Giving Thanks

At Central Park East Middle School, City Year thinks of exciting morning greetings to try to raise student attendance. Every week we pick a day to power greet (basically cheers), do other fun activities like limbo, basketball, and raffles for breakfast with City Year.

Today, it was my turn to be "point person" for the morning greeting. Deciding on a little early celebration of Thanksgiving, a cardboard cut out of a turkey was made and a bunch of colored feathers. On each feather, a student could write what they were thankful for. I wasn't sure what to expect from these 10-13 year olds who are usually pretty immature, but what they wrote in their shaky and often misspelled hand-writing shocked me. Most middle schoolers would be thankful for their playstation or their toys with a few additions of thankfulness for friends and family. On these colored feathers I saw many "I'm thankful to be alive" "I'm thankful to live another day" "I'm thankful for my teacher for helping me with my troubles" "I am thankful for my family" "I am thankful for food." I stood there taping up feathers on the turkey and realized again that I was surrounded by children who despite being little mischief makers during the day are actually kids who, deep inside, really care about life and the people around them.

These kids shock me in some way every day--good and bad. Yesterday morning, a 6th grader who I've closely worked with and struggled with (he is one of the "trouble-makers" in every class) since the end of September came up to me and said "Hi Stella!" and gave me a big hug. I stood there in awe and remembered to say "Good morning, Kashawn."

Two of the feathers said "I am thankful for City Year." But, I am thankful for them. Every day these kids make me see a new side of life. I am also thankful that I have had the opportunities I have had--that I have lived 22 years of my life in order to teach them, to support them and give them something (whatever it may be) that they might have never had.

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,

'Fool' said my Muse to me, 'look in thy heart and write.' -Philip Sydney

"Miss!" an 11 year old's face is 2 inches from mine. "Miss, you have pretty eyes. Your eyes are blue!" The chocolate eyes of the young child gazes into mine. This is the 8th kid to compliment my eyes. It makes me think of Toni Morrison's story The Bluest Eye.

It's only been 3 months since I've been working with the middle schoolers, and I already have grown attached to a large amount of them. They aren't bad kids, they just behave badly, and who can blame them when you realize that most of them are the product of adults who act and behave just like them.

A majority of these middle schoolers have the reading level of a first grader.

60% live with someone other than their parents.

Many of them live in the projects across the street, but some show up late or skip school.

By 8am, a student has been handcuffed and taken away, 2 students have gotten in a fist-fight and a mob of kids have run to watch the violence.

Conversely,

A majority of these middle schoolers that I have talked to want to go to college.

The majority of them don't get enough attention, but when they do they smile and they thrive.

Many of them know my name and give me a hug or high five in the morning.

By 8pm, I've had conversations with students about their weekend, their classwork, how they are feeling, and what is going on in their life.

Right now, I couldn't see myself in any other place. I really want to help these kids because I believe in them. I want to see them when they're my age, when they're heading in the right direction and know that I might have contributed to that. Every day is rough for me. It's emotionally, physically and mentally draining. Many days I work for 12+ hours. But it has/it's going to be an even rougher road for them. I just have to keep everything in perspective.

A Book for Free Spirits

Sometimes the urge to write becomes so strong for me that I have to stop whatever I am doing or even get out of bed, turn on the light, let my eyes adjust and start spilling my thoughts onto paper. (For those who don't like writing, it feels like the urge to urinate after you just downed a Vente at Starbucks and a glass of water. If you don't write or drink coffee, I feel bad for you son). One of these moments occurred on the M1 just now at around 92nd street. So, I ran the steps of my walk up to the 5th floor and here I am--realizing that I haven't written anything here for months.

Writing about my New York City experiences became too overwhelming. With the combination of a lack of time and sensory overload, I decided to quit writing for the masses.

I suppose I could say that a friend of mine inspired me to start writing again (in a semi-ambiguous fashion). This friend is just as unequivocal as the re-birth of this blog. This friend I have yet to meet and his voice has only been heard by myself for about 30 seconds total. (You may ask how can you have a friend you have never met? I say, "Why not? It doesn't hurt anyone to have a friend.). Nonetheless, I asked him for advice (via QWERTY) like I have on several other occasions--getting insightful answers with each. This time it dealt with philosophy. I posed the question: Which philosopher should I read first? He replied indubitably: Nietzsche.

I first became interested in knowing more about the philosophers behind the words when my mom would slip quotes into my brown bag lunches. From there, I began to read more quotations, which then grew into bigger passages. Finally, I decided to start delving into the real thing. I started out with a smaller one--The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm (easy read, so I read it twice--in two parts of my life). It was taking too long for the Nietzsche book to be shipped to the Harlem branch the block over from me, so this evening, I made the trek to the NY Public Library. I ended up in the Schwarzman building near 42nd. This library is the library of all libraries. Tourists were everywhere, and it didn't feel like anything more than a museum till I walked up 2 flights of marble steps. I felt like the odd one out with library card in hand rather than cam-corder. Frescoes were covering every wall and statues of writers in every corner. I soaked it all in and told myself that if I do end up making it into a law school in NYC, I will gladly study in the stacks of this mansion of a library. Sadly, my book wasn't waiting for me in this library. The branch it was shelved at was 1 block down (obviously, NYC loves it's libraries like it loves it's Starbucks). I left the white marble palace of books, the big lion statues guarding the wealth of knowledge inside and the tourists snapping pictures left and right.

A block down, I came to the Mid-Manhattan branch. I began to open up my purse for the lady handing out bags for wet umbrellas but stopped midway; realizing gazing into personal belongings was only procedure for the Schwarzman building. This building looked much more like a library. There was a line at the checkout and books came into view right away. Here were the people who actually lived and breathed NY. Two libraries, two different worlds and only a block away. I have come to realize that theme carries through to many aspects of NYC (2 neighborhoods: Harlem and Upper East Side, which are for me, one subway stop away. Each a world of difference).

Human, All Too Human in hand, I sat on the bus and began to read-- forgetting about my weakness of getting car-sick. I stopped reading when the nausea started to set in and flipped through the 395 pages. I came upon a maxim that caught my eye:

Pleasure tourists.- They climb the hill like animals, stupid and perspiring; no one has told them there are beautiful views on the way.

And with this, the pressure to write erupted. So, that I did.

The itch was scratched. I plan on writing occasionally for all to see when my appetite strikes again. I prefer to write about snippets of my life in NYC that I find interesting or meaningful rather than generalize every little thing that I do.

So here's to my new beginning.

-Stella