Student Stories: A New Orleans Classroom Chronicle

The Students at the Center community is bidding a few farewells this summer, including one to this blog. Today’s entry is our last, and in it we want to share and explain two of our other farewells: one that’s by choice and one that we feel results from us not having the choice we’d like.

We are happy to report that two of our staff members, both of whom have writings in this blog series, are temporarily leaving us to pursue graduate degrees. Gabrielle Turner has just begun work on a Master’s degree in teaching. She plans to return to New Orleans and teach in public schools and work with Students at the Center about a year from now. Ashley Jones is earning a Master’s degree in English with a concentration on writing for the community at the Bread Loaf Graduate School of English’s summer program. She has also just completed the first semester of her graduate degree in film production. Both of these young ladies developed their interest in writing, media, and teaching as high school students. And their entry into two of the graduate schools has come directly through their affiliation with Students at the Center.

We are not at all happy to report that our community is leaving Frederick Douglass High School, at least temporarily. Our reasons for this move are many, and we will list a few of them below. But most importantly, in this post-Katrina city that many people have described as a laboratory for reforming public education—especially through giving families choices about the schools their children attend—we find ourselves without the choice we want in a school in which to work and to send our children and grandchildren.

As teachers, education workers, students, parents, and grandparents, none of us can choose the school we really want: a neighborhood-based school that provides a well-rounded, community-oriented education for all young people who live in a specific geographic area. The opportunity for such a high school in New Orleans no longer exists.

All public schools in New Orleans now have the entire parish (Louisiana has parishes, not counties) as their attendance boundary.

All Recovery School District schools now have a career theme as the pathway through which students select a school.

And just as important for us, there is a lack of democratic participation in and governance of schools in New Orleans. The policy board for the Recovery School District, which directly governs over one third of the public schools in New Orleans and oversees more than 50% of the charter schools in New Orleans, meets 80 miles from here and has only one member of its 11-member state-wide board elected from New Orleans.

The state takeover and competition models of education governance introduced after Hurricane Katrina have trampled on democracy and equity. Schools now compete for resources (not just funding but also students and board members and buildings) rather than sharing them equitably. And while the over 120 schools that were part of the unified New Orleans Public Schools before Hurricane Katrina accumulated a sizable debt, after Katrina only the five schools remaining under the direct governance of the Orleans Parish School Board are helping to pay down those hundreds of millions of dollars in debt.

Our students are receiving lessons from our adults that their only responsibility is to themselves as individuals and that it is okay to change laws and governance when a majority of the population is away—that it is better to have a few people get together and decide who will govern particular schools rather than to follow the American and democratic tradition of having free and open elections for public positions.

So Students at the Center is saying farewell to Douglass High School, which no longer has the potential to realize the vision that Ashley Jones articulated so well in her essay, “Honoring Community,” that was posted on this blog on April 6, 2008. Instead we will now have specialized high schools where only the people pursuing a particular career path will study together.

All of these developments affirm our resolve to stand by the principles espoused by two important educational organizations that started in the middle of World War I. McDonogh 35 Senior High School, which is run by the local New Orleans Public Schools, will replace Douglass as our sister school to McMain Secondary School. McDonogh 35 started in 1917, filling a gap of over 20 years when black students in New Orleans could not receive a free, public high school education. We stand in the tradition of struggling against any policy group that stands in the way of all students receiving access to high quality, equitable education.

In 1916, teachers in Chicago, most of whom did not have the right to vote in the United States of America despite being citizens of that country, formed the American Federation of Teachers to ensure that teachers would have a voice in providing the best teaching and learning conditions for their students. This teacher union’s original motto was “Democracy in Education; Education for Democracy.” Twenty years later black teachers in New Orleans formed AFT Local 527 to pursue these goals. Our Students at the Center community does not have the choice we want in schools. But we do have a choice in governance model, and we are going with the one that most closely upholds the ideals of democracy and quality education that teachers from New Orleans and across our nation have struggled for during the last 100 years.

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A key feature of SAC work is what students learn as they are in our classes and as they are training to work as staff members. Today’s entries by Naila Campbell, McMain 2008 graduate and emerging staff member, and Alexandra Lear, 2007 McMain graduate and current SAC staff member, illustrate this process. Both essays were written in the three-week workshop for New Orleans Public School teachers, SAC staff, and rising SAC interns that we just completed.

This Summer I Learned To Read
Naila Campbell

I was always a good reader. Once my teachers taught me the art of sounding out a word, I was set. In my reading class, I was always a level or two above the majority of my class. My mama called me “speedy Gonzales” when I would read in front of her. I could read just about anything anybody put in front of me.

This past school year I found out that I could barely read at all. My English IV teacher, Mr. Randels, would give us an average of five or six readings a week. On average, I was able to read maybe one every two weeks. Now, I was able to say the words that were on the paper fairly easily. But this year, I learned that reading was not just about being able to say the words. It was also about being able to understand those words also.

Last summer, I learned what Reciprocal teaching was but this summer I learned the process. I learned to question what I didn’t know. I’ve been given tools to figure out the unknown for myself. I don’t necessarily have to run to someone or something else when I can’t understand. For the past few weeks, I have been learning to read.

In SAC I Learned to Think
Alexandra Lear

As I stare at this blank page, I wonder what else I could be doing today. Thinking, thinking, thinking. . . I could be paying a parking ticket issued by the city of “we want your money” or scheduling classes for the fall semester at the college of “we want you money,” but instead I think I will just sit here and write about how it is a pleasure to be in a room with people who are learning how to better themselves and others through grouping exercises at the high school I graduated from for free.

