Posts from — March 2007

I’m going to Detroit, and of course, I’ll post pictures when I come back from my excursion. Some food for thought, though:

Over the last week, I’ve been grading math state exams for the region (region = Upper Manhattan / Bronx), and it’s been nothing short of frustrating. While we found that many of the classes prepared their classes well for the exam, we also found an alarming set of kids that didn’t know what they were doing. What’s more, some of them refused to take the test mainly because they were being subjected to a standard they had no control over. It’s a frustrating double standard we hold kids like that to.

This discussion didn’t even come from the student himself, but from the teachers grading the kid. I thought to myself today just how many people need to see teachers grading other schools’ exams. We can hear the applause when a kid gets a perfect score on the exam, the snaps and the oohs when the kid comes a few points close to perfect, and the sighs when they’re closer to zero.

That sort of realization is painful for teachers who care (and despite what some of your experiences might have been, 95% of the teachers in that testing room care deeply about the students they see). This random sample of teaching asked to grade these exams have countless stories about their kids, and how at every stage of their career, the kids came first, even when they were at their most violent.

I know this is a very pro-teacher blog, but honestly, there aren’t enough. I’m just doing my job. Wish me luck, my people, and peace …

jose, who’s ready to throw some d’s on it …

“Season’s Change” (first draft, so don’t bite me) © Jose Vilson 2007

The buds blossom on trees still covered with frost
The calendar tells us to switch modalities
To warm weather and less layers on our person
Yet, she lays there in her puffy coat
In the middle of the world’s great metropolis
With her eyes to the sky
Her fingers on her left hand caressing a little black book
The other hand held tightly onto a plastic, ivory-colored rosary
Her woolen black hair mops up her stress-wrinkled face
She collapses on the grass next to dying leaves
Rolling her eyes back as mental images of her childhood illuminate the screen behind her eyelids
Eating Apple Jacks while her mother fixed her school uniform or
Fernando Villalona playing on those Saturday afternoons with the smell of salchichones and platanos
Her brother running around with his Transformer and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys
Singing the theme songs in tune with how a 5-year old should sound
In a little apartment building on Sherman and Vermilyea
She’s now restless on her patch of grass when reminiscing about her own past
She yearns for the true love she once felt outside of that apartment building with the man
The seed-bearer that would transform her body for 3 months
Her uterus now a uninhabited vessel
She was christened as an adult once she made that decision
Now she beckons her that child back
Not the one she once carried in her womb
But the one she once carried in her heart
In one false act of sincerity, she’s a season removed from a beautiful growth,
and a part of a season ill-conceived …

Today, I could start off with an anecdote about a kid whose own inner complexities make her sensitive and bossy, sweet yet callous enough to steal and discard without remorse, mature on one end of the spectrum, yet too involved in her own sense of power over meeker beings to understand how she negatively affects others.

Then, that means I’d have to go into the frustrations I feel as a teacher towards these constant contradictions, and their negative effects on the classroom. More so, I’d have to get into her own rather suspect relationships with friends, family members, and former sexual partners. Then, I’d also have to go into how she and the educational system continue to fail each other on so many levels. All these events tie into how this girl is at a crossroads of her life where someone can more easily and readily help her see another way of living or she could become another negative statistic about Latina women in this country.

These and many more narratives explain why my job becomes more than just an 8-3. If we took an honest look at the teaching profession (unlike the current administration for NYC), we would see that it takes more than a master’s degree to make a classroom work. A real worker in any field is hard to come by, when, even in education, one can bypass the practically necessary prerequisites of true field experience and earned credentials through nepotism and a quasi-oligarchic system reminiscent of an all-boys club.

There aren’t any rubrics for how to tell a kid who’s getting abused at home to be quiet and do their work. There isn’t a bulletin board in the world that helps these kids learn how to cope with their constant social pressures. There aren’t many lesson plans that have an objective that states, “We will be able to increase the population of Black and Latino youth in higher levels of education” or at the very least ” … become better citizens in our community.”

Any real teacher can tell you what positions belong on their resumes:

Teacher
Parent
Brother / Sister
Friend
Disciplinarian
Strategist
Secretary
Babysitter
Counselor
Activist
Inspirational Speaker
Community Icon

When the scribes write the books about teachers, though, they might use the word teacher derisively, and may use the adjectives, “greedy,” “self-serving,” “pompous,” and “ungrateful.” When people ask those very scribes to go into the classroom themselves, they go back to their quills and caves and continue bashing teachers with these same adjectives.

jose, who believes instruction and classroom management belong on the top part of the educational priority list and that bulletin boards belong somewhere next to whether a kid should go to the bathroom or whether there’s enough chalk for that day’s lesson

As a poet, I often have a hard time coming up with something to write about. For those of you who know me well, you’re probably snickering since I’ve practically filled up my little notepads and 3-month old MoleSkine and constantly write on 3 different Internet venues. Yet, I can’t sit here and tell you that I’m a well of words. The problem isn’t writing about randomness; if that was my objective, I’d have a whole world of experience to fall back on.

