I started City Year about a year ago. Life is sure different without those kids. I plan on visiting CPEMS when the new CY team gets into the swing of things.

I miss his antics, his ability to make me smile on a not so happy day.
When I was his literacy tutor, I made up a game to keep him from wandering out of the room--who can spell the word correctly and circle the vowel combinations faster?
"Andy" versus "Ella"
Of course, I occasionally slowed myself down and let him win.

"The Fraction Monster" photo taken circa 10.18.2009

Gave a Year. Changed the World.

I thought a "starfish story" would be a nice way to end my posts relating to City Year. What is a starfish story, you ask? City Year defines it in a PITW (Putting Idealism to Work) maxim: If you want to communicate powerfully, tell a story.
A major part of our mission is to inspire others to civic action. All great leaders communicated their ideas best by telling a story...

We were asked to submit starfish stories before we graduated in sort of a contest, and I won. : ) Here it is:

From an outsider’s point of view I was Alex’s enemy. I certainly felt like it. To him, every suggestion or command I made was like salt in a wound. He’d thrash about in anger followed by a string of expletives directed at me. He always had something negative to say and his knack of defying all directions would surprise most. Against his will, he was placed into the literacy program, Read 180, but he needed it. He was in the 6th grade and his reading score was at an elementary level.
One day, Alex threw a fit because I took away a seemingly benign pad of sticky notes that he was playing with instead of doing his work. This object automatically meant the world to this young boy when I took it away. “You didn’t buy those! Those aren’t yours,” he chanted over and over again. “I know, Alex. I will give them back to you after class. They are distracting you and others,” I replied. I felt like he hated me even more, and although I wasn’t trying to be “Miss Popular” with the 6th graders, I felt bad. I felt like I’d never be able to handle his antics.
Springtime arrived, which meant it was time for our weeklong leadership camp, Hero’s Summit. I was excited for a change of pace and a break from Alex. Mid-week, I see a new face. It’s Alex. My jaw dropped in surprise. He had heard from one of his friends how much fun it was and decided to join.
I walked into the middle school Monday morning and….my jaw dropped again. Alex said “hello” to me. This was the first time he had ever done that. Immediately, I had to tell some of my teammates who knew of my difficulties with him. From then on, Alex looked forward to seeing me. He would sit on the steps of the school with me in the morning, which he did every day till the very last day I was at his school. It was a complete 180 with him—in academic work and his attitude. Not only did he say “hello,” but we talked like there had never been a time when I was his enemy.
During state testing, our team held morning greetings with stations that promoted studying and stress relief. Alex showed up at my classical music station and sat down. He was quiet, and I asked him how he felt about the math test. He said he was worried. I gave him a run down of what he should be looking out for when multiplying, dividing and adding fractions along with other essential math review. The following day, during 6th grade lunch support, he came up to me, put his hand on my shoulder and said “Stella, thanks for those math tips. They really helped.” Just when you think you have a kid figured out, they blow you away with something unexpected.

With a raise of the hand, a toast: "To Bacchus!"

I can get drunk off things that many people take for granted-- the sight of clouds swirling in a blue sky, a flower poking its head through a fence, the flavor of sun-ripened blackberries. The idea of simply living, experiencing the world around me, has sent me spinning. In those moments, when I realize that I am and that I've woven my everyday life into this magnificent city, I become light-headed.


There is roughly a month left of my stint with City Year. The realization of these diminishing days has left me dizzy. It isn't that I have been caught unawares, and it isn't that I'm crazy in love with the 12 hour work days with little pay… rather, only now have I become cognizance that I have made a difference in the lives of others. In this instant, I have become drunk (sans alcohol) off the idea of making a difference. (All along, I knew it was in CY’s tag line: "Give a Year. Change the World"). People would insist that we were having positive effects on these children, but I never actually felt the euphoria of “making a difference”. But now, suddenly, I'm feeling three sheets to the wind.


Now, 4 weeks left, and I ask myself, “What more can I do? How much more of an impact can I make?” It's so easy to give up those days when ignorant, uninspired people and their roadblocks get in my way. I want to push them all aside and just do what I have to do but it's easier said than done. I started tutoring math in a one-on-one setting today. We were never assigned to this role, but I have always thought it should be an integral part of our service at the school. Now that these middle schoolers have their names added to the "promotion in doubt list," and teachers give up, I have begun to push forward with this mathematical endeavor.

During a teachers’ meeting, I requested the names of those that I could pull out of independent reading in order to help them with their math. One teacher's retort was, "Well, I don't know how much you can help them. The state math test is in a few days." I replied, "Well, I think it's important for them to understand math as general knowledge--not just for the test.” That teacher's sentiment must have been similar to many of the kid’s former instructors.

"Well, I don't know how much you can help them...."

"He'll have to rely on his looks to get him through life"

"You can take him; I can't deal with him,"

"She never pays attention--too boy crazy"

"She’s so far behind, she'll just have to repeat the grade again. Luckily, I won’t be here."


