Why I teach...

(This piece was generated this morning from a writing exercise with my Writer's Anonymous group. So fortunate to have this space, once a month.)

My K-12 experience was meaningless. Looking back, those were a lot of years of wasted time and bullshit.  I looked at the masses of children going through the system, and I thought to myself, “What a disgrace.”

When I read James Baldwin’s “A Talk to Teachers,” as an undergrad,  there was a passage in that essay that really struck me: “Now if I were a teacher in this school, or any Negro school, and I was dealing with Negro children, who were in my care only a few hours of every day and would then return to their homes and to the streets, children who have an apprehension of their future which with every hour grows grimmer and darker, I would try to teach them -  I would try to make them know – that those streets, those houses, those dangers, those agonies by which they are surrounded, are criminal.  I would try to make each child know that these things are the result of a criminal conspiracy to destroy him.  I would teach him that if he intends to get to be a man, he must at once decide that his is stronger than this conspiracy and they he must never make his peace with it.  And that one of his weapons for refusing to make his peace with it and for destroying it depends on what he decides he is worth.  I would teach him that there are currently very few standards in this country which are worth a man’s respect.  That it is up to him to change these standards for the sake of the life and the health of the country.  I would suggest to him that the popular culture – as represented, for example, on television and in comic books and in movies – is based on fantasies created by very ill people, and he must be aware that these are fantasies that have nothing to do with reality.  I would teach him that the press he reads is not as free as it says it is – and that he can do something about that, too.  I would try to make him know that just as American history is longer, larger, more various, more beautiful and more terrible than anything anyone has ever said about it, so is the world larger, more daring, more beautiful and more terrible, but principally larger – and that it belongs to him.”

I went into teaching, to teach children, that their lives are worthy of doing activities that are not a waste of their time, and that serve them, instead of them serving the system. I went into teaching to teach children that the sentence handed down to them by the system because of their zip code, their skin color or their family’s income, is an illusion and they could choose a different identity, a different destiny, a different experience.  I went into teaching to challenge the adults who live in permanent deficit thinking, and who are themselves trapped into judging and labeling children,  and who feel powerless in the lives of their students.  I came into teaching to smile warmly at the hard working families, in worn clothes, hand-knitted scarves wrapped around them, firmly shaking their hand and looking into their eyes to convey, “When I see you, I see my own working-class family, and you are important to me.” I came into teaching to affirm the humanity of the people that I work with everyday, and to bring the light of the bright, bright sun into the darkness of our heavy, confused and damaging system. 

An Ode to Cussing

Bitch.

Don’t censor me.

If you do,

you are disrespecting,

my culture,

my family legacy,

our oral tradition,

and my mama.

And don’t nobody,

dis my mama’s memory.

If you did research,

you would find,

that anyone,

who is in,

my circle of trust,

says the word, “motherfucker”

at least thirty times,

a day.

There are some folks

in my circle of trust,

like my husband,

who just wasn’t brought up

with all of the cussing,

so it is simply not part

of his DNA.

But he doesn’t judge me,

and he is frightfully aware,

that I am passing on the tradition,

to our sons.

But see,

the man has respect,

for my history.

The ridiculousness of it,

often makes him laugh,

and he’ll say,

“Wow.  They hear it from their mama.

That’s gonna be your legacy to them.”

And I say,

“That’s right motherfucker! ¿Y qué?”

His only consolation,

is that our sons have passive reception

right now.

He knows the verbal production,

will surface later,

and maybe their use,

of our oral tradition,

will be appropriate then?

Once,

when a story of mine

was getting workshopped,

an older African-American woman

with a southern drawl said,

“I’m sorry. I just don’t think all

of this cussing is necessary. After the

third “motherfucker”, I just stopped reading.

I’d have more notes, but I didn’t get far.”

Point taken.

I came home

and told Pablo what she said,

and he said,

“Well. She obviously doesn’t know you

and I don’t think you’ll ever be friends.”

Another time,

in my undergrad years,

my sister from another mister,

poured her heart out, about

how much she hated my cussing.

“Can you please stop?” she asked sincerely.

Um. I don’t know? Can you please

stop breathing?

I need to cuss like I need to take a shit,

so no, I can’t stop. Sorry. 

She got over it and now happily

cusses it up. 

When she is pissed about something

and says, “That motherfucking bitch asshole,

who do they think they are?”

I smile inside.  I do. 

Tumble

“So, do you put vinegar in it?”

“No. Only the seasoning,

little by little,

and then you tumble.

You don’t want the rice to get mushy.”

“Wait. How do you tumble?

Because I put in the seasoning,

and then I stab it with the rice paddle,

to mix it.”

She puts her hand on mine,

she looks into my eyes,

and she says,

“Tumble the rice,”

she does a turning

motion with her arm,

imaginary rice paddle in hand,

“Soft.

With patience.

Then,

you will have

the perfect rice ball."

Humidity

It is there

or it is not.

When it is,

my nostalgia is triggered,

and I am transported

to dusty brick homes, 

on dirt roads

with the thick scent

occupying my soul. 

