Sometimes She's a Lady

This concrete sculpture under an overpass was lit with rainbows at night

I think of karma as the golden rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  It's really important.  It makes sense that even though your loved ones share your angers, vulnerabilities, joys, concerns and frustrations, they should also get to benefit from a little grace.

This was highlighted for me last weekend on a trip to Seattle with G.

We stayed at a nice hotel in Belltown

While there, we decided to visit Uwajimaya, which is sort of an Asian indoor mall/supermarket. Great food and fun shopping. One of the things I love about Seattle is the variety of people and experiences there.  I saw small blonde children expertly eating with chopsticks, heard both French and Spanish spoken and enjoyed a crowd of people with a neat vibe to them. There was kind of an excitement in the air.  We found a quiet corner and had yummy Thai food for lunch.  Crowds are neat but they make me tired so I get to take frequent breaks.  

After that, we moved the car to longer-term parking and went to the Wing Luke museum. I think it's second only to the Seattle Art Museum. Amazing tour with a knowledgeable guide, an area for discussion of social justice and equality and good history as viewed through the eyes of those who lived and continue to live it.  

And G lost a bunch of cash.  

Yeah. It was an accident. The case was "just in case" money and not something we carry around with us regularly.  But he had it in his pocket with his keys and when we moved the car... gone. I'm hoping that someone with good karma, or someone who really needed it, found it.  Because we looked and it was gone, gone, gone.  

I got an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like angry awful. And a little desperate.  If I'm really honest, I also felt relieved that it wasn't me who lost that money because my sweet husband was quite upset about the whole thing.  Not really about the money, I realized, but about how upset I'd be.  Yes, it's distressing to lose something. But what's worse is when you have to tell someone about how you screwed up.  I hate that feeling and I had this moment of clarity about how I could help him feel better.  

G: How angry are you right now? 

Me: I'm a little upset. 

G: What can I do to make it up? 

That's such a hard question.  There's just no answer to it.  It was just bad luck and nothing would bring back that cash.  

Me: How would you react if I just told you the same thing? 

G: I'd say it's just money and we shouldn't let it ruin our trip. 

Me: Let's do that. But I want cool wife points. 

G: Ok. 

And like that, it was all ok. We enjoyed the museum, some dinner and a quiet evening.  

Pretty little fountain- You can see loaner bicycles in the background

Hardcore relaxation

Yup, Good Karma

G in his natural environment

I enjoyed eating at Black Bottle in Belltown

The next day, we planned to meet my friend Matt at the Zeitgeist Coffeehouse in Pioneer Square.  I love that place with it's sort of hipster vibe and not just rice milk, but almond milk too.  At the front, there was a man in his 60s ordering a sandwhich. He was well dressed and extremely demanding.  As the cashier took his order, he tried cajoling her to do special things for him, like adding tomatoes to his food and an extra shot for free, promising to come there often. His use of familiar terms and inability to stop directing her got on my nerves. Plus, every thirty seconds he asked for something else on top of his other demands. 

Finally, the other cashier asked him to step out of the way so that we could order.  I asked for my almond milk latte and the man thought it was ok to step into my space to talk to me about how he and his wife drink almond milk now too. It's so much healthier. 

I don't drink almond milk because it's yummy. Yes, it is, but I'm allergic to milk AND soy and I don't have much choice.  I wanted to say "There is something about your face I don't like.  Maybe it's because you think you're so important."  

But I didn't.  I just turned my back on him and he talked to G instead.  So we got our food and sat to wait. 

Matt didn't show up.  

And it was my fault.  

I'd miscommunicated with him and he was expecting us out in Ballard. It took an hour and a half to get there, through Seattle traffic, a protest and a bridge closing, at which point I jumped out of the car while G parked and talked to Matt for 8 minutes until he had to take off. I'm blaming Facebook and its message system.   

What a cluster****.  

Me: How mad are you right now? 

G: Pretty mad. 

Me: How can I make it up? I mean, there are lots of things to do here... 

G: Give me a minute. 

###

A minute goes by of quiet contemplation and me sitting quietly on a bench.  

G: Ok. I'm cool.  Let's have a good day. 

Me: Really? This isn't a passive aggressive thing? You're not going to be angry later?

G: Nope.  This is what good karma will buy you. 

He meant it. He got over it and I got over it and we had a great afternoon. We even had a fantastic restaurant experience with Puerto Rican food. I was really sad to miss Matt, especially since he was the one who invited us to the locks.  Hopefully I'll plan better next time. 

There was an outdoor sculpture

Bunches of salmon- this is the underground fish ladder viewing spot

The locks were the most interesting to me. We watched for hours.

And this- THIS is a jasmine tree. Oh my gosh....

In working on the locks, people need to not fear falling. That's a museum in the background

Did I mention that the fish would jump clear out of the water?

So yeah, karma. Sometimes she's a lady.