As I look around the room for a topic to write about I see teachers and students mixed together gathered in sort of a circular seating arrangement writing. Everyone is equally taking part in the process, and I think it is actually putting a smile on my face. Yep, I feel my facial muscles moving in a positive direction. My face has been doing this since I started SAC (Students at the Center) and the summer internship, because before I never knew this type of environment existed.

I was 17 when I first found my voice. I was in a SAC classroom, the melting pot for students who lost their voice under a rock called authority and power of other teachers. Little did I know that these teachers, Kalamu and Jim, were going to be different.

You see I am lazy, so I started off the year as usual: I did the first assignment to see what my new teachers Jim and Kalamu would do to my peers who did not do the assignment. But I quickly found out that it is about what you do and not about what you do not do. If you do not do the work you get an F, but if you fall behind with the papers good luck plus an extra good luck because of the revisions. It was simple. As a lazy person I caught on quick, a little too quick. Since I had written my paper and read the story, I raised my hand, thinking I was going to be discussing the reading materials. But instead I was asked to read my work. My mouth dropped, and my eyes got big. What did I get myself into? This lazy person just got bamboozled; I told them my story was personal and Kalamu asked, “So, what’s personal about it?” I was speechless, so I just looked away from him and at my paper and started reading my personal essay. Then another unexpected wrong turn occurred when I finished reading. “Pick two people to comment,” was all I heard, and I looked up and everybody looked away like we were all negative sides of a magnet. Then I started talking to myself “why I gotta pick two people, not gonna do it, nope I refuse” but all that came out as Audie and Kandyce. It was funny to me but not to them. For some reason I do not think they listened to my story. They both gave a little shrug and said, “I liked it.” Then that oh so popular question came out of Kalamu’s mouth “what did you like about it”? Pause

Those words challenged us to think. Some people accepted this new form of teaching and wanted to learn about what else they could do and some did not. But I was one, like many others, who wanted to experience more that SAC had to offer. We get to travel, attend and speak at conferences, and I learned most of my New Orleans history from being a part of SAC. I love this program. Everybody is treated equally. It is not forced, and everybody interacts with good vibes. SAC is the future, if you ask me.

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Today’s blog features two writings from the three-week workshop in writing, critical pedagogy, and digital media SAC just completed for the New Orleans public school system. A regular feature of SAC work is to work in settings where teachers and students are learning from each other. The pair of writings we share today illustrates that practice.

Ricardo’s essay is a commentary on the SAC workshop and a reading of Janay’s essay. We read and discussed Ricardo’s letter on the last day of the workshop, continuing the recursive dialogue that is central to the SAC approach.

Cold Trane
Janay Barconey

I was placed on the Trane to go to a place that I didn’t want to go to. Full speed ahead to my destination. I was forced to watch my world quickly pass me by. I was alone in this cold car. So I began searching outside through my window for warmth. Then I saw the Sun Ra blazing its warmness not on me but on my window. I then placed my cheek with its deep dimple onto the window, trying desperately to feel some of the heat. I felt some, and it felt good.

I had so many miles ahead of me, that instead of being filled with warmth the whole ride I instead would be gazing upon a full, half, quarter, eighth, or even sixteenth moon. And I’d be once again cold in my cart.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Would you like to have something to eat?” asked a strange lady.
I had seen her patrol the halls like security in a high school. But she rolled around with a cart with food and drinks instead of detention and suspension papers.

“Yes ma’am, I would. So what do you have today?” I asked her trembling and shivering.

“We have turkey and mashed potatoes today. Excuse me ma’am. You can also turn the air on and off in your cart.”

I didn’t know that there was a way to control the air. I had adapted to this situation by falling asleep in the morning with my face pressed against the window. I felt so ignorant, because the information was there. Now that I did know how to control the air, would I keep it on or would I take control and just turn it off.

“Yes ma’am. I would like to have some of the mashed potatoes and turkey.” As my words came out of my mouth, she began to uncover this plate of hot and steamy food. Then she set it on the small wooden table in front of me.

Well, I was hungry and this hot food was just what I needed to fill my appetite. I wasn’t only hungry for food but for the information and the warmth that came from it. I could now be comfortable. I could now ride on this cold Trane, because I could control my environment instead of letting my environment have control over me.

Workshop Reflections
Ricardo Dobles, Andover Bread Loaf Writing Workshop and education professor at Holy Cross College, Worcestor, Massachusetts

Hi Jim,

I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner to share some thoughts with you and the rest of the workshop participants. As I mentioned to the SAC staff members who were kind enough to speak with me for a few minutes, it is an odd feeling to sit back and take notes during a workshop that clearly calls out for hands-on participation…problem posing not banking method! I am not comfortable commenting beyond some simply reflecting on my time in the workshop (I will certainly be happy to share anything I write up more formally at a later date, but right now I am only beginning the process of looking over my notes and the materials you shared with me).

Needless to say, I left the workshop with my head spinning over the many issues that were raised in only the three days that I was there. Of course the discussion on Freire and narration was a very important event in the course of the three days, and for me the issue of narration was set aside but certainly not put to rest. In fact, I was made to think about narration in the piece written by one of the SAC staff members (although I know her name I will not attempt to spell it for fear of being way off). This young woman wrote a largely metaphorical piece that even she admitted not really knowing the motivation behind it. And yet, the piece spoke directly to the conversation that had taken place the day before. In the piece she is on a train and she is cold. She makes due by pressing her face against the window for warmth. Finally a kind employee of the train asks if she is hungry and informs her that she can control the temperature in the cabin. I think anyone in the workshop would recall the piece to which I am referring.

