I recently had an amazing experience at the Freedom Writers Institute in Long Beach, California. I often felt on the periphery of things, as usual, as people opened up about their experiences in teaching and in life. I didn't hit my cathartic "Freedom Writer" moment until Day 4 of 5. We began our full day at the Museum of Tolerance and after our first activity, which quizzed our knowledge of problems around the world, we were asked about how we felt. Many people said "mad." I said that I actually felt sad, but that I realized that sadness was a passive emotion and that what I needed to get to was the mad so that I would be able to do something about it. "You just quoted Malcolm X," our hip young tour guide replied. (Whoa! I'd better read more about and from him.)
Still not my FW moment.
After going through the Holocaust exhibit and listening to the testimony of Auschwitz survivor Elisabeth Mann, I had my reckoning. How can I maintain the carefully-created facade of being unaffected and unemotional in the light of these powerful stories? I'm a "recovering" journalist, but that's not it. For the longest time, I blamed my aloofness on my jobs: maintaining an arm's length as a journalist to be objective, and as a teacher to be professional. But now I had to confront the question of whether I had chosen these professions to give myself the excuse to remain on the periphery.
One of the biggest lessons I learned from the Freedom Writers Institute is that, given a choice, we always retreat to our comfort zones. Knowing that bit of human nature, we need to take people out of their comfort zones and create new comfort zones.
I couldn't process this with everyone around, and didn't want to break down in front of everyone, and fortunately I did not have to because it was our lunch break. I pulled aside two wonderful FW staffers and said I desperately needed a journal. They said they could probably get me individual sheets of paper, but I knew that wouldn't work. Neither would the wallet-sized notepads they had in the MOT gift shop. When the cashier pulled a fancy journal out of the Anne Frank section, I said "I'll take it!" without even looking at the price. (Still haven't.) I went outside and wrote 18 pages trying to clarify what was happening.
I'm still not ready to share that, but I wanted to provide some backgrounding for what I will share.
In our last group activity, on Day 5, we all got to say a little something. I waited, not wanted to take anyone's space, especially those in the early departure groups, because I knew my sharing would take a little longer. I had decided that I would share a bit of poetry, something that I usually don't write and something that I largely do not share. But since the mantra that I brought out of the FW Institute was "Bring it!" I knew that I had to do this. I went back to the work I shared in my Oct. 23, 2011, post entitled "Poetry 102." But I knew I couldn't share the light, heart-warming personal poem that Taylor Mali brought out of me and that I presented in front of him in a NYSEC workshop, but the more angry version that I had worked on myself. This was "inspired" by the BBC radio reports I had heard in October of 2011 about a 2-year-old girl from China who had walked out the back door of her parent's restaurant into an alley and was struck not once, but twice. The video (which my wife suggested I watch if I was going to write about it) shows how people went by her without helping. I got mad, and I had to write. The first thing that ran through my mind was "She was only 2. They were 18." And I let my enraged muse take it from there. And on the morning of Day 5, I decided to let my muse post an addendum to include my FW experience.
So here is my poem (rough as it is):
SHE WAS ONLY TWOShe was only 2.They were 18.She lay bleeding and suffering on the sidewalk.They drove or walked by, unblinking, unseeing, unhelping.She was only 2.They are 1.3 billion.They are evolving to a fast-paced, consumer-driven economic power full of hope.She was evolving into a beautiful life, as any toddler, full of hope.She was only 2.We are 7 billion.She, like any child, looked at the world with searching eyes.We race through life, seeing only the next thing we “need” to do, the next thing we “need” to buy, the last thing we did, the last person who screwed us, and a hundred million other pieces of fucking nonsense.Our children are our future.But they are also our teachers, teaching ushow to slow downhow to enjoy,if only we will watch and listenwith open eyes and a caring heart,not pass them bywithout a second look.She was only 2.I am only one. They are numberless;The vocal critics, the doubters, the haters, And not just outside my school.I am on an island, alone, sad, feeling run over every single day. But now ...I am a Freedom Writer teacherI am legionI am part of something that is more than myselfAnd for the first time I have people to watch my back.And it is the critics, the doubters, and the haters that have to fear my headlights.I won't hurt them, I won't hate them, I won't hit them, I will feel sorry for themI will forgive them.But they should note my speed and get out of my way,Because I am sharing the 2 year old from China to restore my kids' curious eyes,I am slowing down life in my classroom, looking at everything, outside and in, and shielding my students from all the fucking nonsense that seeks to run them down and leave them dying in the street.They will be revived, restored and recharged every day in my classroom, and go out every day and share the story of the 2 year old from China, And the story of the 18 blind witnesses,And the story of Room AB18,And their own valuable stories,And change their world And they will be part of the movement.I am only oneAnd one can be a powerful number.
