Where Vivid Narratives Live

I can clearly remember  back in 1988 when I was 17 and knew that I knew EVERYTHING. I’d skated through high school without having to study, had filled out my college applications by myself and was accepted to all three choices by October of my senior year because, after all, those colleges could see from my transcript, recommendations, and essays that I knew it all.

Even when I graced the campus of The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill with my presence and struggled with calculus and history, those experiences didn’t shake my firmly held belief that I knew EVERYTHING. Those were just two things that were boring anyway; so not really worth knowing. I had a less than stellar GPA, but I knew I could better if I’d wanted to. I was too preoccupied with newfound freedom away from my strict parents.

As a senior at the start of my spring semester, I finally acknowledged that this sweet  college life was about to end. I’d have to make a decision: either go to grad school or get a job. Instead, I became a Peace Corps Volunteer. One of my older sisters had the bright idea to organize a going away party and advertise the things that I needed on my packing list. I focused solely on those material items without once reading more about Tanzania or Swahili beyond the information that was given to me in my orientation packet.

I figured, with two months of training, I’d be all set with the language and besides, I was smart, adventurous and well-educated. I hit Tanzania like a typical wide-eyed tourist from a developed country. I was initially enthralled by the beauty of the country and the friendliness of the people. Even the exotic infrastructure of contaminated tap water, intermittent electricity, quasi-toilets and crater-sized potholes amused me.

And the ignorant questions Tanzanians asked me because I happened to be black: Did you come to Tanzania because of that Eddie Murphy movie, “Coming to America”? Do you know Michael Jackson? Which one of your parents is white?

Now that last question, I thought was the strangest of all, since although I’m light skinned, both of my parents are black. I firmly told any Tanzanian who cared to ask, but it seemed to be a national concern since among the things delighted Tanzanian children would yell at me when they saw me walking by was “half-casti” or “half-caste.” Just how many half-caste people had there been in Tanzania for young kids to know that English-derived taunt? (Nearly twenty years later, I finally asked my mother who was the white person in our family tree and it turned out to be my great-great grandfather. Since that was during slavery times, we don’t know if the encounter was a result of sanctioned rape or forbidden romance. So in conclusion, I’m 1/16th white, which means that I’m STILL 100% black.)

Just as I was entering stage two of culture shock where the mental walls started to cave in and everything foreign to me became frustrating, the first crack in my arrogant shield appeared. As Tanzanian after Tanzanian tried to engage me into a political conversation about the United States, I was at a loss for words. This was more than me not taking a general interest in politics. I couldn’t even talk much about American history. The average educated Tanzanian knew far more about American history and geography than I ever cared to know.  For the first time in my life, I was embarrassed about how little I knew about EVERYTHING.

I’d grown up in the land of plenty, but it was mostly material things and pop culture with very little substance.  I’d received the perfect Cold War education: heavy on math, science, and literacy. Those fluffy subjects such as PE, art, foreign language and history were just there to make me more well-rounded.

Tanzania was my first experience with working abroad. Since then, I’ve worked and traveled in several different countries and I’ve read as much as I could to prepare myself before living/traveling in each prospective country. Now  I’m painfully aware that there’s more information about more things than I can possibly read about or experience during my lifetime.

For all my research, travel and varied experiences, I look back and laugh at that arrogant 17-year old I used to be. Every day, I’m reminded of something I don’t know, but can quickly look up on some reputable websites. And I’m humbled everytime I attend trivia night at a local bar. I proudly boast to my team in advance that my best contribution will be giving the team a name. The best team name I’ve come up with so far is “The Cocaine Spiders,” which describes how my best effort to braid a capoeira belt looked like a spider on cocaine trying to spin a web. The team name was a hit and another teammate came up with a little move to go with it. Just put your hands beside your ears and wiggle your fingers.

No trivia team I’ve ever been a part of has won first place. My 17-year-old self would scoff in contempt within the safe confines of her big happy, ignorant bubble.

Similar to other martial art traditions, capoeira has a ranking system that is color-coded. Instead of using belts, we use cordas (cords or rope). With the first group that I trained capoeira, we used undyed rope as our cordas. As capoeiristas advanced, the rope was dyed to reflect the skill level.