When I first heard the piece, I was impressed with the use of metaphor, but I did not know what the metaphor was meant to represent (a problem that others, including the writer, recognized). But when I heard the piece the next day, it struck me how very connected this story was to our discussion on Freire. If we look at the passenger on the train as a student, the education she is receiving is not providing any comfort whatsoever, and it is leaving her feeling cold and unfulfilled. Through her own initiative she tries to make the best of a bad situation and she adapts. She takes what she can get from her environment to achieve some level of warmth (knowledge?). Along comes the train employee, (teacher?), who not only addresses her hunger (to learn?) but also tells her how to control the temperature in her car. But what the teacher does not do, and this is the issue Freire would raise, as do I, is ask this young woman whether she even wants to be on this train, and whether she has a say in the direction the train is headed. The train employee provides the young woman the information she needs in order to control her immediate environment while at the same time ensuring that her sphere of influence is limited to that train car. She has no say, nor will she ever have a say, in the direction of the train. This is the essence of narration sickness. The teacher is also on the train with no control over the direction. The oppressor directs the train and the teacher merely attempts to ameliorate the effects.

So what is the responsibility of the teacher? Does she go from car to car (student to student) trying to alleviate the suffering…give them some food if they are starving and give them some clue of how to manage the pain…never calling into question nor helping the student to question why it is that they find themselves in the car in the first place. Some students will be helped (and some may even ride comfortably), but the train of oppression keeps on rolling. Freire invites us to DERAIL the train. To invite the solitary passenger in the car to join with the other passengers, to probe, to question (why am I cold? Who is making me cold? Why am I alone?) and to collectively take charge of the final destination. Of course the problem posing option is a dangerous one for those of us who have had such success under a banking method. As teachers, we are by nature conservative creatures who have functioned well within a particular system (otherwise we never would have made it into our profession). We may feel like hypocrites, I often do, to tell students to question and problem pose when we owe everything we have to the banking method. But, as I have stated before, if we do not join with our students in challenging the existing system and pedagogies of inequality, if we do not put the brakes on that train, neither we nor our students will ever be free from oppression…free to think outside of the box(car) and inside the circle!

Now, it is entirely possible that I am way off the mark on my interpretation of the poem, but that is the invitation of the circle: to take an idea as far as you can take it, to engage in dialogue with your colleagues, to imagine all of the possibilities in our words and in our world.

Thank you again for the opportunity to spend an uplifting three days with you.

Ricardo

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During the last week of May and the first three weeks of June, Students at the Center staff, graduates, and students have been leading two separate workshops for teachers in the New Orleans Public Schools.

Today’s essay comes from Anthony Pham, a 2008 graduate of McMain Secondary School and a participant in the workshop on the identity and culture of Vietnamese students. Nguyen Hoang, author of the previous essay in this blog, also is participating in this workshop. Nguyen’s translation into Vietnamese of Anthony’s essay follows Anthony’s English version. These writings are part of a longer series that will be shared with elders in the Vietnamese community in New Orleans.

Learning My Lesson
Anthony Pham

Stories that I have never told anyone should never be told. But I will tell it now, because I am older, and I understand the circumstances that might occur at the end of my story. Every day, I have a gut feeling inside of me, wanting to tell the story, but quickly, I jerk back and hit myself to calm down. However, I now have the courage to talk about it, and I won’t let this coward boy inside of me tell me that I should not tell you the story. He will have to just sit down and listen.

It started in the early 1990’s. I was a mere child. I didn’t know much, but I knew enough to act a certain way. Every year, my family and our friends celebrate the new lunar year, typically known as Chinese New Years. And on that day, people would either come to your house to greet your family and bring them luck, or we would go to their house and vice versa. Along with this tradition, the elders would give children little red envelopes with money inside of them. Unknowingly as a child receiving his first envelope, I looked around and saw the older children saying all of this mumbo-jumbo stuff to them. I looked at them with complete awe, when I saw the elders giving them more money inside of their red envelopes. Everything changed that day.

I spent the following year trying to learn the little bit of Vietnamese necessary to sweet talk to these adults for their money. Being an eager little boy, I was able to grasp the language quickly by asking my parents about what to say. Every day I would learn something new to say. On certain days, I would ask my parents how to say cute things. My parents began to look at me with confusion. “Why are you asking us these things? What are you trying to get?” I quickly told them, “Nothing! I just want to learn it. Geez.” In reality, I knew exactly what I wanted to get. And that was the money.

As time grew closer and closer to the new lunar year, I had honed my skills of being cute and adorable. I was already prepared for the day. Next thing you know, it was the day. I dressed up in my little tuxedo, hair fixed by my mother, and I was ready to bank! Each house our family went to, I would run to the elders and say, “Chuc mung nam moi phat tai!” Translated, it says “Happy new years. I wish you lots of money this year.” They would look at me with glee and talk to me in Vietnamese. I didn’t know what they were saying. I just had a huge grin on my face and laughed at anything they said. They handed me the red envelope. I bowed to them and ran off. When I was alone, I opened the envelope which had twenty dollars inside. Shocked at this profound method of money-making, I began to act cute every year.

It was now in the late 1990’s. I was a rich kid. All the toys I wanted, I got them. New clothes, I got them. Okay, so I lied. I didn’t have every toy I wanted. My parents took my money, and spent it on SOME things I wanted. They were rich with my money. I was looking forward to the next lunar year. I knew what toy I wanted, and that was all I was aiming to get. It was a Power Ranger Megazord. You had to connect each piece to build this large machine. I was ready to have it.

