Something Like Adult Life

Kismet and Reunion - France

Goodwill or St. Vincent de Paul is the equivalent of Emmaus in France. Because we were missing some essentials for camping and didn’t want to buy new things if we didn’t have to, Elo and I spent a few successful hours digging around for a cooking stove, plastic-ware, and knives. Wandering through the vintage typewriter section, I was astonished to read this sentence typed on all of the typewriters: the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog. It’s a pangram; a sentence that uses all of the letters of the alphabet. This sentence written on vintage typewriters in a second-hand shop in Marseilles may not be considered that strange. Indeed, it was a welcome sight after almost three days of nothing but French. However, in addition to this reunion with my home language was the fact that at the time, I was reading the epistolary novel, Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn. What is peculiar is that the plot of the book would collapse without this sentence. This existence of this sentence may be common knowledge for most people with knowledge of the English language - native speaker or otherwise - and therefore not that uncommon. I perceived it as quite the rendevouz with kismet.   

I’m not usually one to remark on the profundity of coincidences. In fact, it’s rare that I can recall them well enough to share with others after their discovery. I’m honestly not that interested in the meaning of this one. It did, however, get me thinking about the nature of coincidence - or fate if you will - and our relationship to things…and well, relationships. Particularlyreunions.  

I’d like to go deeper than, “Oh, I’m just so fortunate to have met this person. The stars must have aligned.” For me, it’s beyond that. We live in a world where having romantic partners, best friends, and people that are like family to you all the way across the globe is expected if you’ve spent a long time in another place. Not facebook-type relationships, but the ones with the people who you will hug again, kiss on both cheeks, and catch up with over coffee. What actually keeps these relationships together?

One of the reasons I’m afraid to live away from home again for a long time is because I know I’ll have to say goodbye to the people I love. It’s an awful feeling, sharing something inexplicable with someone, growing close to them, and not knowing if you’ll see them again. Save for some real motivation or real coincidence - and I would argue it takes a big dose of both - it’s likely you won’t. 

Rather than focus on the heartache attached to that more likely reality, let me tell you about my friends from Belgium, Sebi and Cami. We lived together in a giant beach house with 10-15 other people in Malaga, Spain in 2008-2009. I’d traveled with people I enjoyed before, but they were among the first people that I separated from while being away from home who I felt truly pained to leave.  But after nearly four years, with news I was booking this trip to Europe, Sebi and Cami arranged to be in Paris to greet me along with Elo. Busy lives, job, and school considered, it was going to be possible to spend time with them again. As luck would have it, I’d been to Paris before, so our time was real time. We rode through Paris on bikes, had beers on a boat bar, ate in exotic markets, and had a picnic in the park. All of these events occurred in order for us to keep each other in our lives in a meaningful way.  I’ll admit to personal motivation and globalization playing a large role, but to further my theory about the required role of fate in relationships, I’ll also submit that Cami will be in Portland for work in October - by chance. I feel so fortunate to get to see her again so soon.  My dear friends Elo and Johannes, with whom I spent the most time during this trip, are comparable examples of this phenomena.  

Relationships do require effort. I’ve had my share of utterly self-draining ties to people - some of whom I’ve distanced myself from in the name of personal growth. But ultimately, strained and forced relationships, near to you or at a distance, lack something cosmic. They lack ease. They lack security in knowing that this person will hitchhike, wander, or veer into your life lane, or you into theirs, as often as necessary to remind you of their importance to you.  It’s these fellow vagabonds that are the quizzical sentences. Writing themselves back into your story when you least expect. And they’re always welcome.  

An Intro To the Beginning

Wanderlust. Vagabond. Adventurer. Globetrotter. Free spirit. Traveler. In my mind these titles conjure something far more romantic than my self-image communicates. But I like to think there is something in these words that lives in and through me. I’m not sure what gives me and so many people I know and love this insatiable urge to pack a backpack, get on a plane, go to a place where we don’t speak the language and have trouble buying fruit in a grocery store. Part of my urge may be conditioned. Having spent the first 11 years of my life packing up and moving to a new city in a new state every year, I suppose there’s something about the impermanence of place mixed in with a heavy dose of nostalgia that sends me flying. My internal motivations may be hard to point to, but the external motivations are clear most of the time or they’re slow-forming.

It was during this last trip that I was finally able to articulate how uncomfortable it is to be somewhere completely foreign. It’s humbling. No matter how comfortable you feel in your home life with your family, friends, and professional environment, you will feel like a small child instinctually grasping for some recognizable social norms in a country foreign to you. You simply won’t know what to do at a dinner table, for example. The ritual will be alien to you and you’ll sit as a curious infant might enjoy their first high chair dining experience. Wide-eyed, silent (save for some incomprehensible off topic interjections), wondering if you should just grab what you want, or attempt to politely ask. However, it’s this simple cultural puzzle that will remind you that your ways of doing things frankly aren’t that important. And may even make you consider that there could be a better way. Ultimately though, you’re confronted with simplicity in its purest form: communication, activity, food, drink, and a welcome place to fall asleep. Though in different packaging, these are our basic pleasures and needs in life. And it’s through travel that we get to experience them in ways that breathe something educative and beautiful into such taken for granted simplicities.