With the group I train with now, the cordas are braided using several strands of yarn, which are divided into four equal parts. I must admit, I originally thought that I’d have no problem picking up the technique since I know how to braid hair. Ha! That may have caused me more trouble. During our corda-making workshop, I undid my pitiful-looking corda, which reminded me of the picture in my high school Biology book of how badly a spider spins a web when on cocaine. The other capoeiristas eventually got the hang of it and advanced.

I didn’t mind being the slow kid in class since I’ve had other successes in life and realistically knew that I wasn’t going to catch on to every new skill quickly. As a matter of fact, right beside me, was the whiz kid of corda-making and he completed one and a half  cordas by the end of the night to my one fourth of a corda.

The best part of the workshop for me was when the capoeirista who was teaching us sat down beside me and had me mimick exactly what she did. Turned out, I was making it more complicated than it needed to be. I took my unfinished corda home with the promise of completing it. The ironic thing about the entire evening is that I had requested the workshop and turned out to be the least talented at it.

Here I go again, making another analogy between capoeira and life, but it’s one of the ways that I analyze my current situation. As I contemplate a change in career, I have taken an inventory of the skills that I have, but more importantly of the skills that I lack and want to acquire. I realize that any new career that I embrace, I have to start at the entry level. The trade off for me is the opportunity to learn a new set of skills. I may not catch on quickly, but with the right mentor to guide me, my desire to learn will see me through any learning curve.

For a change of pace, I met a small group of people at a park in Georgetown for “camping.”  Granted, we were at a campsite and even had a beautiful view of the lake, but none of us had brought tents, much less sleeping bags. We had food to share, plenty of drinks and a surprising amount of chopped wood for the campfire.

I had originally planned to leave at dusk so I could take advantage of the fleeting sunlight to help guide me out of the park, but I was enticed by the beauty and warmth of the fire. As conversation swirled around me amongst my companions, I stared at the lively flames and mediated.

At one point, an unbelievably huge tree stump was ungracefully plopped into the fire and I witnessed the bark burn away followed by steam, unlike the smoke of burning wood, the steam arose from the wetness of a light drizzle earlier that day.  From my perspective, the stump appeared to be smoldering from within.

Just the night before, I’d been seized by a poetry attack  and had written a series of haikus; so I was not surprised to find myself in a philosophical state. I related the burning of the bark to the shedding of outer appearances and the smoldering as the passion from within rising to the surface. Again, as I’ve asked myself many times in the past couple of years, “What can I do differently to be fulfilled?”

I’ve been short-changing myself for a while and like the lively flames, I’ve been in motion the whole time. My energy consumed, my ashes environmentally disposed of, but like all machines, not all of my energy has been used for productive work. Some has been lost into the atmosphere. Some has been inefficiently used for dead-end pursuits. Some has been drained in order to satisfy others. When I reflect on the amount of my potential energy that has been used for pursuing my own happiness, I’m still optimistic that I’ve at least attempted to do my heart’s desire–all with varying degrees of success.

What remains, what the fire reminded me of, was a lesson that I’ve been aware of, but not completely learned. My fire, which fuels my passion, needs to burn away the illusions. I’m still trapped by the illusion of not being free. Everyone has limitations, which are human attributes. Yet, I’ve become too caught up in the daily grind of work and my busybody social life to mediate on what are my actual limitations and what are the limits other people have put upon me. I have allowed some people to toss me into their own fire pit because they are well aware of how much energy I have to offer.

Yet, lively fires such as mine have sparks that can burn as much as the flame itself. The greatest fires consume a lot of oxygen and leave the room breathless. Fires cleanse, leaving an area fertile for the germination of the next fruits. Fires can warm you, burn you, cook your food or destroy it. Fires command respect.

I’m thankful for that campfire for reminding me of the power I have to transform my situation.

Nearly two years ago, I joined a professional writing group, which had the main objective of fostering the talents of writers who were serious about persuing a romance writing career. My first novel, Tribe of One, is about 30-something, single, Black woman looking for Mr. Right; so I thought perhaps I was a budding romance writer.

I learned a lot about craft, the publishing industry, agents, filing taxes as a small business and many other things that I had been previously ignorant about. Each month, I’ve eagerly looked forward to every meeting (and so far, I’ve not missed a single one!) because I always walk away more informed than when I came.