When I meet a person and tell them about City Year and about the children I work with, they are in utter disbelief (WHY?). Dear reader, I beseech you to open your eyes to the world outside your own. These children are in middle school and many read and write at a 3rd or 4th grade level. They have trouble adding and subtracting let alone dealing with fractions and decimals. Where will they end up if no one gives them the time of day? Perhaps, in a newspaper--not for winning an award, getting a book published or discovering a cure for cancer, but for something regrettable. Regrettable not only for themselves, but for each person who did not try to help that child become an individual who has something to offer himself and the world he lives in.
Think about it all. Maybe one day you can get that dizzy feeling, too.

Did you ever know that you're my hero?

Spring has arrived in New York City. People are basking in the sun or reading under the cool shade of a blossoming cherry tree in Central Park, the ice cream truck's familiar tune becomes the soundtrack of the streets, and the man on 125th has started his daily routine of push-ups on the sidewalk for all to see. If you thought NYC had crowded streets during winter, "you ain't seen nothin', yet" in the spring. After a day spent absorbing spring into my skin in what is called the "Sheep's Meadow" of Central Park, I realize, once again, how much I love this city. My leisurely bus trip (who can bear to hide from the city on such a day in the dark subways?) back to my apartment in Harlem, exposed me to the vibrant explosion of life that had been long held in a tight bud during the cold winter months.

My 23rd birthday has come and gone. It wasn't the most exciting of birthdays, but I guess I'm "getting to be that age." I had to go to work on my birthday. Let me rephrase that: I wanted to go to work on my birthday. City Year was in the midst of our week-long spring break leadership camp, fittingly called Heroes' Summit. We recruited the best of the best from our two middle schools in Harlem and teamed up with our "sister team" to facilitate a week of activities and lessons designed to create little leaders in our society. While behavior is a huge issue in our after-school programs, we finally got our hands on a group of kids who wanted to learn, become better citizens and do community service. The entire group of them were amazing, and I don't throw that word around lightly. They inspired me, gave me hope, reassured me that what I was doing was worthwhile, and I know we did the same for them. About a month ago, we had this week of training called ATA, or Advanced Training Academy, which was simultaneously given an acronym of BWE, or Best Week Ever. Misnomer. I ended that week thinking "Wow. They think this is the best week ever? I'd rather have done most things than this." It was a series of stations where we were forced to "team build" (with a team that wasn't our own) or, rather, try to pop someone else's balloon that was attached to their leg, do the limbo, play pictionary, and try to keep a piece of toilet paper in the air by blowing it. Not my best week ever, to say the least. Heroes' Summit, on the other hand, was the best week ever. The best part of my birthday, besides the weather, was when all the kids sang "happy birthday" to me. That will never happen again in my life. On the same day, I enjoyed shooting baskets, which I haven't done since middle school, with my 6th grade student from JHS 13. She persuaded me to make consecutive free-throws till my arms were sore. Taking me back to my younger years, I played jump rope and had a hula hoop competition with several girls and won (still haven't lost the touch).

I have a feeling that like spring giving the city that boost of energy, my experience at heroes' summit has given me that positive fortitude that will push me to the end of my year of service and continue to do great things afterwards.

sail me to the moon

It's almost 10pm, which means it's almost bedtime. I am becoming an old lady as far as sleep goes--or maybe it's just the life of a working woman, logging about 11 hours of "school" a day. Despite the automatic yawning around 9:30pm and my eyelids drooping to half mast at a quarter till, I felt the need to update my often banter of a blog.

I could go into my trials and tribulations of my work, but tonight, I'd rather end on a more uplifting note. I have five students in my CY after school program's homework help, which means I have exactly one hour to change those five student's ways of thinking. This afternoon, three of my students were working on poetry; more specifically they were writing "I am from" poems. Given a basic outline, they were free to express this idea. I wasn't sure what to expect from my rather diverse group of students--one hailing from Long Island, the others both with heavy accents from Bangladesh and Trinidad. I knew, simply, where they were from, but how would they portray that through poetry now that they all ended up at a school together in Harlem? A few edits were made by myself during that hour's time, but mainly just discussing their thoughts and some grammar and spelling. For the most part [segments of their poem] this is where these three children are from:

"I am from broken, squeaking swing sets and

annoying, talkative neighbors.

I am from Rock as loud as the people screaming.

I am from striped and spotted pajamas, grilled cheese and pb&j...." -Jonathan, Long Island

"I am from chicken meat, when I wake up in the morning, I smell mom's cooking and it smells so wonderful.

I am from my apartment where people are shooting, fighting and

I think, in my mind,

What is going on?

I am from a neighborhood where people are mean and talk too loud.

I am from India where the music makes me dance.

Boom, Boom, Boom

I am from a school where people make fun of my name....

I am from best friends who have names like I do.....

I am from my mother, who carried me 10 months in her belly" -Sumena, Bangladesh

"I am from beef pies, cheese pies and potato pies,

from lots of fruits, music

and fake flowers

that soothe me even though they are not real" -Na'Qia, Trinidad

My kids are great, and I long for them to succeed. It's a tough job caring about other people's lives.

.s.

