As a student, the situation appeared quite unfair. I always dreamed of giving the teacher a test and then enjoying marking all of the incorrect answers. As a teacher, I took no joy in the marking of tests or work that was incorrect. Even in a question as straightforward as, “ Four students share a cake equally. What Fraction does each student eat?” I gave credit to Krishad’s answer of “One fifth.” “Simple,” he told me, “They saved a piece just in case another person showed up.” Right and wrong answers can really be a question of perspective.
Last week I spent a day in Washington DC “grading” teachers’ papers with two others. Unfortunately there could be only four correct papers out of the fifty that I had to go over, and no matter what the perspective, that was all that could be right. We were one of eight panels choosing the next 30 teachers that will travel to the Galapagos Islands this November as a part of the Toyota International Teacher Program. There were a record 900 applications from all over the US from classroom teachers from 6th to 12th grade, and teachers of all subjects. It was our charge to decide who would “pass” on to the trip of a lifetime, and who would not. While I felt privileged to be asked to participate in the process, I did not relish the idea of giving what would turn out to be a failing grade to those who would not be visiting Las Islas Encantadas.
The process starts with the staff at iie perusing the entire application for completeness. Not following the basic rules of requirements and word counts, and submitting all the requested information. To be fair to all, the rules must be followed strictly. They then take a slightly closer look to see if anything is just outrageous such as “ I will bring back a Galapagos Tortoise and a Marine Iguana to use in a travelling presentation to bring to the fore the importance of conservation.” But the reviewers at this stage are fairly lenient, leaving most decisions of merit to panelists like myself.
At the panel stage, three people, usually including one teacher, somebody in an environmental field, and somebody from an international organization, are given 50 applications to read and rate. For this particular application, the four sections were: personal statement (why you should go), Impact statement( how you will use what you learn), a lesson plan( how you present environmental issues in a hands on manner in your classroom), and reference letters. The most heavily weighted parts were impact statements and lesson plans, but the personal narrative would often inform how you reviewed the other sections. It was not the writing itself that would make a story compelling, but the heart and relevance that the teacher portrayed. Impact statements had to cover students, school and community and be feasible. Lesson plans had to be hands-on, innovative, even if you admit getting the idea from somewhere else, and extendable into various disciplines. It also helped to write in the future perfect, leaving out the maybe’s and might’s.
Strange as it sounds for a trip to what people consider a science teacher’s dreamland, being a science teacher did not work in your favor. Toyota wants environmental education to be interdisciplinary and requires a diversity in subject matter taught by the teachers that are chosen. Almost sixty percent of the applicants taught science. When you consider that a high estimate would be fifteen science teachers, that means that the science teachers are vying for, at best, a one in forty spot. Teachers in any other discipline are up against the odds of one in twenty. I don’t gamble, not even on a one dollar lottery ticket, but my money would be on the teachers of other disciplines.
What it finally came down to was a fight for somebody that a panelist took on as cause. You said to yourself, “This person not only deserves this trip (All really did), but would be an asset to the other US teachers, the galapagueño teachers, the Toyota program, and their school and community.” Then we had to duke it out, give in a little and hope that others believed your arguments.
When all was said and done, we chose a stellar group to take advantage of the program, but had to let go an equal number that were on a par with them. Bittersweet is one way to describe it but the biggest discussion on the way out the door was the applications were all amazing. There were twenty people that I wanted to contact immediately to share ideas and use as resources. For privacy, however, all materials that I was given were destroyed on site, and I have to hope to find those people by happenstance at a later date.
So I got my wish: To grade teachers papers. Unfortunately I could not listen to the explanations as I could with Krishad. But, for those that were not chosen, there will be another round soon enough, and all that can, should apply.
DG
June 26th, 2008
Just a few days ago, as I walked my son to school along 156th street, we came upon one of those make-shift shrines that are so common in our neighborhood. I would have just past by with a glance except that I realized that at that very moment, we were lacking George’s “Good Morning!” I bent over next to the young man that was kneeling there and read the first line of a note written in a strong hand: “Our good friend George,” it read. “George is dead?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Yeah. They found him yesterday morning. George was nice to everyone.” I stood up and staggered the rest of the way to my son’s school, trying my damnedest not to cry, though I made my sadness very clear to my son. George is dead.
