Wine and Bread
Alas, the year is finally over for me. Today was my first official day off from school, and my feet, more than any other part of my body, have been thanking me for giving them some much needed rest. There are wars going on all across the world, dictatorships and coups reigning, unemployment reaching scary levels, global warming bringing its subtle tap on our shoulders to a pounding, and the dollar slowly becoming absolved as a world currency … and I couldn’t care less because school’s over.
My summer plans include revamping my ever-changing website (and I think the next update is going to be the proverbial lightning in a bottle), working with one of my favorite poets of all time, losing a little weight, and hitting up Orlando, Jamaica (not Queens), and Miami / Ft. Lauderdale to see the family. I’ll also have about 9 days of work in there where I’ll be working exclusively to help my school excel in the best ways possible.
In other words, just because I’m not working, it doesn’t mean I’m not working. Right?
Here’s a little tidbit for my poets. Tell me what you think. It was inspired by the aforementioned favorite poet at one of her workshops. She asked us to pick the first word that popped into our heads and get the definition from an etymology dictionary, and use it to write a piece. You know I’m always up for a challenge. Here’s the homework, Ms. Betts.
“Sacrosanct”
Protected by religious sanction
Like my first name akin to a slave turned king
Seeking vengeance in reign not death
Or a father of this holy father once removed
From a miracle, a miracle, my Mom’s first name
Like getting baptized, teaching my elders,
Breaking bread, sipping wine, and confirming my own name
In the Holy Spirit, I believe
Like conversations with extraterrestrials and their conduits,
Entrusting that they’ll physically protect your encasing
When your soul’s half risen
Like a kidnapping for more than decade
Where hell existed right on Earth
While outside observers can’t recognize the agony
Like confusing the Father with a father and the fathers
Angels & demons intermingle so fluidly
Like justifying the nuances of life with the handwritten,
Specifically tailored
Filtered
Man-ifested laws and ideals of a being we’ve interpreted as male
Who can intercept the odds of human events by using the natural or coincidental
Like our metaphors for our first kiss,
Sexual moment,
Minutes of ecstasy and ebullience,
Our triumphs, achievements, & accolades as sacrificial ritual
Before the next person envies us
And in evolutionary fashion, kills us
Survival of the fittest
Like marriage between man and woman and other definitions
Just won’t fit millennium-old standards;
Exponents of polyamory maybe
Like near-death experiences with familiar faces either screaming
Or singing
Or signaling you home
Like providing for your whole family and obeying your faith
By stripping you of everything but your resolve
Like an extended metaphor for the stories
I was asked to rejoice over while I
Relearned and reborrowed the word ’sacrosanct’
Like what I plan to name my first child
Upon birthing him, he too will learn this word
At the moment of his first spanking
Like that first cry, sweet and shrill …
Jose, who, believe it or not, went to church yesterday …
Michael Jackson's Moonwalker
Dear Michael Jackson,
First, let me say that I’m deeply saddened by your death. Your passing ranks up there in the moments where people had to remember where they were standing when they heard the news. On a day when a fellow 70’s-80’s icon in Farrah Fawcett died and so did Ed McMahon, the news of you dying seems to have washed away most news about Middle East and Asian conflict, the NBA Draft, and second-to-last day of school for NYC students. And deservedly so. You were a legend of immense proportions and even with your less favorable traits you still managed to inspire, mystify, and amaze so many of us who only wished they could maximize their potential.
You were often this caricature of yourself, and the older we got, the more your public persona became a caricature of the last image we caught from scenes all over the world. Even still, the music always kept hitting us hard. You already had #1 hits back in your childhood with your brothers as part of the Jackson 5, and as you grew older, to make up for that missing childhood, you pushed the limits of your stardom. For a good two decades or so, you captured our imagination and had the nerve to call yourself the King of Pop, busting through the doors of MTV when they wouldn’t play your videos (they apologized by stealing the whole theme of your greatest contribution to dance).
Personally, Michael, you’re easily one of the greatest musicians ever. I still remember the Moonwalker video and wishing I could lean really hard to my side in a primped white suit, blasting guns into my enemies in slo-mo, or walking through the world made of clay and manipulating my shape however I pleased just to get myself through life. Or how about the time you went into space and spent $10 million to collaborate with your sister on a song where you tell the media off once more? And remember when you scared every person aged 17 and under but had such a fly rhythm you made us all wanna wear red jackets, tight jeans, and cat eyes? Remember when you gave Blacks a social consciousness song or two every album just to let them know you were still down, plastic surgery and all?