I’ll answer any questions people ask about my travels and elaborate increasingly the more questions I’m asked. Mostly though, I don’t offer information. I too have been a victim of people excessively talking at me about an experience for which I have no frame of reference (this is not often the case, I’m just commiserating here). So it’s a bit embarrassing to admit, but I’ve been sulking over the surprisingly few details I’ve had the opportunity to share with people since I came home from my 6-week trip in Europe. It’s bratty. But mixed in with some self-disgust is a desire to express an experience that will become more and more meaningless to my friends and family, while it becomes more and more meaningful to me. The essay The Importance of Unwritten Postcards speaks to a modern way of internalizing experience. That we almost compulsively jump to post a status update and purge an experience before we’ve really thought about what it means to us and for us, may be something we should reconsider doing with such frequency. My travel journal was my facebook with no word limit. It’s just for me. And yet, there is something to sharing experience. It’s why we watch film and read novels. Perhaps these posts will just be for me and my gregarious and curious insurance agent. That’s okay.  But a large part of me hopes that they will address fear. Fear of unfamiliar places. Fear of political differences. Fear of being broke. Fear of eating animals in their pre-decapitated state. Fear of having to listen because you can’t speak. Fear of prioritizing something so full of unknowns that you talk yourself out of it before you do a Kayak search. Fear of leaving your studio in the hands of strangers to finance facing fear. Fear of being just a bit more fearless.

If you’d like to journey with me, I’m planning to post as follows: 

• France
• Italy and Slovenia
• Croatia and Bosnia
• Montenegro, Albania, & Greece
• More Italy and France
• Germany

Please, Take My Passion Too

I’m sorry if you had a teacher who only asked you to open a textbook. Someone unfeeling and stern. Someone who scared you. Someone who sat at the front of the class, behind their desk, barely glancing up when you finished yet another insignificant worksheet. If you only had teachers like this, I forgive you for not reading much further.

Now think of the teacher that changed you in some inexplicable way. Inexplicable because you were too young to understand what the force of a person living with passion and purpose could do. I hope you can name one. I’m lucky to be able to name a few. They were the reason I became a teacher. And if I had chosen some other profession, I’m sure I would be giving them credit for that as well.

For every one teacher who you believe shouldn’t continue to have the same salary and benefits they do now, I can list five who should earn the salary of a doctor, but who would continue to teach with a 15% pay reduction. I can name five more who should be making double or even triple what they’re making based on the success they’re having with kids. These teachers spend hours outside of their contract day creating lessons that will wake their students up to reality, create community among them, get them to be good writers, decent people, and engaged, impassioned youth. They’re up at night hoping their students aren’t sleeping on park benches and wondering if they’re going to bed hungry. They’re staying after school to make sure students still have sports and music in their lives. They’re taking on more classes without compensation because students need more than standard curriculum. They are constantly looking for ways to self improve, to be better, to do more for the benefit of their current students and their future ones. These are the teachers I know. I’m proud to work with them. It’s devastating and infuriating for me to know that if they suffer, their students suffer. Teachers don’t ask for more, but they can’t handle less.

I’m not sure who to address. Instinctively, I start with the Parkrose School District. I want to scream at them for cutting our paychecks by close to $1000 from now through the summer, for raising our insurance costs by $200 a month, for removing STEPS- a teacher’s only opportunity for a raise. Our teachers have united and said that we will not stand for this. The condition of our teachers affect the conditions of our classrooms. A teacher worrying about losing their home, and living one step closer to broke is not an effective teacher. No. Not even that teacher that transforms students. Teachers in the Parkrose and Gresham-Barlow districts are taking action. They’re debunking the myth that teachers have limitless amounts of passion and spirit to get them through the school year. It’s very unlikely that their contracts, when they finally settle, will change drastically from what is currently being proposed. For most of us, that is beside the point. Teachers can’t continue taking whatever cut is next in line. This is about self-respect. It’s about knowing we deserve better, raising our voices, and asking for it.

Logically, I know I can’t entirely blame a district, relying on a state, that’s relying on a nation, to give them funding. The problem in its entirety is daunting. I appreciate those who say they support teachers and education. The words of encouragement from friends and family are kind, but frankly, meaningless. Our nation, and most likely your eventual livelihood, depends on the quality of education that we’re providing for the majority of the students today. I didn’t become a lawyer because I realized that a courtroom was simply a tourniquet. I wanted to disarm the weapon. In recent years, the people of Colombia have forked over large percentages of their wages to taxes that support social services like education. Their nation, as a result, has experienced a dramatic change overall and among youth - moving from gang and drug activity to an investment in the arts, education, and community. Yes, our system is failing kids. But this isn’t a “people in education” problem. This is an everyone problem. It should be treated as such.

