Today, I played basketball for the first time this year with a few of my kids. As we were getting our teams together, the biggest kid tried to call another student known as "Tazz". The other student told him that he couldn't have Tazz, so the big kid said, "Fine, I'll take teach." Nice start. Weeeelllllll, it turned out to be a pretty good game when I ended up scoring off Tazz and he asked me to sign his basketball...

Deep Thoughts #2

We were talking about hominids today. A student with very thick glasses asked, "How come we can't live to be a million years old?"

Riiiggghhht. I told him that he would have to ask the Science teacher, mainly in order to spread the good cheer.

Luck is Relative

“I’m lucky. All of my family is alive. Mother. Father. Sisters. Brother. I am very lucky.” A young girl from Haiti said this to me the other day. She came to the U.S. a year ago this summer and was commenting on how her family has come to the States- intact.

Though the tone of her words was strictly conversational, they struck my ears in a much different manner. Her statement kept playing over and over again in my head like a skipping record. Lucky? A 12-year-old little girl, grateful that a member of her immediate family did not die of disease, hunger or violence before they left her country. She considers herself lucky.

Allow me to share one personal encounter that may shed some light on the Haitian experience. (By no means am I suggesting that this is descriptive of all Haitian people. It is simply a glimpse into Haitian life from the American perspective.) Below is a journal excerpt from the day I visited the Haitian-Dominican border:

Poverty is a sensatory experience. You can see poverty- taste, touch, hear, and smell it. I experienced all five today when we visited the Haitian-Dominican border. They warned us on the bus that it was going to be intense. Right, I thought, not knowing what to expect. As soon as I stepped off the bus, it hit me like a wave. The air was heavy, saturated by the scent of too many humans packed into too small of an area in too hot of a climate. Every breath I took in was salty and thick, complimented by a burning taste of unknown origins. I felt foolish walking in a line, clutching the backpack of the person in front of me. I felt like it made us stick out. It became increasingly apparent as we neared the border that this was the last thing that made us stick out and also, that it was quite necessary.

As we enter the heart of the market, I can hear the bartering. People are shouting the value of their goods aloud in a confusing medley of language and dialects. More disturbing to me are the quieter sounds- the distant cry of a baby, the low grumbling of a local as he glares by me, the splashing of river water as people skip the bridge altogether.

I began to feel more and more claustrophobic. I, and the snake of Americans I occupied, was clearly in the way of survival. Haitians and Dominicans, though mostly Haitians, were shoving past me to reach the border. This particular crossing is open a mere 2 days a week for no more than a few hours each day – which explains the urgency with which these people pushed to the border through the sea of human bodies.

As we stepped onto the bridge, I witnessed that most of the traffic was going towards the Haitian side. People were rushing to deliver goods to Haiti. It hit me then- Haiti was even more impoverished than the Dominican. I watched a woman, no taller than myself, briskly walk across barefoot. Perched on her head were over 10 slabs of cardboard, holding about 3 dozen eggs each. She seemed about my age, but the urgency in her step and her large, pregnant belly made her appear decades older. Survival.

A man, again about my size, pushed a cart. I honestly can’t even remember what was in it because I was concentrating on him so much. He was pushing the cart with such force that his skinny arms were straining, his veins popping out. His entire body was almost parallel to the ground as he struggled under the weight. He nearly ran us over. He did not stop or swerve. Surely, he could not afford to lose his momentum. Survival.

There appeared to be some sort of struggle behind us and as we turned, we saw something even more horrific. A tall, wide tour bus was pushing its way over the bridge, cruelly forcing the Haitians to the periphery of the bridge to complete their mission. The white passengers looked down with a mixture of indignation and fascination. When my eyes met a man wearing a large straw hat and Hawaiian shirt, I had to look away. My vision blurred. I began to breathe heavy and quick- to the point of hyperventilation. I was embarrassed and enraged.

As my counterparts snapped photos, I stood there dumbly with my camera- unsure of its ability to capture the scenes. A camera can only catch an image, but the totality of the memory and emotions will be kept intact in my mind.


In order to further understand the Haitian experience, let me also provide you with a brief (ha! me, brief? impossible.) historical context...