Instead, I want to do something different from what I’ve seen in poetry. A couple of weeks ago, I went to Tribes on 3rd and Ave. C to hear, among other women poets, Tara Betts, who I’ve reached out to every so often for poetry advice. Anyways, she read a poem inspired by a survey a friend handed her. The “survey poem” outlined many of the (mostly negative) stereotypes that she’s seen in the poetry scene, and I thought it was an awesome reflection of the stagnant poetry coming out these days.

I personally have more experience with the performance poetry crowd, and it’s gotten so bad that now every poem sounds like an Amiri, Saul, or an Audre remake. While those just learning any craft have to imitate their inspirations, they also need to grow into their identity (read: stop biting!).

I live but a few blocks away from many of the great poetry spots in New York City (The Nuyorican, The Bowery, and Bar 13), and I still have an aversion to going to the shows to watch people talk about:

- how bad hip-hop music has become (when they’re contributing to the dilution of poetry as a whole)

- the latest on Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears, George W. Bush, or anyone else that’ll make the poet sound revolutionary or non-conformist

- the names and quotes of MLK, Malcolm, 2Pac, Rosa, Angela, Maya, or anyone else that’s associated with true Black leadership for the same reasons as the last point

- how to make a slam poem (you can’t slam slam poetry by making a slam poem)

- how well or badly some sexual partner performed oral sex on the poet

- a random assortment of words that combines the last few topics together with a ton of words no one understands or even why the poet put them together in the same verse, but people call them “lyrical” so it’s hot anyways :: snickers::

That’s a small list, yet similar to drugs, women, and money in popular rap music, too many of the poets these days harp on these subjects, so I rarely go to the poetry spots anymore unless I want to perform. I always see myself up against what I see within the poetry scene as well as my own writing.

Speaking of which, apparently, I might be twice published by the end of the year (as in through books, because I have a good web presence as is). I’ll let you all know.

Mi gente, paz …

jose

Law #27 in Robert Greene’s 48 Laws of Power states:

“Play on People’s Need to Believe to Create a Cultlike Following”

Yesterday, Maná demonstrated that law in Madison Square Garden, the world’s most famous arena. Before the show, I heard about the band from most of my Central and South American friends, who absolutely love the band. When I first heard their songs, I thought they were OK, but not spectacular. Little did I know that this Mexican band would embody so much of what Latin American youth look for in a true rock band: a great live performance, songs they can sing along to, and a message of hope in a time of despair for Latinos in this country as well as across the world. 

Before I even got near the Garden, I saw hordes of fans from far and wide who wanted to just get a glimpse of the men on stage. Most of the women dressed very well and the men did likewise. Flags waved all over the crowd from Mexico to Dominican Republic, and this sea of colors only made the event that much more exciting. Even my friends couldn’t contain their screams for the band that created some of their favorite songs.

Essentially, I was floored by their performance, despite my weariness from a long day at the job. I didn’t know most of the songs (except for “Labios Compartidos,” a #1 hit on the Billboards), but I understood how deeply they touched the people in front of them. I would even say it was a religious experience. Maná performed as if MSG would be their best performance, and the crowd responded accordingly.

This most certainly makes me a convert, so I apologize to the Maná fans that tried to convert me earlier. I had never been to a sermon before ;-).

jose

p.s. - I thought about Maná’s name and while the definition they intended is “Supernatural Force” (hence the title of the blog), I also thought about how phonetically, it also sounds like “manna”, as in the food that miraculously appeared to the Isrealites in the desert in the Bible. Interesante. So when I first saw their name, I thought they meant “food for the people,” which I definitely saw last night.

This morning, after waking up from a much-needed hangover-induced nap, I decided to make my rounds on the Internets. I got to AM’s blog and came upon one post in particular that I loved. It was Taylor Mali’s performance of “What Teachers Make”, a poem about the difference between a corporate 9-5 job and working in the K-12 educational system.

Naturally, I loved the subject matter and the poem itself, because every good teacher knows how much of their person they extend to these kids; even more so, they go above and beyond their pay to provide something for them, whether it’s inspiration, supplies, or a much needed wake-up call.

