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"

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

if you want to fit in, call kool-aid flavors by the color unless its grape because purple is something else

aaannnd.....the Kool-Aid mascot is a big glass pitcher who says "Ohhhh Yeahh!" and crashes into a wall. Very interesting. This will all make sense, if you decide to peruse this poignant post.

The whole death of Michael Jackson has probably died down in other areas of the country, but here in Harlem, you can still hear the cacophony of "Candy Girl," "Beat it" and "Thriller" mixed with cars honking and the sounds of busses purring to a stop. If you didn't pick up an MJ memorial shirt, button, poster or hat you can still get a variety at any of the tables lining 125th.

Speaking of iconic figures, if you love Bob Marley, you can get his paraphernalia (shirts, flags, posters, incense and probably ganja) next to the Uptown Juice Bar on 125th. The Uptown Juice Bar is the epicenter of Rastafarians. They always set up shop outside morning till night in authentic Jamaican clothing. It is also one of the only vegetarian/vegan restaurants in Harlem. If you say no to eating animals, have fun trying to find a place besides UJB that will satisfy your needs. Luckily, I'm okay with eating animals, so a week ago I chowed down at Amy Ruth's with a couple friends. Amy Ruth's is notorious for fried chicken and waffles. YES. TOGETHER. So, my friend, Nicole, and my roommate, Renee, and I ordered the "Reverend Al Sharpton" plate. We decided to go all out and order the Kool-Aid flavor of the day--Grape, a side of collard greens (amazing!) and mac and cheese. Delicious cornbread came out beforehand and shortly after the last bite was swallowed, we started pouring maple syrup all over our waffle and fried chicken. "Hey why not pour it on the chicken, too?" I said. This is a Harlem experience and we should do it like it's supposed to be done. Everything was delicious. Maple syrup and all. The Kool-Aid, which I jokingly nick-named "purple drank" was wayyy too sugary. I swear a half cup of sugar was in my cup alone and I could only drink half. Someone must have spiked the Kool-Aid because I started getting the giggles (side note: Don't worry. I didn't see Jim Jones or Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters hanging around Amy Ruth's). I had a slice of sweet potato pie in mind for dessert, but we couldn't possibly manage because, by that point, we all had food babies.

Anyhoo, when I get tired of fried chicken, or I just need to give my body a break from the Soul, (and I must postulate that Harlem-ites must need a change from fried meat--giving that UJB is extremely popular) I can just turn the corner and get some vegan food or some Bob Marley bling.