Isn’t that what you were all about, though? While on the one hand, your musical genius is almost universally unquestioned, the personal sacrifices you made to reach that pinnacle (some from you, some from your family) almost made it not worth it. It’s almost as if to say, “You mean, to be like this Mike, I gotta do THAT?!” While many have tried to replicate your successes, or sample from the tree you planted, they fail in ways only true fans comprehend. There’ll never be another Mike, on any end and all ends of the spectrum.
What’s most striking about you Michael, more than anything else, is the reverence people have for you as a legend and man. Your dominance was unmatched, and as the media and others in the general public made you into a leper and a circus creature all at once, you still managed to touch the hearts of so many of us who grew up idolizing you. With every child case, your fans surrendered their innermost wounds and exposed them in some sort of catharsis, forming a crowd of the judges versus the pardoners.
You indeed were the man in the mirror, making us take a hard look at ourselves, attempting to answer those questions by looking backwards and moving forwards at once …
Jose, who’s remembering the time …
Rodney Dangerfield by Harville
Dear Political Volunteer:
I’m going to say it: there’s no situation under which, when you have a serious proposition for me, you can nudge me with your hips while I’m trying to drink a rum and coke. None. I know who’s reading, and I can’t say I care much who it offends, or even if they’d like to get offended for none of their doing.
It’s after work, slight chance of showers, but a humid day nonetheless. My throat’s a little parched, but moreso, my mind is fried from another long work week. One of the school aides comes to me and says, “Mr. Vilson, are you going to the happy hour?” Feigning that I had any idea what she was talking about, I said, “Sure I am.” Then, “Wait, a minute: what happy hour?” She tells me that it’s at a nearby restaurant, a usual spot for the school aides’ crew. I told her I’d be there, in my mind thinking that maybe I shouldn’t. I was a bit ambivalent, but I sought this as a great opportunity to become more familiar with the school staff and show them I could drink with them as well.
Here comes the fun part.
As I’m sitting there, I look around the bar area and see a certain person’s face plastered all over the wall. He happened to teach at my school and he’s running for some office. Props to him for chasing his dream. He wasn’t there until later, but sure enough, his people were shoring up volunteers. One of them kept yelling, “I wish I was a teacher” and “one day, I’ll become a teacher,” to some peoples’ screaming and applauding and others (i.e. me) rolling their eyes secretly. I wasn’t in rebel-rousing mode and my rum and coke kept hitting the spot time and again. Cheers.
Then, the other assistant came through. At first, she completely ignored those who she didn’t deem “Dominican enough” (I’ve grown accustomed to the look). Again, I have no issue with that. Sometimes you have to go with what’s comfortable. Then, I see her heading my way. I’m at the corner of the table, sipping on my drink, and all of a sudden, I feel this nudge. I look to my left and she purposely nudged me. She doesn’t even say a word to me, but keeps nudging me with her right hip and putting her volunteer sheet in front of me. I gave her a look that said, “not really,” but I was thinking, “Hell no.”
Naturally, I’ve told this to a couple of people and that got mixed reviews. The one negative aspect I got that struck me was, “Well, you don’t want to upset the volunteer of someone who’s so well connected, and you don’t know the politics of what you’ve just done.”
In a way, the person’s right. The things I’m about to get into may have political implications for the school (as everything education has become political), and I wouldn’t want my career to suffer because of that nonsense.
Forget that.
I want my respect. If someone wants to ask me to volunteer for their organization, they’re coming up to me and saying, “Hello, my name is … Would you consider joining our campaign for …?” My manhood and respect aren’t optional traits. Do and say whatever you like behind the scenes, but if you’re going to talk to everyone else and nudge me, then I cannot accept that. If they’re not happy that I shook my head at them and want to tell their well-connected friend about me, I’m resigned to that. I have no beef with people, but communicate with me.
Lady, your hips are not enough.
Signed,
Jose, who can’t believe I have to wash watch my ass rear like this all the time …
Absent Father
A few notes:
- Ladies and gents, my nomination’s officially in for the 2009 Black Weblog Awards. Would you please consider my blog for any of the four categories I’m nominated in? Thanks a million.