The “land of mountains” was inhabited by humans as early as 2600 B.C. The Arawak people lived on the island of Hispaniola (now Haiti and the Dominican Republic) way before Mr. Christopher Columbus could even say “round”. As one might expect, 1492 became a turning point in the history of the island. The Spanish invasion resulted in disease, abuse and murders which exterminated the Arawak people altogether.

Soon after, Spain ceded control of Haiti to the French. Haiti quickly became France's most economically-prosperous colony in the “New World” through its major exports of coffee and sugar (can we say plantations?).

With this influx of Europeans, Haitian society became strictly stratified. Those that occupied the lowest levels of the social pyramid, freed blacks and black slaves, revolted against the more privileged classes, the French and Creoles. Toussaint L’Ouverture, a former slave turned military officer, successfully led the revolt. The rebellion waged on- even after a peace treaty was signed and the leader of the revolt, Toussaint himself, died in a French prison. Eventually, the tenacious Haitian guerilla fighting forced the French military to withdraw from Haiti.

On January 1, 1804, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, a military genius who fought under Toussaint, declared Haiti’s independence. Haiti became the first black-led republic in history and the second nation in the Western Hemisphere to declare its own independence (second to only yours truly).

Unfortunately, the republic was short-lived. Some believe that Dessalines new post, as chief of state, was too close to emperorship for comfort. He was soon killed by rivals. Despite the reason for his demise, yet another emperor rose to power following his murder. Between 1843 and 1915, 22 absolute rulers passed the torch onto one another, none of them very effective. In fact, only one of them completed an entire term. The rest suffered the fate of many leaders who attained power through succession- they were sent into exile or assassinated by political enemies. Eventually, the people again grew tired of the empire status and the country reverted back to a republic. (If you are confused, feel free to re-read the last couple of paragraphs. Done? Yes, to confirm, Haiti was part of the Spanish empire, then part of the French empire, then an independent republic, then an empire again, and then a republic.)

Ready for the next stage in Haitian history? Dah-da-da-dah! The Americans stepped in, fearing that their economic stake in Haiti would be compromised by this revolving door of political organization. The U.S. military stirred things up for some time, but eventually pulled out in 1934. (The same year that F. Scott Fitzgerald published Tender is the Night. Coincidence? I think not…)

The Americans, like the nameless relative who brings fruitcake to Christmas dinner, left their holiday in Haiti only after bestowing gifts. A shoddy infrastructure and an exhausted economy continued to define the country of Haiti for years to come. Of course, I am not insinuating that the big, bad American government is to blame for the tumultuous state of Haiti. However, the presence of our troops did not magically solve the problems of the Haitian people. Unfortunately, foreign military occupation, no matter how righteous the motivation, is not a panacea for things like poverty, violence, and political unrest. Change, as some would say, should come from within.

In the early eighties, Haiti was labeled as a high-risk zone. Politically, a meager Catholic organization was growing. A charismatic young priest, Jean-Bertrand Aristide, fueled this change and inspired a new politically active generation of Haitians. Aristide became the president during the first free Haitian elections in 1990. Despite high hopes (recall a popular Pink Floyd jingle) the green president Aristide was unable to unite the torn country. He was ousted by a military coup in 1991, restored to power in 1994, lost to Rene Preval in the 1995 presidential elections, and then again became president in 2000. Ironically, Aristide was forced into exile after a viscous rebellion during the 2004 independence celebrations.

Some members of the international community encouraged this exile, including the United States and France. Subsequently, both the U.S. and France sent troops to Haiti to maintain some sense of order. An interim government was established. The Caribbean Community and Common Market (CARICOM, the former Caribbean Free Trade Association) decided not to accept Haiti as a member until they could prove that the government has been democratically elected. CARICOM also requested a UN investigation into the U.S. and French-backed Aristide exile. In the summer of 2004, the United Nations resumed control of the peacekeeping movement, thereby replacing U.S. and French troops.

Democratic elections were scheduled for 2005, but were postponed several times due to inadequate preparation, devestation caused by tropical storms, violence and agitation. The elections were finally held in February of 2006. Initially, it appeared as though Preval would become the new president of Haiti- the first reports stated that he had taken 90% of the vote. Many of his opponents claimed the election result had been compromised and requested a full investigation.