Chinese New Years never came so slowly. It felt like ages before it came, but nonetheless, it came. Dressed up and prepared to make money, I left with my parents to our first house. “Chuc mung nam moi phat tai!” The elders laughed at me. Shocked at their remark, I said it again. They laughed even harder. I was stumped. I didn’t know why they were laughing. They gave me a red envelope and talked to my parents in Vietnamese. The only words I understood were “older, greedy, back then, and no more.” I told myself, “Darn. They realized my plan. Alright, the next house should do it.” The pattern continued throughout the day. Could this be it? Could this be the end of money-making? I couldn’t believe it, but it was true. Everywhere I went, they all knew my plan.

Since I was a young child, the word “embarrassed” was a very shameful word. I never told anyone this story because of the shame that I feared would unravel if I did. Now when I look back at it, why was I afraid? Everybody, including myself, has an egocentric moment in their life. People shouldn’t hide who they are because they are ashamed of themselves, though I did. However, I learned my lesson. I am only human. I can only learn from my mistakes and the mistakes of my peers.

Learning My Lesson
Anthony Pham
(Vietnamese translation by Nguyen Hoang)

Tôi không bao giờ muốn tiết lộ những câu chuyện thầm kín của mình. Nhưng, càng lớn tôi càng thấu hiểu hoàn cảnh xảy ra khi mọi chuyện đã kết thúc. Mỗi ngày tôi lại muốn bộc lộ chính những chuyện này. Nhưng tôi cố gắng đè nén nó lại. Tuy nhiên, bây giờ có thể nói ra, và chinh phục người bạn nhỏ nhút nhát trong tâm hồn tôi. Cậu ấy phải ngồi xuống và lắng nghe thôi!

Câu chuyện bắt đầu vào những năm đầu thập niên 1990. Tôi chỉ là một đứa trẻ. Tôi chẳng hiểu chuyện, nhưng tôi biết cách sử sự khôn khéo. Mỗi năm, gia đình tôi cùng với bạn bè và họ hàng xung quanh ăn mừng Tết Việt Nam. Trong ngày đó, mọi người đến nhà những người thân quen để chúc mừng và gia đình tôi cũng thế. Cùng với lời chúc là bao lì xì người lớn cho trẻ con như tôi. Lần đầu tiên được nhận lì xì, tôi nhìn chung quanh và thấy những đứa trẻ lớn tuổi hơn tôi lầm bầm nhiều chữ với người lớn. Tôi nhìn họ với sự ngạc nhiên cực độ, vì họ được cho nhiều tiền hơn tôi. Mọi sự bắt đầu thay đổi từ lúc đó.

Tôi bỏ ̀ra một năm để học một ít tiếng Việt để có thể nói khéo với người lớn để tôi được thêm tiền lì xì. Là một cậu bé nhanh nhảu, tôi đã học được rất nhanh bằng cách là hỏi ba mẹ tôi nên nói gì. Mỗi ngày, tôi đều học một câu nói mới. Có ngày, tôi hỏi ba mẹ tôi những câu nói đường mật. Ba mẹ tôi ngạc nhiên nhìn tôi. “Tại sao con hỏi những điều này? Con muốn có gì nào?” Tôi nhanh trí đáp lại. “ Không có gì đâu. Con chỉ muốn biết thôi mà. Thật là.”

Khi Tết gần đến, tôi đã luyện được cách để làm cho mình dễ mến và đáng yêu hơn. Tôi chuẩn bị thật kĩ cho ngày đó. Khi Tết đến, tôi diện cho mình bộ quần áo tây, chải mái, và xẳng xàng đê tây, chải mái, và xẳng xàng để xuất phát! Đi đến nhà nào, tôi chạy lại những người lớn tuổi và nói, “Chúc mừng năm mới phát tài!” Họ nhìn tôi hoan hỉ và nói chuyện với tôi bằng tiếng Việt. Tôi không hiểu họ muốn nói gì. Tôi chỉ toét miệng cười trước những gì mà họ nói. Họ đưa cho tôi bao lì xì đỏ. Tôi ghật đầu cảm ơn rồi bỏ chạy. Khi đứng một mình, tôi mở ra xem và thấy có tờ hai mươi đô ở bên trong. Chấn động về cái cách kiếm tiền thâm hậu, tôi lập lại cái cách đáng yêu đó mỗi năm.

Bây giờ là cuối thập niên 1990. tôi trở thành một cậu nhỏ giàu có. Tôi có được tất cả những món đồ chơi mà tôi muốn; quần áo đẹp cũng thế. Vâng, tôi nói phóng một chút. Ba mẹ tôi lấy đi tiền của tôi, và mua một vài món đồ mà tôi muốn. Họ có thêm tiền từ tay tôi. Tôi trông đợi dịp Tết xắp tới. Tôi đã nhắm vào một món đồ chơi, và tôi rất muốn nó. Nó là Power Ranger Megazord. Món này đòi hỏi phải ráp từng miếng một để hoàn chỉnh một cỗ máy lớn. Tôi đợi sẵn sàng để có nó.

Tết chưa bao giờ đến chậm như vậy. Nó giống như vượt quá tuổi, nḥưng, nó vẫn đến. Mang áo đẹp và hồ hởi vì xắp được thêm tiền, tôi đi cùng với ba mẹ đến căn nhà đầu tiên. “ Chúc mừng năm mới phát tài!” Người lớn cười tôi. Hoản hốt trước sự đáp lại của họ, tôi liền lập lại câu chúc. Họ càng cười to hơn, và tôi lúng túng. Tôi không hiểu tại sao họ lại cười. Họ cho tôi một bao lì sì và nói chuyện với ba mẹ tôi bằng tiếng Việt. Tôi chỉ hiểu được chữ “lớn hơn, tham lam, trước đó, và không được nửa.” Tôi thì thầm, “Thôi rồi. Họ đã biết kế hoạch của mình. Thôi được rồi, nhà tiếp theo sẽ được mà.” Sự việc lại lập lại nguyên một ngày. Phải chăng? Phải chăng đây là sự kết thúc của cách mà tôi kiếm tiền? Tôi không thể tin được, nhưng đó là sự thật. Bất cứ đâu tôi đến, người lớn đều biết.