I bring this up because yesterday, I went to a leadership meeting as a guest speaker at my school. Apparently, when asked who the kids thought was a leader, but that wasn’t famous, a good portion of them chose me. Naturally, I’m humbled by the selection; this is not to say I didn’t expect that I made some effect on the kids, but honestly, I’m really into my job.

The counselor who organizes the meetings handed me questions that the kids asked me, and I laughed, mainly because they were so … boring. They weren’t used to asking real questions that mattered; that comes with age / maturity. So I wrote some notes down before the meeting that I thought would be critical in the kids’ understanding of what it takes to be a leader, and how I arrived where I am now.

I told them the story of the young, Black/Latino male making his way through the hood but turning right around and making a difference in another hood. I told them the struggles I went through to get there, and how, through places like the Nativity Mission School, I became the man I am today. I told them how the ideas of service and generosity always make the best leaders. The first question that came from these kids?

“Mr. Vilson, what’s your age?”

I stood befuddled. Then I remembered that these kids couldn’t see past the more shallow topics, which only meant one thing; I had to stop being polite and start getting gangsta. As soon as I made it plainly aware that I wouldn’t answer the more personal questions, the 8th graders stepped up and asked serious questions that I hoped I could expound on.

That’s when I realized what it meant to be a real teacher. We discussed everything from basketball, music, the n-word, Dominican and Haitian relations, the Iraq war, my poetry, and who they thought I could most relate to as a student in the school. It was probably one of my happiest and proudest moments as a teacher; giving these kids the wisdom I wished to impart on them when they were in my classroom. And what’s more, it was the first time in a few days I had a room full of kids in complete silence. Ahhh …

What’s more, though, it helped me realize why I put up with everything I do, day in and day out. I care a lot about the kids and how well they do despite themselves and their environments. Everyday is a chance to start something new and break a trend that’s held Blacks and Latinos back. Here’s hoping I continue to remember moments like these when times get rough …

jose, signing off

I don’t often post about my job, mainly because I don’t need to hear the feedback about my posts through administrators or, for shame, my own students. However, a pressing matter that concerns me (and has for the last two years) is how we as educators and current society bearers turn “our” children into men and women of character. Unfortunately, the future of our kids looks bleak in comparison to kids from past generations. Except the late 80’s a.k.a. the First Crack Era.

It scares me that these children would rather rely on the instability of gangs versus the chance to better understand the world around them through a viable and honest education. Of course, I already have my reservations about the people in charge of our educational system, but on a more immediate level, the set of teachers my kids have are exceptional human beings.

We often discuss how best we can motivate some of our kids on an individual basis. Some of the factors affecting our ability to reach them including their family situation, their environment, and their educational disposition (or history). Most of that we have no control over, and like a combination lock, we’re all searching for the set of numbers that will open these kids up to new ideas. What’s even more problematic is when we have unlocked a kid, we have to find a way to keep the door open while unlocking the next kid.

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Last week, I was asked to speak to a leadership club in my school about a variety of topics, one of which I’m sure includes why I decided to become a teacher. While I’m completely honored by this selection, my present dilemma of how to inspire this generation of kids has me in a similar predicament to the chicken and the egg. Which came first when I taught: my need to teach the kids or the need to inspire them to become better people?

jose, the educator indeed

*** I thought maybe some of my readers wouldn’t know some of this number theory I’m presenting here with this poem. Basically, the fundamental theorem of arithmetic states that for any number greater than or equal to 2, one can rewrite that number as a product of a unique set of primes. While our lives aren’t exactly like this fundamental theorem, the following is based off this idea.***

“The Divisibility Theorem” by Jose Vilson 2007 ©

Life is divisible by a set of infinitesimal moments
Broken up definitely by a unique set of primes
Makes our lives similar in structure to everyone
But individualized from everyone else’s
Those moments between the first part of one’s scalp
Exiting our mothers’ wombs
To our departure from our Earthly vessel
From the first time you had your underwear put on for you
Until you become someone who can pull up your own breeches
From the time someone becomes responsible for us
To the time we become the standard-bearers in our society
And all points in between
The first kiss, and the subsequent ones from our one or maybe multiple lovers
Of our being
The first anniversary of our birth,
our commitment to one,
our greatest achievements
The accomplishments and praise thrown our way
The awards and graduations we use to measure our life’s successes
The little acknowledgments we receive from those who quietly cheer us on
The pain and hurt from the everyday struggle
The hurtful remarks and actions towards one another
The disasters and catastrophes affecting our personal lives
Within a world so satiated with enduring visions of living beings
Passing on past this world and consequently past us
And that one moment when you realize that your life is divisible into those moments
And the resulting ones when you build on your newfound theory …