The Best I Can Do

I'm teaching a multi-cultural literature class this quarter. It's a 200 level course and I have 26 students.  I didn't even think the class would fill up, but it has. It's overfilled! The students are an interesting group- many of them are white but seem to have this desire to learn about more than just the dominant culture they grew up in.  I asked what they wanted at the beginning and they answered (in so many words) that they crave history, real history, and truth.  They want to know more than what they see on television but don't know how to find it.  They suspect that there are cultures in the U.S. That have nothing to do with white culture and don't quite know how to begin.

I guess that's where I come in. I set a curriculum (lots of Native American literature), guide class discussion and check to make sure everyone has done their homework.  I talk about my experiences and try to augment the somewhat pathetic offerings that show up in the book.  I'm not a fan of Pearson, if you didn't notice. But that's the book the department wanted me to use. I just made photocopies of the other stuff for them.

One of my students the other day referred to me as an expert on Native American literature. We did begin with Native American Literature (also see: American Literature) and I admit that it is my favorite genre.  But an expert?

It made me acutely uncomfortable.  I am no expert on a particular type of literature and it feels like a white person appropriating someone elses culture to say that I am.  I can discuss characteristics of early Native American lit, talk about current authors and stereotypes and issues often discussed and warn about what is and is not appropriate to wear as a halloween costume. Hint: Bride of Frankenstein is ok. Wearing a headband, feathers and face paint doesn't make you a slutty Indian girl. It makes you an asshole. I can talk about blood quantam and ethnic versus cultural identity.
I can even tell you about the undercurrent (sometimes over-current) of anger at white people in general, and with good reason- both historically and currently. 

Yes, go ahead and appropriate this guy. It's ok; you have my permission.

What I cannot do is call myself an expert.  Yes, I have studied this literature quite a bit.  Lots of people do. I write about Sherman Alexie and attend cultural events from time to time.  But I am not a member of that community and there exists a separation between me and that culture.  Therefore, I am an outsider and not an expert. 

But that doesn't exactly translate in the classroom.  I think when my student said "expert", what he really meant was "you know more than we do, so it appears you know everything about this subject which you are so passionate about". 

I can dig that.

There is another aspect that comes up: white guilt.  I think many of my white students feel it; the weight of what our ancestors have done.  It's a normal part of becoming aware of white privilege. There are moments that sometimes happen when reading writing by people who did not experience the privilege of the dominant culture when one realizes that by dint of their birth they have had unfair advantage.  It's heavy.  It hangs around the neck and makes it difficult to look people in the eye.  It makes one feel outraged and a little bit fooled by the perpetuation of the myth that everyone is equal in the U.S. It's difficult- the sneaking realization, the denial, and probably the embrasure of truth.  Or more often, the discarding of these ideas simply because it's too uncomfortable to deal with effectively. 

So that's really what I'm an expert on.  I'm an expert on trying not to be a jerk.  And helping others to not be jerks too.  Can't we all just get along?

Sometimes I am very good; sometimes I fail miserably.  Just like most humans.

I prepared for this class years ago. I wrote about my discomfort at teaching multicultural literature, since I am a white person.  I talked to others in the field.  My academic credentials are fine; I am completely qualified.  And I do love literature.  And I can teach it.  That's the synthesis of the thing.

However.

Every time I step to that podium, I am aware that I am white. I am aware that this gives me an advantage with my white students and that it can also be a turn off for students who identify as someone other than white.  I am doing my best to step out of the way, to highlight text, to ask questions but not necessarily to answer them.  To point out voices but let students wrestle with meaning.  To provide framework but not fill in the blanks.  In other words, I'm having the time of my life.

That really is the best I can do. 

What Students Can Teach Me About Kindness

Today I loved being a teacher. I haven't been able to say that much this fall. Between administration, the state department and basic trust issues with my kids, we are now sort of at the point where we can move forward. I've now got some buy-in with my students, some street cred, as it were. It occurs to me that I know so little of the true lives of my students that it would be a mistake to make assumptions about what they do or do not know. So I ask them to write their lives, their experiences and their opinions. We all have notebooks to write in and they have the option every day to either do my writing prompt or their own.  I love it when they choose to share with the group.

Ninety-five percent of my kids are Hispanic and most of those are Mexican. The remaining 5% are African-American and White, in that order.  Many are Christian and Catholic; a few are Jewish. It may surprise you to think that I see the races, religions and ethnicities of my students. There are those who follow a philosophy of color-blindness when it comes to children and teaching.  They report that a student's background is has no bearing on the classroom environment.  That since Standard American English is pretty much the status quo and since English teachers teach SAE in the curriculum, it is best to ignore any other issue besides the curriculum. I think this is done out of love and a desire to give students the best chance they can.  But it's not effective.  To refuse to see the world in color, to not see children for who they are and to not acknowledge or honor the lives they live is not only a mistake, but it is irresponsible of educators to do so.