Từ khi tôi còn nhỏ, bị xấu hổ thật là đáng hộ thẹn. Tôi chưa kể chuyện này cho ai bao giờ bởi vì tôi sợ mình sẽ lộ ra vẻ hộ thẹn của mình. Giờ đây, khi tôi nhìn lại câu chuyện, tại sao tôi phải sợ? Bất kì ai, kể cả tôi, đều có những lúc ích kỹ như vậy. Mọi người không nên giấu mình là ai chỉ vì mình hộ thẹn về bản thân của mình; dù vậy, tôi đã giấu mình. Tuy nhiên, tôi đã học được bài học. Tôi là con người. Tôi chỉ có thể học được từ lỗi lầm của mình và của người khác.

Posted by Jim Randels at 8:57 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

After Katrina, there has been a lot of talk of citizen participation and its increase in New Orleans. At Douglass we have been experiencing this in a range of ways: absence of many pre-Katrina school and community leaders because of difficulty of returning, neighborhood residents building renewed commitment to and work in public education, and hindrances to full community involvement by policy restrictions, conflicting visions for the school, and lack of full, careful communication and consensus among all stakeholders.

In the midst of our work in one neighborhood school, it is refreshing and encouraging to have students challenge us to think about ways our students continue to develop as incisive and broad-based thinkers. Today’s essay, by Nguyen Hoang, a 2008 graduate of Eleanor McMain Secondary School, demonstrates the mix of critical thinking, personal experience, cross-disciplinary reading, and community concerns that Students at the Center encourages. Nguyen and his peers give us great hope in the future of New Orleans and beyond. Our students and graduates are determined to work for a just and democratic future for their city and the other places they call home.

Citizen Education
Nguyen Hoang

When I was young, I frequently went to the beach every evening to have fun with my friends or my family. In Vietnam, the beach was just a block away from my house; therefore, it was common place for me to spend the evening walking or swimming. I remember observing men netting fish on the beach. They pulled out large amounts of fish in just a short time. I also followed my dad around to catch crabs crawling in bunches around the beach. That was back then. When I was twelve, things changed dramatically. Sea creatures such as crabs and fish were diminishing in great number. I could hardly find a crab crawling across the beach or a fish that suddenly popped up from under water. Five years after coming to the United States, I began to realize the reason why those sea creatures are greatly reduced in population. I had been watching a lot of shows about nature, and thus, I identified the main cause of the shift in sea resource. It was due to over fishing that those resources were severely reduced. I thought that it would be hopeless to find a solution for the problem; however, after reading the 2004 Nobel Peace Prize speech by Wangari Muta Maathai, I believe that there is a solution to re-enrich the sea natural resource that my birth place once possessed.

Sea resources were what hundreds of men and women in my town of birth depended on to live. It was their main income for a whole year. Because of that, every one of them wanted to net as many fish as possible. This act drained the fish out, because fish could not reproduce so fast to restore its population while the netting and fishing went on regularly. The fish population reduced rapidly each year as the town population increased. The seamen struggled to keep up with their lives while the fuel price rose so high that its cost surpassed the money the seamen made over each fishing trip. Yet, fishing is the job that has been deep-rooted inside every seaman, and thus, they take any risks to look for the fish over the vast ocean. They traveled farther from the land to the deep water of the South China Sea, hoping to find a huge school of fish. The trip often took a whole month, yet its result sometimes is not as good as the seamen have anticipated.

Overhearing a telephone call between my mom and my relative in Vietnam, I discovered that the fish season is worse this year in town. Again, the seamen are struggling to earn a decent income for this year. Sympathizing with what I heard, I began to think about the fate of a neighboring friend in Vietnam. He quit school after fifth grade, because his family could not afford to pay for his education. At the age of nine, he was already out there with his dad and his brothers, pulling up the captives that were stuck inside the net. I remember my time seeing he and his mother removing the fish and the crabs from the net while his father, who was soaking wet and smelled like fish all over, prepared a big, shallow bottom basket to put the little creatures in. Those fish and crabs would then be sold at a nearby flea market, earning his family enough money to have a decent dinner. His family life was subsistent and dependent on the sea creatures that were caught. At my age, he already was a professional fisherman. He talked like a fisherman, acted like a fisherman, and lived like a fisherman. He never felt unhappy about his life situation, but I thought of him as being provincial. My mom told me that he is currently somewhere in Phu Quoc, an island in South Vietnam, fishing along with some other sailors. His family has long been fishermen, and inevitably, he is one now.

Thinking about my friend makes me wonder what should be done to improve the lives of many young people like him, and I have realized the solution: education. This idea came to me when I read the speech of Maathai, in which she emphasizes the primary need for education. Her “citizen education program” is what struck me the most. The program itself is a mutual organization of native people to “identify the problems, the causes and possible solutions.” Through her program, people begin to make connections between “their own personal actions and the problems they witness in the environment and in society.”

They are exposed to many human activities that are devastating to the environment and societies. The participants discover that they must be part of the solutions. They realize their hidden potential and are empowered to overcome inertia and take action. They come to recognize that they are the primary custodians and beneficiaries of the environment that sustains them.

