Reflection from work

I saw a Sudanese man at work today trace the outline of a woman wearing a light sundress--beige in color and speckled all over with the pink petals of small embroidered flowers--with the mouse of his computer. She was a far-away woman both in reality and in gaze: her eyes were staring at the camera without much expression except that of the realization that she is nowhere with no future and, to top it all off, without her loved one. Was this man, the one who was in our computer lab, her husband? Her lover? Her best friend? Her brother? He kept tracing her picture with the cursor from his computer mouse; I watched the cursor lightly brush past her braided hair, down over her smooth cheeks and over pink lips that contrasted powerfully with her soft, dark complexion. He knew I was standing behind him, watching this most intimate of acts between himself and this far-off, once-loved woman, but he didn't stop. He just kept tracing, tracing her eyebrows, breasts, and thighs and body--a body that was shrouded in the long, curtain-like raiment of the dress.

A man by the name of Edwin has been enlivening our halls at work, filling the air with that deep African resonance that makes the English language seem almost exotic, even foreign to my ear. I don't know really what his purpose here is, but he seems to be in holding until the time comes when he will be able to move to Houston, Texas, to try his hand at trucking in the USA.

Yesterday, Edwin met one of the unruly teens we have coming through the center, Deng. Deng emigrated to the United States when he was only a two-year-old; his mother was a refugee fleeing the civil war between the South and the North of Sudan, while his father was a "General" in the Sudanese liberation army--by the way, it seems to me that all African women, when asked what their men do back in Africa, unhesitatingly reply that "he is a General." Deng fights, argues, and has a nearly uncontrollable animosity towards those individuals who have a better life situation than himself, which he barley manages to hide beneath layers of intelligence and an out-going personality. Often times he can be seen berating the racial and family history of other Africans, youth and volunteers for not being 'African' enough, or not "understanding me."

Anyways, Edwin ran into Deng in the hallway across from my office. He then proceeded for the next twenty minutes to lecture Deng on remembering the importance of an education and the necessity of staying out of trouble and not running amuck with lesser people who have a predisposition to steal, lie and cheat. Edwin, in a seemingly unwarranted and very dangerous statement, told Deng that he should never forget that "He will never be an American," and that he should "Always remember that he is a third-world child, not a first-world child." I could see that Deng began to feel uncomfortable. I, myself, was a little bit taken back by such a brash statement of "You are not who you think you are." This would have been acceptable if Deng had an actual working memory of "HIS country"--as Edwin kept saying in reference to Sudan--but Deng knows only Erie. He knows only snow in winters, boarded up buildings on Parade Street, and the struggles that his mother has in acculturating to the fast-paced, work-heavy American life. His Sudanese Arabic, I'm sure, has a thick American English accent on it. How could Edwin, a Kenyan who has been in the United States for a mere three days, speak to this young man about nationality and history with such authority? And how could Edwin feel confident and knowledgeable enough to assuredly give opinions on matters of what makes an American an American, and what it means to be accepted into the American nation?

After the conversation with Deng, Edwin plopped into my seat and sorrowfully exclaimed that "these African kids forget who they really are; that’s sad." This got me thinking: Didn't all of us Americans have to--at least at some point--forget who we were or where our family came from to accept at least a part of our own 'Americaness?' And, when is an American actually created? At the moment they make the decision to accept their Green Card? Or at the time their memory of the 'old country' is nothing but a collection of stories and photographs from family members long deceased?

School Day Frustration

Asking a 14-year old student what "3x10" is usually produces a quick computation and an assured answer of "thirty." Yet, for a majority of the children I work with on a daily basis, that simple question is as esoteric and incomprehensible as astro-physics or the federal tax code. My confident student, young in looks and sure of body, is left stumped. He doesn't respond. His eyes stare off into the sky in supposed contemplation, which does nothing but create a shallow veneer to make it seem as if he is right on the cusp of the answer. It's too late for him, though. I've already judged his intelligence, and I know that the answer will only be forthcoming from my lips, not his.

In the same room, heck, even at the same table, the fifteen-year old student across from me reads a book of poetry that is written on a second-grade level. One of my tutors is sitting beside him, encouraging him to continue on through the pages to the end of the story--a whole ten of them. Sometimes the student completely stops reading, glancing up at the tutor with eyes full of embarrassment and anger, as he struggles to read the word. "Because," the tutor calmly sounds out. "Be-cause."

Did that really just occur? Did I genuinely just witness the failure of a fifteen- year old to recognize and read a 'sight word'? Is it really true that eighth graders are unable to recite the 'threes' times tables, or get through the drudgery of reading a SECOND-GRADE level book!?

Is our afterschool programming a waste of time?

I've recently been contemplating the emphasis that the American school system places on math and science, and have often found myself getting all riled up, as I am seriously nauseated and tired of the 'competitive-advantage' justification that teachers, schools, newspapers, and even the President give: "We must improve math and science education in this country, so that we will always maintain an economic and industrial advantage over those upstart, intelligent, diligent students, THE CHINESE(fear and trembling)!?

Of course, improving science and math education is an admirable goal of the United States and school districts the republic over. And my experience with the times tables debacle is nothing but the strongest emphasis for such a trend. Yet, I am often disgusted at the seeming disregard, or even outright de-emphasis that is placed on the arts, language and history. I am one of the notion that students can't be good scientists without being able to read about those who came before them (speaking on this issue just very briefly, I found myself in the most uncomfortable of situations recently, when I had to explain to two African-American students the importance of George Washington Carver. This isn't inherently a problem for me; however, I became quite perturbed and shocked when both of them informed me that they had never heard of his name before. How sad. But, I'm sure they knew all about Lil' Wayne's recent spat of lock-ups). I am also fairly positive that the worst kind of scientists, business people or engineers that our school system could create, would be those characterized by a highly-specialized knowledge base, incapable of introspection or debate on the more 'cerebral' questions of their work: If we cut out the arts, music, literature and language, we are in my seriously humble opinion, well on our way to 'producing' (why not use industrial language for this most-industrial of educational philosophy) amnesia-ridden, profit-driven, competitive droids, much in the form of Karel Capek's R.U.R. (everyone should read this play; it was from this play that the world became acquainted with the word "Robot").

But, I guess maybe I'm just a bitter young man who constantly feels the need to justify his decision to study the Liberal Arts at school. After all, the question of "Whatcha' 'gonna do with that!?" still continues to stump me, even after five years.

I'll just resign myself to continue to battle on the frontlines, and attempt to help my students learn basic division before they are able to get their driver's permit. Heck, maybe even a chapter book is in the future....