Sometimes my LOCY (Life Out of City Year), however little of that I may have, can be a catalyst for change. I see families on the subway--foul-mouthed women with a parade of young children tagging along, people in tattered clothes asking for a quarter, or a young teen selling candy bars for a dollar stating "This isn't for my basketball team, this is for me." Because of this, I re-evaluate my every day work. I ask myself "What can I do to better help these kids, so they don't end up as the last 2 images listed. I know many of them were, at one time, a little kid following their mother around, hearing words of discouragement and seeing things that the majority of us never see, and I try to figure out how to reverse the damage. It's not even that they have a clean slate that I can start with because they are still in the midst of chaos at home and in their community.

Anderson was wild as usual during our literacy session. The other student wasn't there, so it was just the two of us. "Let's have a talk," I said. "Tell me about what's going on in your life." He writhed in his seat, avoided eye contact and talked about how his mother came back from Guatemala. I asked him if he knew why he was in a special session of tutoring with me, and went on to explain that I wanted him to move on to the 7th grade, to graduate middle school, move on to high school, graduate high school, go to college and get a job. I told him he was smart. I told him I was proud of him, and he wiggled around, his face lit up, he grabbed my arm and said "Whyyy?" So, I explained how he improved from 42% to 65% and that I wanted him to get 100%. I wondered how many positive things he heard a day. Surely, with 4 siblings, his favorite phrases with others being "loser" and "your fat" and the tendency to act up during class, not much. He couldn't stay in his seat any longer, and we got up to do a spelling race on the chalkboard: Andy versus Ella

Ta'jadea, a 7th grader, joined my After-School Heroes team after winter break. She is one of the sweetest girls, and we get along really great. I help her with homework, but her mom always picks her up before we start our lessons. She calls me her "best buddy" and it makes me smile. One morning, during our daily morning greeting aka attend to behavior issues while the principal is speaking, a fight broke out. Usually, I don't know the people in the fight, but this time I did, and it broke my heart. I saw her throwing punches at the air as the security guard picked her up and dragged her out of the auditorium. I saw her later that day in after-school, and asked her what happened. I told her it made me cry a little bit to see her that way, and she explained it was only the 4th time. "I hope it's the last," I said. There are better ways to use up your energy and express your anger. I believe that telling her what effect that had on me, effected her.

I plan on keeping in touch with these kids when I have a LACY (Life After City Year)(...and yes, City Year does use the acronyms). I would love to keep up a mentorship with them. I know there will be a new team next year, but these kids need some sort of consistency to show them that someone cares enough.

01022010

I brought in twenty ten with New York style. Paying $128 got me a ticket to a danceclub/lounge in the Bowery featuring DJ, clinquant party hats and decor, open bar and appetizers. I did not regret a single dollar of that price, as I thoroughly enjoyed dancing the night away with my teammate and friend, Sarah. We weren't about to stand in the Times Square crowd of tourists (New Yorkers know better) bringing in the new year with alleged iced over adult diapers. We did end up popping up from underground around 3am on our way back to Harlem to view the aftermath. The streets were a disaster zone, but the 2010 sign was illuminated assuring us we had reached the new decade, as it will be for the next 364 days.

I had a week of break, in which I traversed back to St. Louis to visit family. I ended up seeing more family than I thought, which was nice, but also gave me less time to do things with mom, since it felt like she was constantly cooking. St. Louis was a quiet lamb compared to this roaring lion of NY. I slept without earplugs and for the first time in months did not hear Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind." I must have brought the snow with me because we had our first snowfall the weekend before I left NYC and then a white Christmas in STL followed by snow again when I returned to the city.

5 1/2 more months of City Year. We "lost" two of our teammates to various issues. I don't wish to expatiate on the subject, but I think we'll be just fine. I actually kind of missed a few of the kids over break. Don't laugh. I realized what it may feel like after I graduate from City Year and we leave Central Park East Middle School. I hypothesize that attachments will grow even stronger over the next 5 months--unless they drive us crazy. :-) Working with middle schoolers is such an overwhelming experience. It's such a tortuous path for them. They are trying to find their identity, deal with changing bodies, different maturity levels, all on top of school and home life or the lack thereof., thus making the majority of them recalcitrant little kids who do not desire to be tamed. It's hard to believe they are little kids sometimes with all their very adult thoughts and language. A fit of giggles, a hug, or the excitement in their eyes over a little thing brings them back down to their real age--as does the shock of them guessing our age: "You look like you are 40--maybe 35. What? You're 22? That's old, too. " I guess they were born in the age of botox, face lifts and lip plumpers (and most of their parents are only 7 years older).

The first time I have ever mistakenly been deemed older than I am was with those middle schoolers. I found it quite amusing and wondered if I had that perception at that age. Usually, the story of finding out my true age goes more like this: I walk into the social studies class support and there is a sub, who has a faint resemblance to Obama (besides the point). I'm the first person in the room, and he tells me to sign in. "Oh no" I half laughed "I'm not in middle school. I work here and help out in the classroom." Maybe embarrassed he said "Oh! Well, take that as a compliment." (Mmm...Not so much.) Story of my life. No, I will not sell you Girl Scout cookies.

.skh.

above picture: "the infamous Anderson," and "NYE Bowery," and "The Aftermath"