- Wait, how many days do we have left in the school year? Is that right? 5!? And I’m going where? To Orlando? Jamaica? Miami (maybe)? Wow, that’s a lot of places to be at. Well done, Jose. Well done.
- If, on the same day you receive your brand-new Macbook Pro, you hear that its price dropped a few hundred dollars, wouldn’t you be fuming? Fortunately for those of us who fit in that category, there’s a thing called price protection. If you fall into that category, call 800-MY-APPLE and ask for that money back. It’s valid within 30 days of purchase.
- Some topics I plan to explore this week include how political education can get, what happens when you don’t care about children, and that dreaded last day of school (and by dreaded, I mean AWESOME!!!). Plus, I might have my first video up this week. Nice.
My Fathers’ Day celebrations have been sparse and uncomfortable. Lately, I’ve contemplated the various father figues I’ve had and the ones I wish I had where the people who were supposed to fill those roles didn’t. My father was out there somewhere, making sporadic visits to NYC maybe once a year, and at times, none at all. My stepfather couldn’t stand me 90% of the time, and I forgive, but won’t forget some of the things I’ve had to endure because of him.
I never liked Bill Cosby because for a dude like me, he wasn’t realistic, or so I thought. I liked Phillip Banks of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air more for his personality and he struck me as a more realistic father, but his situation was far too distant for me to relate. Roc Emerson from Roc the TV series was as realistic as they get, but his TV series was short-lived. Fr. Jack, my middle school principal from Nativity, was a father figure for so many of us in that school, and that lasted all of 2 years. Every friend I had picked an NBA player to admire, and naturally, mine was Patrick Ewing. Yet, he was an NBA player, not a father, and dude had his own kids. He was merely a wish, and one that only looked green from this side of things.
That goes for a lot of the other men who whisked through my life and mentored me when I needed it. Now I’m at a point where I look at myself as a father to my students (in a sense), and in some ways, a father in training. Every so often, I still sing “Dance With My Father” by Luther Vandross, humming words I can never really relate to, but hoping I’d be able to provide that feeling to someone someday. Someday.
Jose, who wishes all the fathers out there a Happy Fathers’ Day, wherever you may be …
“Your Moment of Zen” or “Your Writing Prompt”
Think of a time when you were really uncomfortable
When you grew a pair of hemorrhoids so painful
You were itching to get out of your seat
Annoyance all over your face
Indignation with having to tolerate this
Go as deep as possible with this pain
Explore it, don’t hold it in
Tell me where it started, how to probe it
Where the swelling may occur,
And if you can make it as non-descript as possible, that’d be good
Then, make a metaphor somewhere with a social network, a computer part, or a neighborhood
Because that always seems to work for audiences scoring you
Not that the points matter because that’s the point right?
After that, if you could include in there a reference to
A really ill poet, rapper, socialite, celebrity, debutante
Hate on them and worship them all at once
Even if you’re trying to be like them in your own right
Waiting outside in the cold rain,
Lining up for VIP on a bench in a high skirt or couture
Throwback 80s multi-colored everything
Get some shades above your eyes
Can’t tell whether you’re feeding me lies
Lastly, make it catchy and say it with the same intonations,
The same inflections, the same parlance, the same strategies
That’ll bag you the honeys, the championships,
And the fans that at once swear they know what poetry is
While listening to your mediocrity
Then, blame it on your hustle
Blame it on your hustle
Blame it on our hustle
Lastly, end it with a trick you’ll do over and again
Think of your moment of zen …
Jose, who alludes to far too many things at once …
2Pac In Backwards Hat & Chain
Today will mostly be remembered for 2Pac Shakur’s birthday. The once and still prolific MC carried on a legendary life, evidenced by his persistent legacy and demigod status within multiple communities. He constantly ranks amongst the most profitable dead celebs, and his style continues to pervade some really popular MCs. People like me were also captivated by the man’s intelligence and his allusions to some of the most sacred and revered text we know to this day, and his profound understanding of the plight of the average urban Black male. Yet, we always found him such a contradictory figure, from his misogynistic lyrics to his thuggery, a reflection of his hopelessness in many ways. My late cousin could relate.
