Autobiographical 1 - an investigation as to the cause...

An average, everyday stroll would bring this sight as the closing crescendo to the symphony that is normal life in St. Petersburg

So far we have looked at the now and the adventures of the recent past; this is a look back, way back, if you will indulge me in my composition of an autobiographically focused look at immigration and refugeeism. This is only a rough draft of the start of chapter 1, the introduction I posted in:
http://blacktop-blackboard.blogspot.com/2010/02/journeys-with-no-end.html
is the opening to this collection of writing.

Untitled 1 - Autobiographical Investigation

It seemed the brightest day in memory; buildings aglow with that ever-fleeting sub-Arctic sun –blues, yellows, raspberry reds… the waters of the Neva glittering happily, refreshed after days of nothing but the gray of clouds to reflect. Yet the room seemed empty, cold, devoid of light and joy – it embodied a sense of “gray”. The walls were bare, as was the bed and the kitchen counter. We were lucky, we had our own kitchenette; though I don’t recall having our own bathroom, I did much of my pooping in a plastic toilet placed in the middle of our one room apartment whenever I had the need, so I did not pay much attention to the lack of facilities. One room, one happy room for my mother, grandmother, grandfather and myself to share; never cramped, never annoying, never intolerable… just happy.

After two years, of which I do not recall anything, my grandfather passed away leaving us an “abundance” of extra space. I don’t remember how he loved me, I don’t remember the soft of his long beard, the twinkle in his honest smile, the pain and tears he caused my grandmother (by way of a trait I would eventually inherit). All I remember is that there was no constant male presence in my life for the first 8 years, then a distant, strained and ill-fated one for the next 14. My grandmother did her best to make up for that, I am not sure whether intentionally, by representing the communist ideal 24 hours a day. Up at 6am to sing the national anthem along with the radio (I loved that part), then a breakfast of oatmeal or buckwheat, then to walking outdoors, learning to read, learning math, riding a bike… there will be no idleness! If ever I would exhibit my, now well developed and embraced, sense of laziness, there would be the callused from 40 years in a factory hand to remind me of my duty as a young commy to never commit the sin of idleness (or religion or democracy or the desire for justice).

“you don’t want to read? Well, one who has not put in a days work does not deserve bubbly water. You will still swim in the freezing waters of the Black Sea, but not for fun, only for your health, then we will go home without staying at the beach so that you can think about and consider perhaps learning to read sometime before your 4th birthday”

“but babushka, I love bubbly water, I will read tomorrow, I promise! I really want it! I really love it!”

“do I have to repeat myself?”

My ass already felt the kinetic potential of a hand that never required a belt to be effective.

“no”.

I am no child prodigy, but I learned to speak, read, multiply and use a toilet before Einstein knew how to wipe his own ass. This is no credit to me, but to the lack of options which abounded my life. I don’t recall having any animosity towards this lack however (I was after-all a good soviet boy), I was happy in my simplicity, in my handful of toys, handful of clothes and handful of food options. I sought only the smile from my mother, the lack of woopin from my grandmother and the occasions when my mothers friends would gather and I would be witness to a congeniality and love that I have since after craved – needed – yet was never able to find. Sitting under the tables laden sparingly, but what seemed bountifully, encircled by doctors, engineers, scientists, actors, writers and directors; aglow with love and respect and creativity and friendship; I would bask in the emanating warmth, laugh at the jokes I could understand, follow the stories and the poems and the songs often written for just that occasion – a dinner with friends.

Though we were poor I knew no hardship, in part because I did not desire anything that my mother would have to tell me we could not afford, and in part because my mother never revealed our poverty to me. Our lives, as they were, seemed not only the norm but the ideal. My grandmother and I would even go to the Baltic or Black sea for the summer; we would stay with relatives or in small rented rooms, and we knew of no luxury in the traditional sense, but we had plenty of our own – then, fresh fruit and milk and vegetables and bread were a luxury. As simple as it all was it was still beyond what my mother could ever afford (grandmother by then was retired), I did not know at the time, in part because I did not know I had a father or that one was needed in order to conceive me, that my father supported these yearly summer excursions by selling the cases of cognac he would receive for taking patients ahead of the line and those that other doctors were afraid to anesthetize (the beauty of free health care was embodied in the multi-month long line you had to wait for even the simplest procedure).