As a teacher, as a woman and as a White person, I have a background in my subject that some of- ok, many of- my students are not privileged to have. The pathways of their lives and mine only intersect in a few ways.  Instead of laying my curriculum, my pathway, over the top of my student's heads, I find it a much better fit, and a more productive one from a learning standpoint, to find some of their pathways and offer them augmentation in English. The students and I come to agreements about how the class will run, what sorts of privileges they can earn and what sort of work they will do.  And they do work. They sometimes work their guts out. In return, I attempt to serve them, not from the tippy-top of a mountain pouring down a dominant ideology, but instead from a little creek that bubbles alongside their own experiences. And sometimes they surprise me, because what they learn and practice has little to do with the stated curriculum, but instead speaks to the hidden agendas I purposefully demonstrate.

The kids work in groups of four, where I have seated them. In one class, I have a table of four with Donna, Billy, Mary and Alaina.  These are not their real names. Donna is shorter than 4'11" tall.  She and Alaina are both Black. Mary and Billy are both Mexican.  Donna has a temper on her and I have seen her do a power punch that lifted her off of her feet in order to sock an older, much larger boy in the face.  But in my class she is a joyful kid and regular contributor to our discussions. Billy is a gentle giant kind of kid, quiet and studious. He loves to read to the point that I have had to ask him to put away his book to do a writing assignment- an assignment that involved another book we were reading. But Billy does not seem to have much family structure.  He never completes homework. His handwriting is atrocious and his personal hygiene is often questionable. He's usually got dirt on his arms and face.  The other kids pick on him.  He is a sweet kid too- always finds me in the hallway and says "Hi Miss Dieu!!!" One day he was crying in class. I pulled him into the hallway to ask him why. He had not done his homework and thought I'd be mad at him.  Oh no! No, no, just do it for tomorrow! I spent some time reassuring him and sent him to the bathroom to splash water on his face. I was taken rather aback that he thought enough of me to cry at the thought that I'd become angry with him.  Truth be told, that made a big impact on me.  I had a talk with his tablemates while he was away. I asked that they be kind to him and include them more than they had; that junior high is hard enough and it costs nothing to be gentle. At first, they just stopped being snarky.  Then, with my own reminders, Mary and Donna have said nice things to him.  Alaina is not convinced; she continues to make little digs.

Yesterday, Donna came in madder than a wet hen.  She picked up her notebook and wrote furiously for 10 minutes straight and read what she had written to the class.  She was angry; a boy she said she liked called her ugly and she had to resist the urge to punch him out.  She read the class the riot act about being nice to people and how she has feelings too.  She said she thought the teachers just didn't care (not you, Miss Dieu, I love you!) and that things were going to go badly. We all thanked her for sharing, which is what we do when someone shares their writing out loud. Criticism is saved for peer review. "Thank you for sharing" is reserved for those brave enough to read what they have read.

After class, I asked Donna to talk to me.  She admitted that there was more to the story.  Another boy, Todd (also a pseudonym) keeps threatening her.  He said that if she told anyone, he would have someone beat her up. I have Todd in another class.  He is a year older and is very smart.  It's just his modus operandi to get others to do his dirty work.  I took Donna to the counselor.  He art teacher came to ask me about her.  Donna had been confrontational and angry in class the previous two days and she was wondering if I knew anything that would help.  I relayed what Donna had said.  The art teacher said she would take a few minutes to let our student know that we do notice and that we do indeed care.

We had a team meeting with Todd.  That's when all of his teachers get together with a student to help them, to ask them to change their behavior and to hear what they have to say about their own education.  We also let Todd know that if anything- anything at all- were to happen to Donna, he would have to answer to us, the school and the police officer assigned to the school.  I don't think it scared him much, but I don't think he'll pick on Donna anymore.

Today in class, everything went as normal.  We were writing expository essays with the understanding that a 5 paragraph essay is not the be all and end all of good writing.  The students chose their own topics from the daily writing prompts we have done for the last few weeks.  But Billy still hadn't gotten started.  He couldn't think of what to write.  I offered some ideas and asked his tablemates to help him like they were helping each other.  Each of them had picked a season and were writing about it. Billy looked like he was going to cry.  I told him to take a few deep breaths and try again. That's when the girls jumped in. "You're a good storyteller!", said Donna. "Yeah, you always tell the best stories" "You remember the one you told us in math class about the vampire and his beard...?" And on and on.  They gave him ideas on what to write based on his own interests.  And I almost started to cry myself, but I smiled and busied myself with other kids who needed help.

Today I loved being a teacher. I loved being a human and I loved being a part of this community and playing my appropriate part in it.  I had to leave during 4th hour to go to OU and meet with my adviser. As I was dashing out the door (found a great substitute teacher, by the way!) I waved and said "Bye kids! I love you, have a great weekend!"  They yelled "Bye! We love you too!", and I smiled all the way to Norman.