The word community is bandied about for many different conditions, but community is that place where you are known to others, and others known to you. Often, especially in urban areas, community is hard to define, and even harder to come by. Though I may try to present myself, or fool myself into believing otherwise, being a part of a community is something that I have really searched for, even in the days when I strove to be an outsider. I needed to have a community to be outside of.
When I was accepted by the NYC Teaching Fellows, I knew that I would have little say in where I would teach. That was not such a concern for me, but where to live was a concern. I ascribe to one of Paolo Freire’s philosophies of teaching, of living, in fact, that states that in order to teach a people, in order to make a change for the better in a community, then one must be a part of that community. When I knew where in the Bronx I would be teaching, my wife and I found an apartment within a fifteen minute walking distance from my school. This fulfilled my Freirian belief, but also made commuting a non-factor and made good use of the structure of a city; Things are close together to improve access. Cars and commuting kill communities.
On my first walk to school on a hot July morning some six years ago, I met two people: A young girl sitting on the steps of a building who asked me the time (now a teen who walks her younger siblings to school) and a man on a the corner of 156th and Union with a cup of coffee in his hand who responded to my cordial, “Good morning,” with and energetic, “Good Moornin!”
The man’s age was hard to figure out. He was a Black man beyond forty but less than sixty. Several years later when I heard him say, “ Buenos dias, hijita!” to my wife, and I knew that he was from a Latin American country. I figured out that he was Garifuna after hearing him speak to others a few times, though I cannot say from what country. He was there every day, looking slightly disheveled, as though he had spent much of the previous night in that spot. Much of the year he would wear a black or Navy, down coat, and, to my eye, had the look of someone who was homeless. I have no proof of this latter description, though he was on that street corner, in front of the bodega, every morning on our way to school and every afternoon or evening on our way home for six years.
For a couple of years, George was just the man who said hello. Then, one afternoon as we were walking home, we heard somebody shout from inside the bodega, “Hey, George, you want a cup of coffee?” Nancy, Damian and I looked at each other in wonder: His name is George. We toyed with the idea of saying, “Good morning, George,” but it didn’t seem respectful to use somebody’s name when they don’t know yours. One of these days, though, we thought, we’ll stop and introduce ourselves. At least the knowledge of his name gave us a way to refer to him when he was not in view. For six years all told, we walked past him and shared salutations. For the past nine months, our daughter has been a part of this tradition as well, receiving an even more affectionate “Good morning!” (“Buenos Dias,” a mi esposa) which punctuated our walks to Bethania’s big brother’s school.
As white guy in a mostly Latino and Black neighborhood, I stick out. My choice of dress, often including a tie, sets me apart even more and to the visitors or more recent arrivals, it is sometimes assumed that I am either a cop or a missionary. The suspicious glances that I would receive on that one corner would quickly fade away as soon as George marked me as a known entity by stopping whatever he was doing to share a hello. On one of those mornings, I realized that I was not such an anonymous passerby to George. “¿Lo conoces?” asked a young man standing near the bodega door, believing me out of hearing range. “Claro,” replied George as though it were a ridiculous question, “Es un maestro. Por aqui pasa siempre.” I was a part of a community.
As a teacher in the NYC public schools, I considered the community an integral part of the education of my students. There is a great need to get students to look at their community as a resource and a positive place. While it is not impossible to know a neighborhood in which you do not reside, only spending time working inside of one building in that neighborhood cannot offer a clear perspective into the surrounding world. This is exacerbated when the people that have no contact with the neighborhood are the administrators. “No, you cannot have afterschool classes that go out into the neighborhood because it is too dangerous.” Or, my favorite response when I noted to an assistant principal that a particular troublesome student had become my neighbor: “Move out. Why would you want to do that to your family?” Yet the neighborhood is somehow acceptable for the student body. I found it difficult even for myself to be as much a part of the community as would like with all of the demands of teaching and the restraints put in place by administrations; school, city, state and federal. That desire to be a part of the community was one of the various reasons that I chose to accept the position with the Bronx River Alliance. I would be a part of a community and could focus more of my energies on helping teachers to know at least a little more the communities around their schools.