What you may not have ever considered is how much you affected the lives of your teachers. To say, “I love my students,” is an oversimplification, and unless you work with kids, there’s no way to understand. I wake up every morning excited to see them. I miss them during long breaks. I teach a poor lesson, and I’m a failure. I love my job. I love that it pushes me to be my best all the time, and to expect the best from those who will hold our future. After a long search for purpose and a career that would fulfill me, I have found what I was meant to do. I’m good at it. Fortunately, I get to work with a lot of other teachers that are damn good at it, too - and we’re drowning.

Tonight, over 200 teachers, parents, and students came to the district board meeting after hearing that the board would be implementing the contract that has yet to be settled with our union bargaining team. With all the disrespect and cowardice they could muster, the district switched the contract discussion for the 9 a.m. agenda tomorrow morning. No teachers will be able to attend. Parents won’t hear of the news in time. There will be no representation from the people that the contract most affects at the announcement of its implementation, assuming that is their decision. We have been silenced.

It is my greatest fear that without the respect they’re due, the kinds of teachers who opened your heart and mind will not be around in the coming years for the vast population of students in America. Already, many of my brilliant and inspired peers who seriously considered a career in education have chosen other professions. In such a misunderstood, disrespected, and de-professionalized field, I can’t blame them. What will our nation look like without the kinds of teachers who changed you? Given the conditions in which teachers are working today, passion will not be enough to sustain them. They will need more. And they will only ask for it because they love their students.

I discussed a quote with my students today. Fredrick Douglass, the great abolitionist, said, “If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” I asked students to think of an example from our studies of American history where this message is being exemplified. I expected to hear about the Occupy movement, the Shawnee warrior Tecumseh, or the American Revolution. Instead, one of my students raised his hand and said thoughtfully, “the teachers in Parkrose.” I responded with a thank you, and we continued with our lesson.

Revolution

What’s been happening in Ms. Fitz’s classroom? Considering the topic of revolution as we analyze the American Revolution and Occupy. My aim was to connect the civil strife and actions of 18th century colonists with contemporary frustrations and efforts to create change.

Our essential question for the unit: How do you show your government you want change?

The students and I examined the causes of civil unrest and various ways that people have historically expressed themselves to their government leaders. We began with financial strain - a symptom of unrest for the colonists of the 18th century resulting from the Stamp and Quartering Acts. Students participated in a simulation to clarify the argument of members of the Occupy movement. 

Next the students considered the role of violence in revolution. The perspectives of the disgruntled colonists and British soldiers were considered in an analysis of the Boston Massacre. To connect to the modern day, students watched two youtube videos - one depicting police aggression towards Occupy protesters, the other showing demonstrators in Oakland defacing public property and abusing peaceful protesters of the same cause.

The Declaration of Independence united the 13 colonies and their intent to separate from a tyrannical leader. The Occupy movement, interestingly, wrote a document called the Occupy Proclamation. It parallels the 18th century document citing corporations as the leading destructive force. Using these documents, students considered the power of words as a means to persuade government to change.

In order to consider the events of history and our theme of revolution more deeply, we held a Socratic Seminar for our final activity. Students prepared answers to our essential questions citing examples from Occupy and from the American Revolution. 13-year-olds are not in the habit of participating in academic dialogue with one another, so the first 15 minutes were a bit awkward for each class despite my attempts to provide them with prompts and sentence frames. By the end of 30 min, however, my students were making articulating criticisms of the Occupy movement and its efficacy. They were comparing past and present cultural disparities to analyze the effect of certain types of events in attempts at revolution. Questioning money as a motivator, they began to consider alternative forms of revolution apart from financial redistribution. My last class, a particularly inquisitive bunch of philosophers, unraveled the inevitable cycle of revolution in society and the arbitrary nature of money in a technological and global economy.

My 8th graders are impressive. They are passionate and genuinely interested in thinking about how to remedy ailments in our society. They are surprisingly practical without ignoring fantastic possibilities. They’re hopeful, and it’s infectious.  

Phastasmagoria

You’re screaming. They can’t hear you- or don’t want to. You’re upset. Frustrated. You wake up- defeated. 

This scene is admittedly trite. But it may be played out because it’s so pertinent. Karen Russel’s novel Swamplandia!, is, metaphorically, some 400 pages of this dream sequence. Initially, I regarded the book with ambivalence. Just this morning, however, I realized that the narrative is fraught with insatiable desire and longing. A constant reaching - and reaching - and reaching with no release. No exhale. No comfort. And at times, a rendezvous with a monster.  Despite our best attempts to positively self-actualize, angst rises up and out (hopefully out) of us in our most challenging times. We strive for what we desire and what we envision for our lives. Sometimes, we learn that even the most extreme effort is futile.