A few months ago, I entered my current work-in-progress (WIP), The Adventures of Infinity and Negativa, into three different contests, all sponsored by various chapters of the professional writing group of which I was a member. My scores were in no danger of winning, as I knew they would not be. I’d only entered them for the critiques that I’d receive. The most hostile judges’ opinions were the best.

All the critiques about punctuation, grammar and the such I can pay a professional editor to help me clear up. The most hostile contest judges helped clarify the biggest obstacle that had produced near writer’s block symptoms: I am not a romance writer. Once that conclusion was brought to my attention, I knew I would not renew my membership. I got a good night’s sleep and woke up knowing exactly what needed to happen to transform Adventures into what it needed to be.

I felt free and rejuvenated. Once I abandoned how I thought the story should be written in order to fit within the romance genre, I dedicated myself to making Adventures into the math-based, action-packed story it is. Thanks to the months of craft that I’ve learned, I see all the errors of fakery that had weakened my WIP.

Some of the most painful revisions have involved deleting several paragraphs in a row. I cheer myself up, knowing that I’m strengthening my WIP by getting rid of what does not belong in the story. Plus, it’s always a good exercise to write up things about the characters so that I know their history even if the reader will never know.

Now, every morning when I sit down to write while drinking my smoothie, my cursor hovers over what will become the day’s casualty that makes room for the additional paragraphs that should be there. Next time I think I’ve come down with writer’s block, I’ll have to take a long look at what I’m attempting to do to make sure it is inline with the story I’m writing. For this latest enlightenment, I thank the two contest judges who hated my unromantic WIP, but thought my writing skills showed promise.

Frederick Douglass believed that with literacy, one would forever be free. So, how is it I, a highly educated and avid reader, have managed to feel trapped?

I just lived through another aniety-filled week where I may have slept well for two nights, but not in a row.  I used to be able to exercise my way through stress, but I believe my middle-aged onset sentiment is causing me to take things, both good and bad, more to heart.

I know the pitfalls of thinking that I can only employ one strategy to remedy a situation. As much as I want to explore my options, I am still  limited by time. I’ve recently changed my schedule in order to do different things, meet new people and have more meaningful conversations with some of my closest friends.

At some point, inspiration hits out of nowhere and I suddenly know how to edit and advance the story that I’m working on. By chance, I hear on the wind an idea that I need to try to improve the event I organize, the Austin Writers Roulette. And I germinate the seed of a creative lesson that I’ll have to find the time to write and by some miracle implement even though I’m behind in going over the scripted lessons and obligatory assessments.

In addition to literacy, I believe creative expansion will help me to be free. As long as my mind can think its way out of situations, then I won’t be trapped for long. The trick is not to simply deliver myself from undesirable circumstances, but to land myself in more fertile grounds.

After teaching public school in Texas for three years, I now realize that although slavery has been outlawed for over a century, it didn’t cease to exist. It merely transformed itself first into the plantation-style management of Texas prisons and then infected the public school system with the implementation of No Child Left Behind in 2001.

Creative, experienced teachers such as myself were deemed no longer qualified to teach subjects we had been teaching for over years if we did not have a university degree in that subject. I managed to escape the initial wrath of NCLB for a few years by accepting a math position at a school in Egypt. After teaching two years there, I taught math and science at two Mexican schools for three years.

By the time I attended another international teaching job fair in February 2006, the NCLB infection had finally spread to foreign private American schools and international schools that were accredited through American agencies. Although the accreditation process is voluntary, schools with the best reputations are accredited to show that their educational program and facilities meet a certain standard, which becomes a matter of public record. In order to charge rich parents top dollar, and pay foreign teachers competitive salaries, private schools outside the States must be accredited and maintain their status.

Therefore, heads of schools and principals were reluctant to interview me for math positions since I was a licensed science teacher who had taught science for only three out of eleven years. Fortunately, I had learned of this bias before going to the job fair and knew to market myself as a HS science teacher.