The result of this program is so fantastic that I am speechless about it. “Thousands of ordinary citizens were mobilized and empowered to take action and effect change. Trees of peace were planted in many parts of the country to promote a culture of peace.”

I hope that the same program will be carried out for the people of my home town in Vietnam, especially for that friend of mine. Fishermen are not interested in the subject of engineering or science, yet they are interested in how to harvest fish in large quantities. Therefore, it would be beneficial to teach them to reserve the sea resources. They need to see the negative effects of over fishing on their lives. They must be led to come up with their own solutions to protect that resource. In addition to that, new methods of fish farming should be taught to the fishermen so that they can harvest plenty of fish while conserving many fish species. Finally, they need to be empowered to take action. This can be done with financial support, because fishermen will need a huge capital to carry out the fish farming plan or any new methods for both conserving and harvesting the sea resources.

Talk is always easier than practice. My idea sounds good, yet it is difficult to do. Still, I hope that it will come true one day. The fishermen need the environmental education. They need to learn how to solve their fishing issue in an efficient way. They need new methods that can help them conserve their sources while they continue their traditional job. If it comes true, the fishing industry in my town will be saved. My friend will longer need to go that far away for fish; he could just walk on the beach leisurely knowing that he has good income for the year and that he is able to conserve the resources that god has given to Vietnam.

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Today we feature one student’s reflections about the public school facilities issue in New Orleans. Alexandra Lear, a 2007 graduate of McMain Secondary School and staff member with Students at the Center, shares these thoughts as the city is going through a massive and controversial planning process for school facilities. As her essay illustrates, questions about equity in public school facilities are still a major issue in New Orleans.

Schools in New Orleans
Alexandra Lear

On my Easter break I visited my older cousins who moved to Maryland after the hurricane. As soon as the plane landed the first thing I said was, “It’s cold as hell out here. Did Maryland get the message that it is spring?” Everything we passed on our way to their apartment was so beautiful but so different. I remember one day we were driving up the street, and I asked my cousin-in-law Rick: “What university are we passing?” My younger cousin, who lived in Maryland all his life, looked at me like I was crazy. He asked me if I knew what a school looked like. Rick interrupted him and told me it was a high school. I was shocked. It wasn’t just a big building. It was a campus. They had the biggest buildings I had ever seen. It had a gym building, an outdoor pool, a tennis court, a football field, and a media center. I was amazed! Then I asked if it was a private school. He told me, “No, it is a public school.” Public?

I knew the schools out there were better than the ones where I lived, but damn. I’m from New Orleans, and I don’t know of one school with all of those features, especially not a public school like the one we passed in Maryland. My school is one old building that was run-down before and after the hurricane. It was awful. Rick told me that all the schools out there didn’t look like the one I saw. He told me it was one of the newer buildings and most of the old ones in different areas look mostly like the ones in New Orleans.

Rick then told me his views on the history of education between the school I saw and the schools I’m familiar with in New Orleans. He started off by using my grandparents as an example. My grandfather dropped out of school in the sixth grade when his father died and had to get a job to support his mother and two sisters; my grandmother only finished high school, got married to my grandfather, and started having children. I know at that time schools were still segregated, but Rick told me the schools built for black children weren’t adequate for any child’s education.

Little did I know, that both my grandparents went to a school in New Orleans built by African Americans, in an African American community, for African Americans. It was called Valena C. Jones, after a black educator. The school was built because at that time there were no schools that were in good condition for African American children. Knowing that there were no good schools, African American leaders got together with the community to build a school. In 1929, Valena C. Jones was completed. The community raised their own money and built the school by themselves. The state and the city government had nothing to do with the building of the school.

My mom is the one who told me all those stories. She told me when she was younger all the parents wanted their children to go to Jones Elementary, but everyone couldn’t get in. She told me my grandparents split them up into two groups of four and sent some to Jones and some to Craig, which was another public school for African American children built around the same time as Jones.

My Easter break was a blast. I learned new things about my family history and the history of public schools. School was important to people back in the day, but it was African Americans against the rest of the city. I now feel like nothing has changed. The education system has not changed. Public schools are still not adequate. Yes we have more of them, but they are not in the same condition as they were in the 1920’s. A hurricane has passed, and the school still looks old and run down. I can’t tell what are new damages and what are old damages. On the other hand some selective admissions public schools and well-funded charters got new buildings, renovated old ones, and took over underachieving public schools that didn’t get much damage and made the school look better than it ever did before.

And now that I go to Douglass every day to work with my fellow Students at the Center writers there, the inequalities slap me in the face regularly. On the way home, I often pass by NOCCA Riverfront, a state-run arts school that is public but also has a lot of private donations like so many schools now in New Orleans. This campus has many buildings and state-of-the-art equipment, just like the high school I saw in Maryland over spring break. And what’s most ironic is that it’s built where Homer Plessy got on a train in 1892 to challenge Louisiana’s Separate Car Act. Just like separate but equal didn’t work then, it’s still not working now. Maybe it’s like back in the 1920’s. Neither our government nor our well-off citizens are going to make sure that everyone has great facilities. Maybe we need to build our own schools again, just like they did with Jones Elementary in 1929.

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On Tuesday, May 6, the Recovery School District (RSD) superintendent, Paul Vallas, was 30 minutes late for a community meeting to discuss the school system’s plans for Douglass High School. Over 100 people attended, including well over half of the school’s faculty, who were eager to have an opportunity to hear directly from the superintendent.