I suppose its obvious that teachers feel this way often. Lately, it’s been a part of my personal life, too. After a challenging two weeks, so much change has made life feel surreal. Dreamlike. Nothing locked down. Everything in flux. It’s chaotic and beautiful. I find myself simultaneously lost in it and conscious of a peace that’s outside of it.  

Yesterday, I hiked through a forest, over an expanse of volcanic boulders, and came to the end of what should have been a river. The channel was about 60 yards across and just under 30 feet deep, but with little more than a trickle running through it. I’m no geologist, but I imagine a larger body of water cleared the earth away at some point, in intervals, over time. It may have seen more water as recently as last month.

At the end of the channel are large chocolate colored boulders and a rock-faced cliffside. This was our destination spot. Chocolate Falls is not always in flow. During the cold months of the year, and at night in the summer, the glacier that feeds the stream freezes. At some point around midday, the glacier melts, reactivating the stream. The water is gray with the volcanic ash that has fused itself to the glacier above. Upstream from the falls, a narrow chute has been carved out of the rock by the flow. It’s clear the water has played on that rock surface for centuries. Tiny pools and slides have been left for the delight of the glacier melt. It’s mesmerizing.

Although an uninspiring day, I turned out to be grateful for the overcast skies. Occasionally, the clouds broke apart just long enough to catch a glimpse of the mountain’s summit, it’s black earth and snow white surface majestically poised on a backdrop of clear blue. It would have been taken it for granted if it had been visible all day. It would have become a constant. Something expected. Instead, the mountain was there as a reminder that there can be more to experience, right where I am, than just what I am able to see when more isn’t yet being revealed to me.

An Intro to Seedfolks: “Morning Papers”

Seedfolks is a great book to begin the year reading. It also creates a lot of opportunity for intentional and unintentional micro-aggressions, and straight up racism. There are a couple of chapters in particular written in language other than standard English. Windows…

For a community like Parkrose, much of what is expressed in the book is perfectly accessible and relatable to the students. My students are sensitive to issues of racism and linguistic diversity, but I’ve noticed this to be true in terms of the race with which they identify. For some reason, the sensitivity doesn’t always carry over to students from other backgrounds.

In the past, the 8th grade team has dove into the novel without frontloading the unit with some work around prejudice and cultural difference. Because I felt that linguistic diversity would probably be the most sensitive area in the book, I chose the spoken word poem, “Morning Papers” to address the issue of race and language. The poem is written by a Filipino-American and describes his father’s struggles with humiliation and marginalization because of his “thick accent.” His father’s confidence is reduced to the point where the only place he feels safe within the English language is in the pursuit of crosswords.

I found a copy of “Morning Papers” in this fantastic book that I was gifted, City Kids, City Schools. Students began by marking the text. We defined immigrant, drew our attention to crosswords, bracketed dialogue, and separated the text into two stories and the information that frames it. Before watching the poem, I clarified why violence and racial slurs were part of the text, stressing that hearing language in class doesn’t condone using it, but in fact aids our understanding of why this language is impermissible and damaging.

We debriefed after watching the first time. Students watched a second time and then wrote about what they thought the poem was about and what it teaches us about how to treat others. Next, we talked about judgement. I listed ‘nerds’, ‘punks’, and ‘jocks’ on the board. Students were hesitant to voice their prejudices aloud at first, but soon they came up with a few assumptions about each “group.” We identified that what is true for some, is not true for all, and we should never assume things about people based on how they appear to us.

Lastly, the students participated in a Cross the Line activity - much like the one seen in Freedom Writers. Questions pertained to circumstances in which the may or may not have been treated unfairly. The last question, brilliantly crafted by my colleague, asked students if they had ever intentionally or unintentionally treated others unfairly. Students then reflected on the activity - What did they notice? What surprised them?

Almost all students reported surprise that their fellow classmates had also been treated unfairly at some point. They were “shocked” by the honesty of their fellow classmates, and dismayed at the lack of honesty from others. In one class, they noticed that many of the students that crossed the line were people of color. One student claimed that they had never thought about these issues before today. A few said, “it felt weird.”

This kind of teaching is a scary enterprise. Feeling “weird” seems appropriate. There are a host of other feelings, I’m sure. I thought about these feelings, and probably experienced most of them as a graduate student. What I learned from experiencing the more negative emotions during that time was that the teaching that comes next, the ability to make everyone feel included, safe, and respected in the classroom, is the most important part. Also maybe the hardest. 

And now for my first question to tumbler - Why can’t I underline text?