Although a principal at a school in Colombia had contacted me to schedule an interview for a middle school math position, I had made up my mind to retire from teaching MS since I could not visualize myself going through puberty with middle school students another school year. Nonetheless, I interviewed with that school since I’d only arranged three other interviews–the fewest number of interviews I’d attending international teaching job fairs.

With a tremendous stroke of good luck, the first offer I got was the one I wanted: the IB Biology position at an American school in Honduras. Not only would that position give me current HS science experience, but the school would pay to send me to IB training in New Mexico prior to the upcoming school year. I was in heaven! (Of course, my ego was further inflated by receiving job offers from the other three interviews as well.)

I taught in Honduras for three years during which time, the American economy had started its downward spiral. Yet, after eight years of teaching outside of the States, I was ready to return. Plus, my family had pretty much ordered me back now that we’d just elected our first Black president; so, in their eyes, my self-imposed exile of Dubya’s reign was over.

Realizing that I’d return to the States as a virtual foreigner no matter where I set roots, I researched the best cities for jobs, housing and singles. I narrowed my choices to three cities: Chicago, Boston and Austin. After further research, Austin looked like my best chance to set down roots. I moved to Austin in July 2009 and although I didn’t have a job, I was optimistic and used the unstructured time to work on three paintings in rotation along with three novels.

By mid-August, I started to feel disappointed that I was missing the sweet first week of school when everything was shiny and new. By the middle of that week, I interviewed and accepted a HS science position with the Austin Independent School District. By the end of my first week on the job, I seriously questioned how in the hell I could have overlooked the fact that this wonderful city was a part of Texas.

For the first time in my 14 years of teaching, I did not have the creative freedom to teach the way I wanted. I had to abandon most of the wonderful things that I’d done at other schools, which had made me such a hot commodity in the international teaching market.

To my horror, we science teachers had to use the exact same lessons for 80% of the time, which did not include all the assessments, each with their own acronym. So, for less than 20% of the time, I could teach lessons that I had created or as I referred to it “go off script.” In reality, I hardly ever took the time to write my own lessons since I would not have had the time to use them between the common scripted lessons and the constant pressure to assess the students.

The first year at any new school always puts me in survival mode. So my second year at an AISD HS, things were marginally better. At least I knew all the assessment acronyms. And unlike my first year, I did not have to teach my classes in two different rooms, shared with three other teachers. Although my teaching creativity was still bound by 80% of scripted lessons and invasive assessments, I had the pleasure of decorating my classroom with the cloth from the different countries where I’d taught or traveled through. It was only a small window of freedom, but I took it.

After my second year, I realized that although I felt very controlled, my students were just a technological breath and a few civil liberties away from being enslaved.

Imagine, if you will, a system that regularly judges if students meet a certain standard. If enough students fail to meet the standard, then resources are taken away from a school rather than augmented. With fewer resources and viable alternatives, these students become disenfranchised and eventually find themselves entangled with the judicial system.

Yet kiddie jail is the old model. The new and improved model, which I predict is only a few generations away, won’t need to sequester nonviolent youth. Once the efficiency of the never-ending cycle of assessments improves, resources can be channeled to nurture those youths who have the academic aptitude to succeed while spending less on those who show no promise for higher learning. In this case, higher learning means beyond an elementary education.

Both groups of students can be tracked and when the inevitable happens to the lower tracked students, they can only bargain for shorter incarceration time by agreeing to have a chip implanted. No more ankle bracelets! Chip implantation is the wave of the future. With an embedded chip, the troublesome  youth will no longer be visually stigmatized, but still be monitored.

Before you can say “invasion of privacy,” chip implantation will be touted as the efficient means to keep track of adult criminals, criminalized students and any other undesirables in our society. A few generations will pass and soon, the innocent will also be implanted for their own well-being just like receiving vaccines. At any time, those same chips that keep Americans safe and criminals tracked, can be used to prevent individuals from entering certain places or even crossing borders.

Neo-slavery will not rely on the color of one’s skin, but rather the content of one’s character. And the horror will start from the systemic assessment and data collection of public school students with the system’s arbitrary determination of how high the score must be in order to pass. We’ve already begun the process of putting young people on the auction block. Their collective test scores are reported publicly. The only thing that remains is to evolutionize the old “playground to prison pipeline” into the “crib to chip cyberhighway.”