Those of you who know me personally also know that last year, my cousin died from an apparent drug overdose. (Even the details of that are shady). My thoughts turn to all the photos in his house, from graduating my same elementary school, to getting his high school diploma. I remember our fights, and the time he came back from jail after almost a decade, swearing off his previous lifestyle, only to walk away from his house when we dropped him off. I remember the random visits to my house, asking for money, or him calling from another small jail stint. I remember him coming to my house and doing little jobs for a few bucks, but suddenly disappearing once when we gave him a $20 to work on something. The next time I saw him was under a sheet, with his mom crying over him, and his brother checking under the sheet to reaffirm what he already knew.
It’s not that these men have some need for friends. Both were handsome in their days alive, and quite popular in their respective fields. My cousin had 2 beautiful daughters, and 2Pac left plenty of disciples and wannabes. They didn’t lack for intelligence, and their toughness is unquestioned in most sectors. We who are social polemicists and “thinkers” often criticize people like Pac and my cousin because they’re somehow “wasting” their intelligence when they spent the last year of their lives almost wishing for death. We can hear the tears seep through Pac’s music, where at once he’s forgiving enemies and wishing death upon everyone in his way, including himself. With my cousin, I saw the rings under his eyes and his facial expressions, tired from the crap the world had to offer him.
This is where many of you will be tempted to say, “Well why didn’t your cousin get a job and make something of himself?” My reply now, and will always be, “What are we doing for these cases when that’s not possible?” And when will we realize that the American Dream doesn’t look the same for everyone? When do many of our prophets, living or dead, get their props for booming their voices for the losers of this capitalist society? We can always be positive, but eventually, we also have to see the ugly, even from brothers so handsome.
Their deaths always give me pause in a way very few of us can understand. Even with such ostensibly different lives like my cousin and Pac’s, it’s almost like the way they met the end of their respective roads converged upon death. Ironically, on the same day my cousin died, my heart almost failed on me. But like today commemorates for so many of us, I chose tehse two men as inspiration to keep living.
A small part of me knows that I gotta keep a message of hope alive, against all odds …
Jose, who wants you to know I ain’t mad at ya …
Poker Face
When I first started teaching, the most common complaint people had about me was that I didn’t smile or laugh. I think people caught subtle motions of my face throughout the first couple of months, but I let a little of that go in the classroom. I didn’t appreciate my kids calling me a robot. With the rest of my fellow faculty members and staff, I still have this weird perception about me … and I like it. Here’s why:
The problem with showing your hand in any card game is that, eventually you’re going to get all your cards taken away or everyone’s going to make sure you get as little of the pot as possible. Some people try to force your hand down while others try to seduce you with a couple of chips, and others still try to ask the guy / chick next to you if they caught a glimpse of anything. Meanwhile, you’re just trying to play a good, clean game with no need to pull those aces out of your sleeves. I didn’t deal the cards nor did I make the rules of the game, but I’m going to play, then I’m playing to win. I just have my own set of guidelines that lets me win every time.
I’ve offered plenty of opportunities for people to be “personal” with me (that’s in quotations because even then I have to keep certain parts of my life to myself). I’ll go to social functions, maybe hang out at the teachers’ lounge, make a small joke here and there. Otherwise, there’s really no reason to talk. It’s a professional setting, and people getting sensitive about how I roll irks me a bit.
Here’s something else to think about: in my mind, I already know who I like and don’t like, and I never have to let anyone know who’s who. That’s really up to me, and it doesn’t have to interfere with whether or not I’m going to bust my rear. I don’t have to agree with people in order for me to get the work I need to get done settled. As long as the work I’m doing has a intentionally positive effect on my clients (in this case, my kids), I could care less about anyone’s personal characteristics.
I’m mostly saying this for the new teachers reading (and a few of the more veteran teachers as well). Professionalism is imperative in all cases, and if you can’t be professional in certain settings, then step out. Conversely, don’t let people be unprofessional with you. When a aura of unprofessionalism pervades an environment, it becomes toxic, spiteful, and often viral. And you’ll get the majority of people who can’t quite put their finger on it or don’t have the words, but they’ll say, “There’s something that just ain’t right.”
Then, you’ll realize that the problem isn’t always the kids. It’s the adults who are acting them. But before you make that realization, you’ll walk down the hallway, not showing too much emotion, and keeping a safe and comfortable distance from everyone until you’ll assessed everyone enough. And even then, you set a standard for how you want your interactions to go. In the field of education, you don’t have lots of autonomy (or in many other fields for that matter), but you do have control over many of the interactions that happen.