Books, Leaders and Pants

Manhattan sun, Manhattan youth - her calm and confidence speaks volumes of what can be.

I just spent the early part of my Saturday rummaging through piles and piles of books in a ballroom of a hotel in Manhattan. I enlisted the help of a fellow teacher and together we collected 2 boxes, about 60lbs each, of books. I was not only happy to do it, but I was sad that I did not have more time and access to all the books donated so that I could pick as much as possible for my students. Project Cicero is quite amazing! All this was set up by them and the books were donated from countless sources, for the benefit of teachers (and students) at high needs schools. For two days straight the ballroom will teem with teachers, allowed one hour per person, hungrily snatching up whatever they think may possibly work for their students. It was touching to pause for a minute and observe – the efforts of the volunteers, the generosity of the donors, the selflessness of the teachers giving up their Saturday sleep to do this for their students; it was also a little sad to yet again, in yet another way, be reminded of the great divide. I started watching “Gandhi” today and his story and that of his work touches so closely to what is happening here. Thankfully we do have one law for one country, but it is surely not equally dispensed, and we do have opportunities in abundance, but they certainly are not equally accessible.

It seems we are getting complacent with the amount of progress made by previous generations and are coasting on their success. In the last two decades I, and perhaps I am not the most acute observer and if so I would love to hear your feedback proving me wrong, have not seen a shred of progress towards leveling the playing field for all citizens of this country. We no longer lynch, we no longer hose, we no longer segregate buses, restaurants, schools or theaters, but out failing schools are mostly populated with “minorities”, as are our jails and minimum wage jobs. Where is the leadership and effort? Where are the Black and Latino leaders? Where are the acts that lead to progress? Sometimes I hear angry words, mostly from people who care more about saying them than actually making a lasting difference, but I see no actions. I see organizations like Donorschoose.org and Teach for America and Teaching Fellows and Project Cicero and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation working their asses off, but these are mostly white founded and white ran organizations. Where are the Kings, X’s, Theresa’s, Gandhi’s, Tubman’s, Stanton’s, Park’s, Dessalines’s? Where are those to justify my efforts to my students? Who will say that I am not just another instrument of oppression? With all my good intentions and multi-cultural approach to education and respect I am still a symbol of a discriminating elite (little do they know how broke-ass and culturally oppressed I am – but I look white). Smart kids are still ridiculed and abused. Black teachers are still often seen as puppets of the system (or Oreos). Why?! White nerds are getting more and more tail and respect, while Blacks and Latinos who care about education are getting beat up and emotionally disemboweled. Who passes on the knowledge, the history of slaves risking their lives to learn how to read and write? We have museums and organizations making sure we don’t forget the holocaust so that it will never again be repeated, and we are well aware of these, but where is the secret stash of memorabilia that can remind these kids of the blood and lives lost to not only learn how to read but to give future generations the opportunity to do the same without risk of torture and murder? I am not saying we need to teach more “African-American” authors and artists, nor should we relegate another meaningless month to recognizing the contributions of Americans who happen to be Black. I am saying we need to focus our efforts on exposing the true history of our disenfranchised populations to give them hope and tools to grow, not humor them by reading about MLK in February and then harassing them for sagging their pants.
And I am not talking about leaders who happen to be Black or Latino (Barack Obama) I am talking about leaders of Black and Latino people. As a society we have thankfully progressed to allow politicians into D.C and students into Harvard, but as a community I long to see the Blacks and Latinos embody the spirit of their forefathers.

Any thoughts?