Audience members encouraged Mr. Vallas to read the book The Long Ride, a history of social justice and civil rights history in New Orleans written by students from Douglass and two other public high schools in New Orleans. He did not agree to do so. We gave Mr. Vallas a copy of the book in August, 2007, so we did not really expect him to agree to such a request. But the offer is still there, and maybe he will read it now and let it inform his decision-making and his communications. Better late than never.

Frederick Douglass Writes a Farewell Letter to His Daughter
Dayoka Edmonds and Marlon Cross

Dearest Annie, My Youngest Child:

I can remember the first time you grasped my index finger. Fresh from the womb, your small voice cried loud as I held you in my arms. Annie, you were as beautiful as roses & daisies in a spring garden. Your voice spoke to me quietly in a language that I didn't understand. Inside my heart I knew you wouldn't have to slave for freedom as much as I did. My youngest love, my youngest life, you remind me of the ocean.

As I write you this letter, the waves rock this ship like your cradle rocked you when I was too busy with your four older siblings. I sit on deck and watch the waves. I think of your ways, soft and calm, at times, rough and fast, but always a wonderful sight to see. Just last month when you were drawing a picture of your baby doll, I disturbed you, asking you to pick up your shoes. The tone of your voice was sweet even when you didn't want to be bothered. Why, I would have done anything for you. I learned that from my own mother. She went through a 24-mile walk after work just to come see her son, your father. She worked in the fields on another plantation, while the other children and I stayed 12 miles away. She cared for me just as much as I care for you. I think of her long journey as I cross the Atlantic Ocean once again, placing my life in danger, weeping that your earthly life has ended.

How my heart wishes to walk into my residence to see the face of my Annie, those eyes like your mother’s that sparkle in the moonlight, those pretty white teeth that shine in the dark, and that graceful smile that to which no other can ever compare. I know that inside my heart everything happens for a reason. I am so sorry that I could not have been in your presence to adore you with my love, to kiss your cheek, as your soul passed to the next life.

You must understand why I was away the day you died, only eight years old. You won't know the name John Brown or the meaning of the words abolition and justice. But these are some of the reasons I was away. John Brown’s skin was white but his soul was pure. His heart was set on one goal--abolishing slavery. He too is now dead. Our country wants me to join him. I knew of his plot to attack Harper’s Ferry, take over the weapons there, and wage war against slaveholders. I told no one about this plot. For that this country, which declares itself a defender of the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness, accuses me of treason. I do not regret my silence about Brown’s plot. I only regret its failure, his death, and most of all my absence as you took your last breath.

So now I journey again. The water, the source of life, gives me little comfort. I return to your four siblings and dear mother. I return to a country stuck in greed and evil. I also return with the hope of freedom for all. I pledge my life to remain in this country, to die fighting for freedom for all people rather than to escape to another country. Your untimely departure tells me where I must remain. It reinforces my determination, my conviction that I will never be free until all my people are free. Thank you for this gift you give me on your leaving. Forgive my absence at your departure.

All Love Always,
Your Father,
Frederick A. Douglass

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Today’s entry is from Kirsten Theodore, who will graduate in June 2008 from Frederick Douglass High School, which she has described in a previous essay in this blog series as her dream school.

We continue to worry about changes in a public school system that happen without deep study of and respect for those of us who learned and worked and read our first books in that very school system.

First Book I Ever Read
Kirsten Theodore

I can remember the first book I ever read. It was about a woman traveling back in time where she happened to run into her ancestors. Ever since I read it, I’ve wondered about my own ancestors.

I was in sixth grade when I first received the book. A couple of Students at the Center (SAC) members and I had just finished performing a play about Homer Plessy and the fight for racial justice in New Orleans. All of the SAC members were in school at Frederick Douglass High, but I wasn’t. My cousin and sister were working with UrbanHeart, an after school program that involved Douglass SAC students helping those of us who were younger with reading and writing and performing.

After rehearsal one day, Mr. Randels was getting ready to take me home. We got into the car, and it was dead silent. “So Kirsten, what books have you read lately?” he asked.

What a way to break the silence, I thought to myself.

“Um The Cat in the Hat I think.”

“Well we got to change that. I got some books in the back, if you’re interested.”

“Ok,” I replied.

I reached into the back and grabbed the stack of books he had sitting on the seat. I went through all the books, and one stood out to me, Kindred, just because it started with a k. I decided that this would be the book that I wouldn’t read.

We arrived in front of my house. As I was getting out Mr. Randels said, “that’s a good book you chose.”

“Ok, thanks.”

I went inside to my room and threw the book on the dresser with no intentions of reading it. A week passed, and I didn’t even look at the book. That next Tuesday I got punished for skipping school. So I was stuck inside with no TV. Since I had nothing to do, I had to find ways to occupy my time. First I tried exercising, but I got tired too fast. Then I tried cleaning, but the bleach was getting to me. Finally I tried studying, but I lost interest. So I just flopped on my bed and counted the dots on the ceiling. Out of my peripheral vision I saw the book. I went over picked it up and started reading Octavia Butler’s Kindred.

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Prior to Katrina, community involvement at Douglass High School was building and took a variety of forms. One of the most important was the weekly adult math literacy class hosted by the Douglass Community Coalition in collaboration with the New Orleans Algebra Project.

But students at McMain Secondary School have benefited from the Algebra Project’s important work. Today’s student writing is by Marleesa Thompson, a 2007 graduate of McMain, who explains how her training in the Algebra Project would benefit her work as a math tutor and teaching assistant for younger students at McMain.