You play your cards right, never show your hand, and soon, everyone will want to play on your team. Even with that ace in your sleeve.
Jose, who didn’t realize how Lady Gaga had anything to do with education till now …
Roddy White Touchdown Flip
Imagine spending 8 whole months with 2 hours in mind, and those 2 hours have a major impact on your “teaching” career. You prepare with that in mind. You start with diagnostics, already have your eye out for certain warning signs, keep your pencil sharp, and make sure your lessons integrate techniques to help students when those 2 hours come. The first month’s that honeymoon period where you’re shaking your kids’ cobwebs from their summers, and then you see what your students are really made of. Only it’s already October, and the streak of a million breaks comes through. Half-days interspersed with Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the ELA test is already breathing down your neck.
“OK, after the ELA test, the whole school can focus on the Math test.” you say to yourself in that brisk and snowy January. But you look at your teacher-made curriculum and your kids are just a bit slower than that curriculum. Actually, a lot slower. Your stress levels rise, you’re overeating, and you’ve dumped all your extracurricular activities to prepare for these g-d-awful 2 hours. And of course, the kids have smiles on their faces, all jubilant and ignorant, naive to the politics of their own performance on this test. You’re looking at all your data, your predictive assessments, your state and city-driven exams, looking through old exams, looking for different resources and tricks, trying to put your ear to the edu-street about what that secret test is going to look like.
It’s a week in, and you’re like, “Alright. This is it.” Stress levels to the max. You freshen up those little skills that everyone misses while going over the big themes for the test, hoping they at least ace the parts that matter most. You move in to about a day before the test, and you’re just resolved to the fact that, after all the preparation you’ve offered, everything’s really up to them. There’s no more to it. Whether they showered that morning, ate breakfast, have the flu, got in an argument with family, studied only certain sections of all the materials you gave them, or if they listened to what you were saying at ALL during the semester, you let those factors that are beyond you stay beyond you.
After a couple of days, the test is over, and you let your students breathe just a little, and now, you wait.
You wait.
And wait.
ELA scores come in. And they do well. So what?
You wait some more.
Graders go to the district center and grade, and you’re selected. You see the successes of the other schools and think, “I hope my kids did that well.” You wonder what you could have done differently, reflect, discuss with fellow teachers, and start the planning for next year.
Before you know it, it’s June, and the overall scores come in. Your school meets the AYP again and then some, but you only care nominally. You’re more worried about how your particular students did. Then, you wake up on a random Tuesday, asking yourself if the city’s already posted up the test scores. Lo and behold, they’re there. In all their glory. What a sight to see.
Some of your students go down, but the majority of your students shoot up. And high. You’re encouraged and for the rest of the day, you’re running around like a drum in a Latin jazz solo, barely able to contain yourself. You’re ready to scream at the top of your lungs. You give the student who improved the most, the one who came after school everyday for 5 months, who jumped from barely understanding the math to being one of the top students in your math class, the biggest congrats you can possibly give anyone without jumping too far out of your own skin.
If that all happened to you, then you’re me. Except the stressing part. I’m too cool for that.
Jose, who knew that was going to happen all along …
"Clueless"
A few weeks ago, when the sun’s heat rapped on my classroom window like it was trying to get away from itself, I noticed a glorious coming out party for some of my female students’ legs. As a male teacher, I’m often put in different predicaments where I’m asked to tread thin lines all the time, and my adolescent girls’ behavior is one of them. On the one end, I’m encouraged to point out things I don’t deem appropriate or fitting for the school culture, and on the other, I’m asked not to say too much to the student directly or be too observant as I might be labeled, irrationally, as some sort of sexual deviant. I’ve run the gamut from girls telling me about their pregnancy to girls telling me they have a crush on me, and in all manners, I’ve learned how to navigate all that.
But this? This issue was too widespread for me to deal with on my own.
As usual, I stand in front of my classroom door when I see four of my girls walk in. One of them had capris on. No big deal, but still out of uniform. The next girl comes with those trendy sweatpants with some word sweeping across the area between her lower back and her butt. The next girl’s wearing tight jean shorts just above her knees. And the last one decided it was appropriate to wear a skirt about 6 inches above her knees, and equidistant from her pelvic area.
