reach
“Some dreams live on in time forever, those dreams you want with all your heart…”
I do not see this time as tragic…this time of uncertainty in education. I see it as an opportunity for tremendous equalizing force, realizing that it too can (and will) exacerbate inequities if we allow it. If we think that we must maintain what we have always had before…it will feel like we are reaching…grasping for straws in thin air.
But I have never wanted what we have always had. I want something different, not even something more…just different. More of the same, is like having a second helping of oatmeal when you want an entirely different meal.
I imagine teaching like coaching. Applying the right pressure to get the best from the ones who I have been entrusted to train…knowing that they will ultimately execute the plan that they see is best for them in that moment.
I have always imagined differentiated evaluation not just differentiated instruction…opportunities to showcase what you want, how you want…
This is closing ceremony…it is time to reach.
Soñar con lo que más queremos Aquello difícil de lograr Es ofrecer llevar la meta a su fin Y creer que la veremos cumplir Arriesgar de una vez Lo que soy por lo que puedo ser…
This is that year when Strug literally left blood on the floor…the year when she decided to do what she felt best for the team…and when her team, fully inspired, picked up where she left off…
This is a new language for teachers, the language of reform and real opportunity. I am reaching for something different that I always imagined could be…
…if I could reach, putting my spirit to the test, knowing I tried my very best…I am going to be stronger…
Of a captured firefly (we called them lightnin’ bugs) walking around between my palms.
The curious arousal that made me laugh…nervously…
The released pheromones I detected in my nostril…the smell of fear or its basic physiology, it was different than the aroma of my own flesh.
Held lovingly, and in awe, tickled by its fancy, my entrapment did not keep it from reminding me of its capacity to form light.
Inspired by the brilliant Lorena Germán in her #31DaysIBPOC reflection What I Remember, I wish I could forget; some less pleasant, less useful, less productive sensations but I can’t…because…twenty, thirty, forty and almost fifty years later, when I show up to some spaces, places and conversations, the slap back into erasure and invisibility stings…still.
I try to shake it but I don’t really want to. Sort of like the firefly that has become comfortable in the warmth I create for it. In an open palm, it clings to my hand with a newly found familiar stance.
I want to remember it so I find the courage to persist…to be a racism-resistor…not just for myself but for my students and colleagues whose wings are still growing.
Then I read her reply to herself…an extended invitation to go back and read some more than level one text about Ending Curriculum Violence. Another memory, invoked by profound imagery and then the story.
Cotton and the slave narratives are one thing.
The mythology of functional and traditional family still another…
The loss of pictures and captured moments…
The legacy of the 1900 World Fair and the power of self, captured in an image. Reclaimed from gaze and yet we stare…because we wonder…what was going through the heart or minds of those who are (sic) captured, or maybe trapped, in that moment.
Earth Day was the reminder that I have been here for four years, only four years, although these days, weeks feel like months so years feel like an eternity.
When I first saw her, I thought “wow…she’s old!” Her roots, sprawling across the yard were providing stability for her wide bottom, securing her future even though her fruit were slow to reveal themselves and her many branches were unsteady. Yet, I was in awe of her.
The inspector pointed out that she would have to be cut, on one side you could see how she was threatening my own protection, our house/his future wealth, my right-then investment. Her roots were cracking the foundation just outside my door. Her far reaching trunk was hampering the sun’s light, starving smaller, younger life beneath her.
In the tumult of several rainy days, branches snapped, limbs scraped the rooftop and weedy grass revealed the persistent gasp her roots now made to stake the soil and hold on.
Like this moment, I decided to take the old and beautiful thing down. No real memorial just a single picture of her…along with the promise that I will plant more in place of her. I will be thoughtful about the sure history that will come later–after years of support and care. I will choose ones whose roots run deep rather than wide…whose growth will be intentionally slow rather than fast and sure to be overturned when the next and certain storm comes.
Like this moment, I will think about her as I pen a new plan.
Yes, the ecosystem of this yard has changed like the educational landscape I am witnessing in this moment. Perhaps it is time to re-imagine my garden.
When I stop to reflect on who I am, what I am, where I am, why I am, I can’t separate my am-ness from the planet on which I rely. I went outside today to feel her pulse and see her life…
Rich and black in spots, depleted and abused in others…bearing fruit in both. Wondering if weeds are good for her or as bad as my urge to pull them produced…
But there is much I learn from weeds, whose shelter creates a cozy nest for the super fat grubs still growing (or are they napping) before birthing their hard beetle skin.
These weeds that trick us into believing in their value with hearty greens and interesting floral patterns…they build networks that run deep, just under the surface, with roots that spread and sprawl or excavate deeper soils in search of a foundation that will supply strength.
I said I was only going to be out here to simply cut the grass for my compost and ignore the distracting weeds…
But they call to me with their herbal aromas as I cut. They invite me to see how they do it…how they become strong, resilient and still grow.
After way too long a commitment, I pause to look at my hands.
I don’t recognize them as my own without the manicure that this 2020 life has denied them…I cut them low myself so I know how they feel but they don’t look like my own…they look my grandfather’s…the men who first taught me to pull the weeds from the cracks to preserve the driveway for a little while longer. The men who taught me to plant things that I like so I could experience the pleasure of the process. One was a pastry chef the other a line mechanic that was our family engineer. Then I wonder where is the song that celebrates grandpa’s hands…
Part 2: Anniversaries
Earth Day 2020 is the fourth anniversary of the purchase of my “dream”
Passing something worth having on
To the next generation…
Acknowledging the Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape heritage of the land where this house sits.
I wonder how to pass on better practices for those who will come even after me…
I see the gift of planted trees made at least hundreds of years ago in the soil and smell it in the air. As I pluck wild onions from between the variegated leaves of the hostas that were left to sprout every year since I have been here.
I am wondering how to make a garden blueprint of perennials for my own kinfolk or the next persons who will occupy this space.
I wonder what’s the best way to mark an anniversary? What better way than to leave a learned lesson like treasure to be found…