Many of you have already read this story, but for those of you who haven't, it is about my being the mom of a privileged (now 9 year old) daughter, and my being an art teacher at a low income public school in Madison, WI. Although the public school teacher identity doesn't apply to me currently here in Mexico, I am faced with many of the same issues because many of the children that I come in contact with come from low income families. What I have learned by living here, though, is that many of the people don't have much in terms of money and things, but what they are rich in is
spirit. I feel that we, as Americans, have a great deal to learn from people in developing countries in terms of the beauty of the simple things in life, and simply enjoying being in the present moment and prioritizing relationships with people over work and things.
I thought I'd post this story on the blog because in many ways it does apply to my experience here in Mexico too. It's a different story here, but similar in many ways...
_________YELLOW FLOWERS____________
When I was a little girl I dreamt of rocking my baby in a rocking chair. Back and forth, calm, not a worry in the world. When I grew up, I became a teacher first—and then a mom. I had no idea it would be so hard to try make sense of those two worlds.
Walking down the streets of NYC as a kid, I passed a homeless man laying over the sidewalk grate wrapped in a blanket so old that the fluffy white stuffing was coming through the seams. I hesitated. I couldn’t keep walking, although the people around me marched on. I was taught in my Jewish tradition about tikkun olam, or repairing the world, and that stuck.
I guess it’s no coincidence that I ended up teaching art at an elementary school here in Madison that is filled with kids who are at or below the poverty level, about equal proportions of African American, Hispanic, and White.
My students seem to open up to me in the creative environment of the art room. As they press clay through their fingers, or contemplate where their next brush stroke will be, an emotional fountain opens and they begin to TALK.
One of the things I love to do with my daughter in the spring is count how many yellow flowers we see on our walks. I can imagine her recounting the tale to her art teacher.
My students talk a lot about their lives, too. One African American girl wept in the corner as she told me that her dad was in jail ‘til she was 18, and he was far away so she barely ever sees him. My eyes swelled with tears as she tried to get words out through her own. I can envision the kid’s I teach pulling at their dad’s pants legs as their little bodies wail on the floor in a crying fit ‘cause the jail guard has blown the whistle which lets them know that visiting time is up.
A colleague told me to keep three kindergarten boys in for recess because they spent art class punching each other, kicking, screaming, and throwing chairs. Instead of having them sit with their heads down, I asked if they heard how absolutely fabulous they were from anyone today. They looked at me like I was crazy.
I asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up. Two said cops and the third, a jail guard. I got a picture of what many of my students experience walking down the streets of their neighborhoods. They’re not counting yellow flowers, but admiring the cop who drives slowly by every 15 minutes. He’s looking pretty good—he’s in charge.
Not in a million years would my daughter have chosen one of these professions. She wants to be a “pop star”. I told the boys that I believed they could be anything they wanted to be. But they first need to believe in themselves. As they left, they gave me full body hugs.
Another boy talks about what it was like living in the homeless shelter; how he had to leave most of his stuff behind and how he couldn’t sleep at night because it was so loud. My daughter has mentioned how scared she gets at night sleeping in her own room ‘cause it’s so quiet. I’ve played soothing music to keep her monsters away, but they’re obviously very different than Marcus’s monsters that he’s experienced in the shelter.
I also have a hard time saying “no” to my daughter, or clearing her room of so many toys and books that it’s hard to decide what she can play with.
I see kid’s heading out to the playground at school on frigid cold days with coats that their little bodies are lost in ‘cause they’re way too big. My daughter has always had a warm coat, mittens, hat, snow pants, and boots that fit her each winter.
My daughter goes to school most days with a sandwich on organic, whole grain bread, an apple (not too big that her hands can’t fit around it), and a fruit leather. I know many of the kids I teach eat chocolate bars for breakfast on the weekend, when they don’t get breakfast at school.
Some kids fall asleep in my classroom ‘cause they’re sleeping on the floor of a living room with a drunk boyfriend of mom's walking around them all night. In contrast, I feel guilty if I don’t have time to stop at the co-op for organic milk and instead, buy milk at the Stop-N-Go, when I know Coke is a staple in many of my kid’s diets.
Last year, a 2nd grade girl (same age as my daughter) greets me with open arms and says, “Ms. Wilson, can I have a hug? My sister was just shot and killed. And my cousin was with her and was also killed.” She wore a black t-shirt with the words “rest in peace” with their names and photos of her sister’s and cousin’s faces.
My daughter has her own frequent flyer accounts. Most of the kids I teach can only imagine what it’s like to fly in a plane from movies they’ve seen.
Many of the five year olds I teach come to school not knowing the alphabet. We’ve recited the alphabet to our daughter practically since the day she was born. If I were a single mom working two jobs to make ends meet, could I come home at night and read to my kid?
This year, I reached a 4th grade boy. He comes from the south side of Chicago. His single mom wanted a better life for him and his sister so they moved to Madison. He’d act out, stomp around the room, mess with the other kids, but when he got that I cared about him in spite of his anger, he showed me a sweet smile and let me know that he wanted to learn from me.
One day I had to ask him to sit in the hallway because he was disrupting the class. We talked and I told him he could draw in the hall. He drew a picture of the two of us as stick figures with voice bubbles. In the picture, I said “Try your best.” He said, “I can’t,” and in reply, mine said, “I know you can.”
His family suddenly moved mid-year. Were they evicted for not paying rent? I don’t know.
I’m going to give his mom a call and see if I can take him downtown with my daughter one Saturday morning, just to be together… to talk, to laugh, to walk, maybe count yellow flowers as we walk; just to be together… And perhaps, with both of them, not a worry in the world.
