Sample Entry: Experiences of Diversity
I waited, pacing around this empty square. The bell would soon ring signaling the battle I expect but am not truly prepared to fight. In fact, I didn't come here to fight. I came here to teach, to inspire, to hopefully find a career that will stick.
"Brrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiinnnngggggggggg."
The halls start to fill with noise. It is more like traveling in an angry and dysfunctional Central American town than an American High School as I stand in the doorway, the greeter, listening to an agitated lilting Spanish interjected with English expletives. One by one, teens with their jet-black hair smoothed or spiked with gel, either challenge me with their liquid black eyes or turn them away out of respect or shyness I cannot tell. Some have a deep cinnamon skin, others are paler than I, yet, somehow, it is obvious I am the outsider. In the beginning, a few will be unsure, due to my brown hair and eyes, if I am "one of them." Though most often, as soon as I open my mouth, greeting the class with my American accent, talking "all educated and stuff," I betray myself as the foreigner in this school, just as my rudimentary Spanish gives me away when traveling. The few verbal responses to my attempts to greet the stream of incoming students come back in thick accents my ear is not yet trained to interpret or whispers I can barely hear. A few shout confrontations letting me know immediately that I am not going to be given a chance to prove myself, to be accepted or tolerated; I must fight for it. I should have been in boxing training, not mentoring a teacher, the past six weeks.
The breaks between classes and my interactions with colleagues do not alleviate this sense of being the outsider. In the cafeteria, the workers and my peers also often follow the rule of Spanish first, English second. In meetings, Spanish would often be interjected in conversations, jokes that I would not get or key information unintentionally withheld from me. At other times I would silently sit in meetings as others laughed at the inadequacies of whites trying to negotiate the culture of East Los Angeles.
There was nothing malicious in this alienation. In fact, I liked many of my students and my colleagues. We all became familiar to each other. Yet, I could not change my skin, my blood, my heritage -- all reminders that as to why I am not a part of this community. Perhaps I never could be. I could, however, shift my focus and perspective.
I learned this from travel.
I love to travel, love putting myself in new places with new people. Each time I return I am thrown into a bit of American culture shock -- seeing at times the ugliness, at times the beauty of all we take for granted around us.
Thus, I began to look at my life as one of travel, particularly between East LA and Studio City. In Studio City, a fairly diverse neighborhood, I do blend in more easily: the way I dress, shop, talk, walk, as well as the color of my skin fits here more than in the halls of Garfield High School. Yet, in some ways, I am not completely a member here either: not enough blond, make-up, and plastic surgery. At my church, I am the odd one: single woman who teaches in 'the ghetto,' who travels alone to Belize and Costa Rica, who goes salsa dancing and snowboarding, who is never quite able to completely tow the line of the community philosophy. At my school, I am the odd one: the white teacher who salsa dances, snowboards, is a bit too outspoken and refuses to attach herself to one clique.
I love the diversity of my life.
Shedding labels and differences, I use the same technique I use when overcoming language barriers in travel: we are all just humans and communication is more about understanding our humanity and listening, as a human, than words and grammar. My students are people who cry, hope, fear, risk, hate, and love their way through life, just like I do. From different paths we meet each day at this crossroads, more by obligation than choice, to share experiences the other cannot live. If they do not want to learn from me, at least I can learn from them -- what is it like living as a teenage Latino/a in East Los Angeles, as a teenager in 2007 in the U.S., as a second language learner, as a minority within a minority, as Karla, Rosa, Diego, Arlene, Jose, Glenda, Isai, Luis. From my colleagues, I add to my myriad of friends who offer me new flavors of living and being in this world. I share rooms with teachers who offer a moment of laughter and compassion during the passing periods and lunch with those who share my passion for writing.
As I look at my life, my choices, I notice how I, at times, seek alienation as a means through which I find deeper, truer, more enriching connections-- not connections based on perceived similarities that nail me into a box in which I do not fit, but connections formed from the energy of living with honesty and passion.
"Brrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiinnnngggggggggg."
The halls start to fill with noise. It is more like traveling in an angry and dysfunctional Central American town than an American High School as I stand in the doorway, the greeter, listening to an agitated lilting Spanish interjected with English expletives. One by one, teens with their jet-black hair smoothed or spiked with gel, either challenge me with their liquid black eyes or turn them away out of respect or shyness I cannot tell. Some have a deep cinnamon skin, others are paler than I, yet, somehow, it is obvious I am the outsider. In the beginning, a few will be unsure, due to my brown hair and eyes, if I am "one of them." Though most often, as soon as I open my mouth, greeting the class with my American accent, talking "all educated and stuff," I betray myself as the foreigner in this school, just as my rudimentary Spanish gives me away when traveling. The few verbal responses to my attempts to greet the stream of incoming students come back in thick accents my ear is not yet trained to interpret or whispers I can barely hear. A few shout confrontations letting me know immediately that I am not going to be given a chance to prove myself, to be accepted or tolerated; I must fight for it. I should have been in boxing training, not mentoring a teacher, the past six weeks.
The breaks between classes and my interactions with colleagues do not alleviate this sense of being the outsider. In the cafeteria, the workers and my peers also often follow the rule of Spanish first, English second. In meetings, Spanish would often be interjected in conversations, jokes that I would not get or key information unintentionally withheld from me. At other times I would silently sit in meetings as others laughed at the inadequacies of whites trying to negotiate the culture of East Los Angeles.
There was nothing malicious in this alienation. In fact, I liked many of my students and my colleagues. We all became familiar to each other. Yet, I could not change my skin, my blood, my heritage -- all reminders that as to why I am not a part of this community. Perhaps I never could be. I could, however, shift my focus and perspective.
I learned this from travel.
I love to travel, love putting myself in new places with new people. Each time I return I am thrown into a bit of American culture shock -- seeing at times the ugliness, at times the beauty of all we take for granted around us.
Thus, I began to look at my life as one of travel, particularly between East LA and Studio City. In Studio City, a fairly diverse neighborhood, I do blend in more easily: the way I dress, shop, talk, walk, as well as the color of my skin fits here more than in the halls of Garfield High School. Yet, in some ways, I am not completely a member here either: not enough blond, make-up, and plastic surgery. At my church, I am the odd one: single woman who teaches in 'the ghetto,' who travels alone to Belize and Costa Rica, who goes salsa dancing and snowboarding, who is never quite able to completely tow the line of the community philosophy. At my school, I am the odd one: the white teacher who salsa dances, snowboards, is a bit too outspoken and refuses to attach herself to one clique.
I love the diversity of my life.
Shedding labels and differences, I use the same technique I use when overcoming language barriers in travel: we are all just humans and communication is more about understanding our humanity and listening, as a human, than words and grammar. My students are people who cry, hope, fear, risk, hate, and love their way through life, just like I do. From different paths we meet each day at this crossroads, more by obligation than choice, to share experiences the other cannot live. If they do not want to learn from me, at least I can learn from them -- what is it like living as a teenage Latino/a in East Los Angeles, as a teenager in 2007 in the U.S., as a second language learner, as a minority within a minority, as Karla, Rosa, Diego, Arlene, Jose, Glenda, Isai, Luis. From my colleagues, I add to my myriad of friends who offer me new flavors of living and being in this world. I share rooms with teachers who offer a moment of laughter and compassion during the passing periods and lunch with those who share my passion for writing.
As I look at my life, my choices, I notice how I, at times, seek alienation as a means through which I find deeper, truer, more enriching connections-- not connections based on perceived similarities that nail me into a box in which I do not fit, but connections formed from the energy of living with honesty and passion.
posted by lichee @ 12:27 AM
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