Taking Up For Algebra
Marleesa Thompson

“I’m actually taking up for Algebra. Somebody pinch me, because this can’t be real.” Those were the words that crossed my mind as I sat across the circle, defending the one subject I could not stand. Somewhere between “I liked the Algebra Project, but I don’t see how it fits,” and “the Algebra Project was great, but it’s no use to my future goals,” I felt the urge to speak up. It came so fast, like vomit.

“Well the Algebra Project was extremely beneficial to me. I was an intern this past year in an Algebra 1 class at McMain, and the methods I was taught from the Algebra Project could have been used so that the students could connect math to more real life situations.” Once the mouthful of words fell into the circle, I was able to breathe. It was like I could not just sit back and watch the Algebra Project fall under the cracks beneath the chairs of the individuals who surrounded me.

Coming into this workshop, I had no idea that my love for math would be established. In the past, math was something that I never liked, but I did it because I had to. I never saw its use with anything outside class. Math was brought to life during this workshop. Numbers became words, and words became numbers. It was an intertwining language.

Our bus trip and our stops through the stomping grounds of Homer Plessy became a number line. City-building activities transformed into functions. It was like a whole new world that I was exploring. Many of the teachers as well as the students constantly wished that they were taught math this way. In the Algebra Project, no answer was wrong, as long as you had a logical method or approach to your answer.

Part of the reason I believe math has become so appealing to me is because I was an intern this recent school year. Upon entering Ms. Welch’s Algebra class, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew is that I had to deal with rambunctious eighth graders. When I started the internship, I was amazed at how much I enjoyed working with the students. But what was more amazing is that as I progressed through the internship, my math skills grew sharper than ever before. As I participated in the daily work along with the students, I was learning easier methods to approach problems. I was able to spit out math calculations like a calculator. My ACT math scores even improved four points from the start of my senior year to the fourth month I was an intern.

My journey to taking up for Algebra started when I actively participated in educating younger students. And in the end, everybody benefited.

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This week has been busy with responses to the April 7 announcement of the impending closing of Douglass High School.

Separate But Equal
Crystal Carr

“It is only temporary. It shall not be long. It is only temporary.” These words echoed through my head as I walked through the halls of Frederick Douglass for the first time. The walls were falling. The floor was coming up, and many of the windows had been broken. Puzzled, I marched toward my first period class in order to find a familiar face.

Frederick Douglass was not the most intellectually stimulating school or even the most fun. My years at Douglass can only be described as a reality check to my innocent mind. Douglass taught me that everything is not peaches and cream in the ‘hood; it taught me how hard it is to survive. This school, my district school, showed me how to connect with others from my neighborhood at a greater level. My year at Douglass brought many smiles and many tears, yet in the midst of it all I still survived.

The books there were torn, written in, and abused. I thought, “who could learn without good books?” I wondered if adults in the community and people who make policies that affect our students knew about these conditions. I don’t think they did. Most were blinded.

I had my eyes opened and my mind filled in some classes there, despite the lack of books. In my Students at the Center (SAC) writing class, taught by Ms. Patterson, we learned lots about black people and community. One of the most memorable things she said was, “This is not a school but a learning community and in order to bring scores up, we must focus on community.” The books we read, the essays we wrote, the critical thinking we developed were all part of movement and community building. My classmates and I wrote a play, Inhaling Brutality, Exhaling Peace, that we performed not only at our school and in a neighborhood church but also for teacher training workshops, a national conference on youth leadership and the arts, and the Centers for Disease Control. We read essays and stories by writers such as James Baldwin and Edwidge Danticat. We wrote about these stories in relationship to our own lives and adapted them to the play we developed.

Although it may be a surprise to most people who only look at the scores and the sensational stories that the media covers, I learned a lot at Douglass. The teachers taught me things ranging from how to survive in the streets to how to honor my culture. I applied this knowledge and skill to my life.

McDonogh 35, the city-wide access school to which I earned admission as a 10th grade student, is quite different. This school doesn’t have off campus lunch or anything I would call fun. It is a lot of work. Getting into McDonogh 35 and staying there in my sophomore year was pretty easy. Now in my junior year I am learning the importance of knowledge. Most teachers are so busy preparing us for tests that they only teach us what to think. My English teacher, Mr. Ogle, is like Ms. Patterson; he teaches me how to think. He makes me question many things and gives me a deeper desire for learning. In his class, it isn’t learn this or learn that but realize this and confront that.

At McDonogh 35, however, I am also taught to stay away from the community. Our purpose is increasing our knowledge, not interacting with the community that surrounds the school. The only time we really spend in the neighborhood is during fire alarms or on our way in and out of school. Even though I have been attending McDonogh 35 for two years, I know none of the names or the faces of those who stay around the school. Ever since one of our McDonogh 35 students was injured in the leg, everyone has been too scared for us to even set foot in the neighborhood. I now wonder how things might have been different, if we had interacted more with the neighborhood residents, even started a community non-violence program together.

This situation reminds me of the section of Barbara Ransby’s biography of Ella Baker that we just finished discussing in my SAC class as part of our study of the 50th anniversary of Brown and the 40th anniversary of the freedom schools in Mississippi. Shaw University, where Ella Baker attended high school and college, actually forbade its students from interacting with the black residents of Raleigh, North Carolina. This rule created a separation that Ella Baker later fought against in her civil rights and black power work.

I miss my community-based learning and home at Douglass. Yet I also love the education I receive at McDonogh 35. I feel stuck between the two. I do not want to go back to Douglass, but I don’t want to stay at 35. I feel stuck between the two. Sometimes I wish the students and visions of the two schools were not so separate. I wish 35 was more like Douglass and Douglass was more like 35.

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