No matter where I am:

DC, San Cristóbal, NY, Ixtepec,

Miami, Playa del Carmen, Poptún,

when the humidity reaches

my nostrils,

I am again in Tepic, Nayarit.

Memories of moist sunrise, waking to

neighbors in my Tia’s living room tiendita,

“¡Quiero!” they’d shout.

I’d turn in the damp sheets.

Muffled voices in the kitchen,

the clinging of dishes, and the fan’s soft

breeze, ease me into the waking hours. 

Soon, the neighbors are sweeping their

slice of the sidewalk,

men are loading up their Nacho Libre tricycles,

with merchandise,

my uncle paces back and forth near my bed,

judging my lazy yanqui-ass, for still being asleep,

at 7am. 

As the humid day continues,

and the unforgiving, scorching summer sun,

shines angrily on our walk, along uneven sidewalks

and stone road,

the human mass on the bus,

radiates, moisture. 

Pasamos vendedores de gelatinas,

elotes, pepinos.

Nos vamos a la neveria, a comprar bolas de limón o de fresa. 

Cuando comienza la lluvia veranal,

nos subimos en un taxi,

las ventanas, medias abiertas,

nubladas por la humedad.

La humedad, simplemente

pertenece a un rincón de mi memoria,

que se enlace con otro mundo, otra civilización,

otra realidad, otra epoca.

And I’m not talking about damp.

I’m not talking about Seattle, or San Sebastian,

or San Francisco. I’m talking about tropical humidity. 

When it is not humid,

I am in L.A., or somewhere in California,

or Madrid, or London, or Tel Aviv. 

My feet are on the ground.  I’m on the topside world.

I am working, or mothering, or speaking,

doing some kind of hustling. 

This morning,

I was lakeside.

The sun rising,

the mist crawling across the water,

the humidity, cradling my heart,

re-membering my connection,

to the earth, to humans doing their work,

with their own hands, to people caring for

their patch of the sidewalk,

to small treats, like a cut up cucumber,

or a corn on the cob, or handmade ice cream.

And my soul

was home. 

Flying over the Gulf Coast

I’m looking out

the airplane window,

onto

the Texas gulf coastline.

Blue water

as far as the eye can see…

What happened to the oil spill?

I know enough

to know

that disasters

don’t just go away.

When the spill happened,

black blood flowing

from the earth’s core,

recorded night and day

by an underground camera.

We watched those fuzzy,

underwater gray images of oil,

blasting out of that tube,

and we all held our breath

for the oil-covered animals

for the precarious economies

of the gulf communities,

hoping the efforts

to stop the hemorrhage

would be successful. 

It went on and on,

the ticker tape counting the days.

It was a disaster,

for the whole world to see. 

Helicopters followed the oil slick,

for hundreds and hundreds of miles. 

But today,

I’m flying straight across,

Houston to Miami,

and I only see the vast blue sea,

and the clear, clear skies. 

Where did you go oil?

Are you at the bottom of the sea?

Are you hiding in the corners or coves

of the swamps?

Did you float off to some Caribbean island,

or seep onto the shores of Mexico or Belize?

Today,

I don’t see

any trace of you. 

That’s a disaster for you.

Complete mayhem when it happens,

and then

it subsides. 

And then,

recovery,

and more recovery.

But the remnants,

the effects,

are still out there,

and we

just learn

to live with it. 

Hard

I am surrounded

by hard homegirls. 

Unmothered homegirls.

Abandonded homegirls.

Emotionally neglected homegirls.

Alcoholic mother homegirls.

Abused mother homegirls.

Orphan homegirls.

Single mother, working 24-7, live off of frozen dinner homegirls. 

We were kids. We were brown.

We sucked at school.

We didn’t give a fuck about school.

We were emotional basket cases.

We were emotional iron curtains.

We ended up with abusive men, cheating men, controlling men, no man at all, fathers to the babies we had in high school, women lovers (who treated us bad too), no man at all, good men and women that we have been able to build magical and solid lives with.

Somehow

in the midst of the chaos

we dragged our young and tired souls

to college.

And somehow,

while

mother’s passed away,

and our brothers were murdered,

and we got pregnant during our junior year,

and our families phoned of their eviction and homelessness,

or our parents got deported,

and our sisters went to prison,

and our mom’s called with the latest news of our 55 year-old

father moving out with his girlfriend 

who goes to the same church as us,

Some mother-fucking-how,

we paid our dues

we put a cap and gown on

and we crossed that puto stage

at

UCLA

Occidental College

USC

Cal State LA

East LA College

Mount St. Mary’s (In Brentwood, bitches!)

Los Angeles City College

Phoenix University
Pasadena City College

Cal State Long Beach

National University

Harvard University

Stanford University 

UC Santa Cruz 

fist in the air.

Tears in our eyes,

because we did it!

¡Somos chingonas!

And yes. The day after came.

And we still have to face,

our PTSD,

our tattered lives,

of struggle and perseverance,

but at least,

we’re alive,

at least, we have our degrees,

at least we’re free (and not locked up),

at least we’re substance free,

and our kids are safe and thriving,

at least…

we

are still

here. 

In pieces,

but we’re here,

and we have each other,

hermanas. 

c/s