Always Something to Learn
A student recently asked me what a crossroads was, and I must admit that I was stunned. How can people go through even a fraction of their lives without encountering a crossroads that will result in a decisive marker on their journey, hopefully one of many such markers. Or maybe it was just the word, not the concept? I don't know and wish I had asked. It's always best to ask before making conclusions. The question had come from one of my students, Thanh Xuan, from Viet Nam, in my US literature class. This literature class is truly an example of a crossroads where people meet: it's in NYC, Brooklyn, actually; and it is at a university with a student population that is diverse in every sense of the word. In my literature class I have students from the south and from the inner city of the US, and I have students from all over the world. My class is a microcosm of the world: Honduras, India, Guatemala, Jamaica, Haiti, the Ukraine, Russia, Poland, Somalia, China, Mexico, Viet Nam, Panama, West Africa, Syria, Puerto Rico, and god knows where else. And they all work together. They have come to trust each other as they write about the issues raised in our readings and how these issues relate to their own perceptions of life. This is a group of 34, and yet, they have become a community. It is a gift to be there, to be a part of this crossroads, and I think they know it, don't they?
And I wonder, if only...if only everyone had this unique experience to hear so may recognizable differences, and not only coexist, but appreciate our place in this infinite potential of human beings. It is a place I have chosen to be. When I enter this class, it resonates with energy. Students actually come early. Students actually come prepared. Students actually come. I am overwhelmed. It is often not this way with classes. This one is special. I don't believe in coincidences, so there is a purpose underlying this particular class and its composition of motivated individuals. There is something to learn here. This class has become a forum for the exchange of human dialogue through readings and writings. It probably would not be the same if it were a math class, a computer class, a biology class, or any of the major classes of these students who predominately come from the nursing, pharmacy, or business programs within this university. It would have not happened if core English classes weren't required. No way most of them would have elected to be here.
Thanh Xuan is an intelligent young woman. She often verbalizes how special it is to be in this class where she has finally "put down my second face a little bit." She has begun to speak out. Her voice is clear and passionate when she does. So when she asked, "Professor, what does the poet mean by crossroads?" I am surprised. She is aware of the major markers in her life. She has made a conscienous decision to not only come to the US, but to stay and complete her studies, even though she has had to return to Viet Nam twice in less than two years to bury two of her family, and most recently, to say goodbye to her grandmother who had a major stroke a few weeks ago. In an essay called, "The Things I Carry," written after reading Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried," Thanh, (or Helen as she now prefers to be called), wrote about who she is and read it to the whole class. "I decided to show both faces, not just the one that is happy all the time to cover my pain." It is ironic. And we all talk about "faces" and "masks" and fears ...all of us. We all have our stories, and we share this journey called life that is supposed to have a happy ending, but really never does quite measure up to what was promised. We sort through what is real, what is illusion, in this place caled Brooklyn, New York City, United States of America. It is not all what we dreamed it would be or could be, but we have chosen to stay and in doing so, now share the responsibility together as we participate in our "little community of many."
Monique read her essay.What she carries is her fear that her mother will die of the breast cancer she has so valiantly been fighting. "It is a rare, aggressive disease, the doctors say. I do not want to lose her. I do not want to be alone. But she smiles as she goes through radiation and chemotherapy, and she now is in remission."
When she finishes reading, she sighs. It is as if a heaviness has been released, and the class applauds than gently responds. All but Michael, a soon to be professional chemist who cannot hold his agitation still. He blurts out, "You must get her off those poisons immediately." And he launches into a full blown diatribe about how chemotherapy affects DNA and the permanent reprecussions of such. As he continues on, my eyes glaze over. I must not interfere, I must not interfere; but I want to scream, I want to tell him to shut up. I don't. The class ends. Monique is still smiling shyly. Michael is still agitated. The class is warm and comforting in its reluctance to leave.
I am still on chemotherapy. I am probably destroying my DNA since I am sure that Michael does know the chemical effects of toxins. What Michael didn't say which was in his essay that he chose not to read to the class: he lost his mother to cancer; he is alone in the world; he is bound and determined to make a difference through science. He will probably one day find a cure for some dreaded disease, or discover a new way of using pharmaceuticals. What Michael did "say" was emotional, and death and disease are sure emotional issues we all share in our own way. I am a teacher because I still learn from my students. When I stop learning, I must realize I am no longer teaching.
And I wonder, if only...if only everyone had this unique experience to hear so may recognizable differences, and not only coexist, but appreciate our place in this infinite potential of human beings. It is a place I have chosen to be. When I enter this class, it resonates with energy. Students actually come early. Students actually come prepared. Students actually come. I am overwhelmed. It is often not this way with classes. This one is special. I don't believe in coincidences, so there is a purpose underlying this particular class and its composition of motivated individuals. There is something to learn here. This class has become a forum for the exchange of human dialogue through readings and writings. It probably would not be the same if it were a math class, a computer class, a biology class, or any of the major classes of these students who predominately come from the nursing, pharmacy, or business programs within this university. It would have not happened if core English classes weren't required. No way most of them would have elected to be here.
Thanh Xuan is an intelligent young woman. She often verbalizes how special it is to be in this class where she has finally "put down my second face a little bit." She has begun to speak out. Her voice is clear and passionate when she does. So when she asked, "Professor, what does the poet mean by crossroads?" I am surprised. She is aware of the major markers in her life. She has made a conscienous decision to not only come to the US, but to stay and complete her studies, even though she has had to return to Viet Nam twice in less than two years to bury two of her family, and most recently, to say goodbye to her grandmother who had a major stroke a few weeks ago. In an essay called, "The Things I Carry," written after reading Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried," Thanh, (or Helen as she now prefers to be called), wrote about who she is and read it to the whole class. "I decided to show both faces, not just the one that is happy all the time to cover my pain." It is ironic. And we all talk about "faces" and "masks" and fears ...all of us. We all have our stories, and we share this journey called life that is supposed to have a happy ending, but really never does quite measure up to what was promised. We sort through what is real, what is illusion, in this place caled Brooklyn, New York City, United States of America. It is not all what we dreamed it would be or could be, but we have chosen to stay and in doing so, now share the responsibility together as we participate in our "little community of many."
Monique read her essay.What she carries is her fear that her mother will die of the breast cancer she has so valiantly been fighting. "It is a rare, aggressive disease, the doctors say. I do not want to lose her. I do not want to be alone. But she smiles as she goes through radiation and chemotherapy, and she now is in remission."
When she finishes reading, she sighs. It is as if a heaviness has been released, and the class applauds than gently responds. All but Michael, a soon to be professional chemist who cannot hold his agitation still. He blurts out, "You must get her off those poisons immediately." And he launches into a full blown diatribe about how chemotherapy affects DNA and the permanent reprecussions of such. As he continues on, my eyes glaze over. I must not interfere, I must not interfere; but I want to scream, I want to tell him to shut up. I don't. The class ends. Monique is still smiling shyly. Michael is still agitated. The class is warm and comforting in its reluctance to leave.
I am still on chemotherapy. I am probably destroying my DNA since I am sure that Michael does know the chemical effects of toxins. What Michael didn't say which was in his essay that he chose not to read to the class: he lost his mother to cancer; he is alone in the world; he is bound and determined to make a difference through science. He will probably one day find a cure for some dreaded disease, or discover a new way of using pharmaceuticals. What Michael did "say" was emotional, and death and disease are sure emotional issues we all share in our own way. I am a teacher because I still learn from my students. When I stop learning, I must realize I am no longer teaching.
posted by AYankee @ 3:52 PM
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