On Saturday, June 14th, I had the pleasure to be a community member who enjoyed the Hunts Point Fish Parade along with my family and so many others. The event, organized by The Point CDC, was everything that community and community events should strive towards. The Parade started in Hunts Point Riverside Park, where Addy, her son and the RTB crew were setting up for community rowing. From there, it marched towards Barretto Point Park, through the very communities that The Point serves and acted as a celebration and an invitation to participate in the day-long event at Barretto. My son and his friend rode along with Bronx Classics bike club, while I rode next to two kids with the oversize fishing poles and the juggler on the unicycle, ringing my bell to the rhythm, ding, ding, ding,-dingding. The concessions and tables were a mix of locals, local organizations and larger organizations that served food, offered games or shared information. As we walked around Barretto, filled by the way, with ten times the number of people I had ever seen there, I felt very much a part of a community. Adam and Kelly from the Point not only organized a great day, but there attitude of welcome made all feel at home.
Tomorrow, I will again walk past that little shrine made by George’s closest friends and the tears will again come. I have a little note that I want to leave next to the candle that my family placed on Friday afternoon. There will be an apology for never taking the time to really speak with him, and let him know that he will be remembered by our family. But I also have a message for him: There are some good things going on in our community, and every time I say hello to someone new, I’ll think of the daily reassurance that he once offered me, that I was a part of a community. Thank you, George.
DG
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June 15th, 2008
Home Depot might not seem like the place to go in search of an epiphany about the need to serve many communities, but epiphanies don’t like to be pigeon holed. I walked through the aisles of Home Depot, searching for items of comfort for the beginning and the ending of life. These items add safety to the surroundings of my loved ones and some feeling of comfort to me. For my 9 month old daughter, I searched for outlet covers and corner bumpers. For my parents I bought a banister for their steps and support bars to help them get in and out of the shower. 80 years separate my two clients, yet their needs are quite similar, and my desire to aid their respective communities is virtually the same for both of them.
As often happens, a decision made to correct an earlier mistake or to provide access for one group that had been previously ignored can benefit many people. A very clear example is for the benefit offered to parents with strollers, bicyclists, and pullers or pushers of carts every time they mount or dismount a sidewalk. Those little sidewalk cut-ins that make the transition smooth were designed to aid the disabled in ADA of 19–. That decision made many lives better.
Two new parks have been opened in Hunts Point in the last year. Ostensibly, the parks were opened to offer the local population access to the waters that surround them for recreation and relaxation. But it may and should grow into something much more.
All along the Bronx River, we are working towards making the river itself and its adjoining environs more accessible to the thousands of school children that live nearby or have heard about its history. The combined efforts of the Education Program and the Recreation Program offer ideas and opportunities to teachers from the area, ranging from a canoe trip with a dissolved oxygen lab to a simple, “Yes, you can walk around in that area.” The teachers are thankful for the support, and the students express their gratitude with their keen interest. About thirty of those students came together on Thursday, June 5th at Hunts Point Riverside Park for the Bronx River Student Symposium. They showed how they are learning about water quality, the wildlife and restoration of the river. Incredible has it sounds, students came on a day off from school to share what they feel is important about the river; Their Bronx River. The access to the river has turned on something in these students far beyond the science or environmental and social issues that they discussed. The students were the ones teaching those that were present about the river. They showed they own the issue and the place, and they are poised to take over. Nothing could make a teacher happier than to have a student move beyond them, hopefully make them superfluous.
The desire, no; the feeling of responsibility to bring about one change for one person or group that need can often have a greater effect on groups beyond those targeted. The Bronx River Alliance and the groups that we partner with have tried to increase access to the river for teachers and students, and the students will take it on to the world. In the case of the banister that I put up for my octogenarian parents, the first one to use it was nine month old daughter. The first person to grab on to that banister was not the intended user, but that smile of satisfaction that came from the safe feeling of the sturdy oak rail told me that I had done the right thing.
DG
June 8th, 2008