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Phew….That was a post-ful. I hope this personal experience, coupled with a historical context, helped to shed some light on why this little girl considered herself “lucky”. This constant political, social, and economic upheaval is like a relentless wave that catches the Haitian people. It sneaks up on them, turns them upside down, thrusts them into the sand, pushes them to the surface where they fight for air and then tosses them onto the hot beach, exhausted and confused, yet lying in the sweet, radiant sunshine of the clear Caribbean sky.

“I’m lucky. All of my family is alive. Mother. Father. Sisters. Brother. I am very lucky.”

You be the judge.

The Life of a First Year Teacher

I was heating up my potato latkes for my lunch and went to the restroom for 1.5 minutes while they were heating up. Mind you, this is something that I do every single day. I return and the microwave is smoking- I freak out, open the window and sprint back to the room we each lunch in. Call the office and they are like, "Oh it must be the crumbs..." I'm like, "No seriously, the school fire alarm is definitely going to go off." I go back to the room with the microwave, unplug the monstrosity and open the door to air out the room. The school fire alarm starts go off.

Haven't had the experience of a modern-day school fire alarm? Let me describe this for you...

There is a fire alarm attached to the wall about every 8 feet. The alarm itself is is extremely loud and ear-piercing...the kind of noise that makes your heart start racing and gives you the chills. The alarms are, of course, complete with white flashing lights. Every set of doors in the hallways automatically close and lock from the outside. All 750 12-, 13-, and 14-year olds, teachers, administators, custodians, and lunch ladies file out of the building. Outside, it is raining and approximately 50 degrees. We are outside shivering for 12 minutes before we hear any sirens.

When we are finally summoned in, my principal does not look happy. I assume that it is because of me. Although, I am sure some of his annoyance was due to my flaming lunch, he also informs me that he had to call the fire department himself because they were not coming. Our alarm singal was apparently not reaching the station and they would have never come if he didn't call them.

Don't have the pleasure of knowing how kids react when their regular schedule is disrupted?

We return to fifth period, shivering and wet and it takes twice the regular amount of time to get the kids refocused. Meanwhile, the 200 kids in first lunch return to the lunch room. A food fight ensues and the 3 adults that monitor the lunchroom are unable to regain control. Numerous kids receive detention and some are suspended. Lunch is extended which means that 5th period, already a longer period (over an hour), is extended for another 15 minutes. During passing time, the kids are outrageous, screaming and pushing each other around. Since then, 2 fights have broken out. A student also managed to somehow crack the chair off a desk. I asked another teacher how the student was able to accomplish that and she responded with, "Ummm, I don't know, I guess he was stomping on it... "

This is, my friends, the life of a first year teacher...

Time Keeps on Slipping...

Those that know me personally know that I do not have much time to post anymore given my hectic schedule. (That's okay, don't feel too bad... Our annual trip to Baltimore is happening this weekend and this year, we are staying in the same hotel as the Red Sox. GET EXCITED.)

Here are some highlights from the last week:

• Won 2 NCAA pools
• Kissed a dead fish in front of my school
• Made more money waitressing than I did teaching

More on all of this later.

"Perhaps the best lesson I can pass along to my upper- and middle-class students is to merely point them in the direction of their foreign-born classmates, who can remind us all that education in America is still more a privilege than a right."

Even though I don't have any upper- and middle-class students, this teacher raises a very interesting point...

Some kids really are just lazy and they are that way for a lot of reasons. It's obviously not always their fault. Honestly, some kids haven't been given a reason to be more proactive, or even just plain ole' active. They are waaaaayyy to consumed with their own day-to-day today business to see that far ahead. At 12-years old, it is difficult to see the true value of education. It is equally as difficult for us teachers to impose that value on them. OBVIOUSLY I care about education.. I am a teacher. Any suggestions on how to genuinely communicate this importance to our students...?

What I Did on My February Vacation: Part 1

An 8-year-old and an 11-year-old beat me in Monopoly today. When they decided to join forces against me, I actually reached for the rule book. I quickly harnessed my competitive nature and told myself that it is okay for me to lose a game to a few elementary school kids (once in a great while).

(P.S. At one point, I had 3 houses each on my Park Place and Boardwalk properties... Damn.)