And every time I asked each of them if they thought their dresses of choice were appropriate, they all said successively and succinctly, “No.” Little did they know that I’d already made my judgment. There’s a reason for our school having dress codes and uniform. So when, for example, one of my boys decides to “accidentally” drop a quarter right near girl #4’s dress, I’m not inclined to wack the boy over the head. In all fairness, Girl #4’s not that type of girl and she was wearing (not visible until she lifted up her skirt a few more inches) black shorts. But I didn’t want to take a chance.
Of course, I told the dean, who agreed with my perspective. Girl #4, who didn’t have the cojones to do 1/2 of what she’s up to this year, says, “Mr. Vilson, did you tell The Big Dean about my uniform?” I said, “No, I merely mentioned that he should check for uniforms, and it’s getting a little insane.” She wouldn’t let it go, not even until the next day, and she asked the dean. The dean mentioned exactly what I told him, and she said, “You see, you did blow up my spot!”
That made me fume. If anything, I’ve proven that they could trust me. I’d already spoken to my class about dressing appropriately, but it seems my message didn’t get through to them. I call the dean back and said, “Let me ask you a question: if a girl dressed in that skirt that she wore yesterday …” and before I even finished, he said, “I’m telling you, I’d put her in her place right there. She’d have to take that off. She wouldn’t even dare. I have a daughter now, and God forbid if she ever dressed like that. I’m an animal, I don’t care. When it comes to my daughter, I’ma protect her. And that’s why we keep telling you kids, you need to dress right, and come to school right. You wanna look like some trash in the street or that you’re some sort of prostitute? You’re not. You’re in school.”
I smirk and stare directly at Girl #4, who turned on her signature innocent smile.
“And you know what else? Girls and boys that wear their pants or skirts up to here,” motioning his hands right around where his butt starts, “that usually means they’re selling themselves. Yeah, believe it. It means they’re someone’s play thing. And none of you are that.”
You think I got any other questions after that?
Jose, who’s become a bit conservative when I’ve started teaching …
Trippy
9. The Lakers and the Magic, the #3 and the #10 scoringest teams in the league, only had 30 points in the first quarter of Game 2 in the NBA Finals, the lowest combined score for a quarter in NBA Finals history. Dwight Howard just had his first dunk of the Finals well into the 2nd game of these Finals. Wow.
8. I was waiting for a package from Shanghai, CN, and thought CN meant Canada. I kid you not.
7. Even when I wake up, I couldn’t tell you what my schedule is for the school day until I actually go through school.
6. The Yankees’ closer, Mariano Rivera, of all people, disses his manager. This guy rarely EVER talks. He questioned why Joe Girardi made him walk Evan Longoria, a really good 3rd baseman, in the top of the 9th, and they end up losing the game. He comes back the next day. Same situation. Only a one-point lead. Mariano faces him sraight up … and shuts up his manager in the process. Very few men of this planet can talk junk and back it up. Crazy.
5. Newt Gingrich calls Supreme Court Judge nominee a racist. And Michael Bloomberg, Al Sharpton, and Joel Klein vouch for him as an educational reformer. Is that supposed to be a joke?
4. You can tell a student to zip it and get thrown into court for a five-year battle. You swear I’m playing.
3. My brother asked me who my top 5 greatest NBA players were, and I said, “Bil Russell, Michael Jordan, Wilt Chamberlain, Magic Johnson, Jerry West.” Easy. Then I said, “Larry Bird would definitely be in my top 10 though.” And dude says, “Who’s Larry Bird again?” WHHHAT?!
2. When I was watching Inside the Obama White House on NBC, I really thought I heard Lumidee’s “Uh Oh” in the background. Wait, I did? Oh man, that’s crazy.
1. I went to a poetry workshop today, again sponsored by the Acentos Poetry Foundation. While I’d be remiss to mention the moderator’s name, I have to say that this: I didn’t like the workshop at all. Not one bit. This isn’t a reflection on the heads of the org as much as it is on the moderator, who I felt didn’t prepare very well for the people there. I’m not very demanding of my environment much, but I do know that I was really disappointed with what seemed like a lack of preparation on his end, and even a slight disrespect of the level that the writers were at. I’ll go on once I wrap my mind around it because I’d rather not be a hater in this space. But I’m trippin’ because I KNOW what a workshop would look like.
What happened today there was akin to me coming into a classroom with just a worksheet and saying, “Work on this for an hour.” Even as a volunteer, my ass would be outta there so fast …
Jose, who’s not just caught up in the moment right?
