Lakshmi

The Goddess of Fortune visited me on a South Indian beach that hassince been washed away.

She was not quite thirteen, with Pippi Longstocking braids and a sprightly yellow smock dress to match. Lakshmi (the name of the Hindu Goddess of Fortune) spent her days smiling spryly at European tourists while peddling shells, pens, and other trinkets to the sunburned visitors. Her father, a local fisherman, would send her out among the tourists, knowing full well that his daughter's charms were irresistible.

exhausted and laughing group of American teachers, playing in the breakers of the Bay of Bengal. Or that she strolled up to us knowingly while we dried off on the steep slopes of the Mahabalipuram beach. In reality, I think she sold us some shells on our way to meeting her father. However she met us, she won us over instantly with her accented English, her earnest smile, and her plucky personality."Miss, you are so beautiful," she would say coyly as she sidled up for a hug or to play with my long blonde hair. She would eye our t-shirts, our sunglasses, our flip-flops, trying them on and laughing as she skipped through the sand on her way back home. When we went out with her father's fishing boat into the Bay, she would protectivI don't remember how, exactly, we met Lakshmi. I like to imagine that she found us, anely watch over our belongings left on the beach. She waited in the same spot for the hours that we were out in the boat, running eagerly down to the water when we finally came crashing back to shore. Walking up to her house after a boat ride, she would nestle herself between me and Karen, holding both of our hands and staring devotedly at us while we walked. She particularly adored Karen, who brought her gifts of t-shirts and lip gloss—and even a hair-braiding session—each time that we visited her.

Lakshmi and her father Ram welcomed us, a straggly group of American tourists, into their lives as friends. Originally, though, our meeting them was all business: we'd been playing along the shoreline fornearly a week, and all the while we'd been eyeing longingly the fishing boats that disappeared on the horizon. We wanted to go for aride.

Ross, the most resourceful and adventurous among us, arranged a ride and a price. We were to meet at noon at the blue boat in the fishing village just a few hundred yards from our resort. We went armed with cameras and towels and sunscreen. I think we imagined a leisurely ride along the coast, but when we arrived, the gaggle of fishermen laughed and pointed at us as we slathered on the sunscreen and fumbled with our armfuls of belongings. The less we had, the better. We would be pushing the boat into the water. And that was no easy feat.

The Bay of Bengal is ferocious. White caps pound incessantly at the steep beach. Sharks are rumored to prowl the waters. Ram and his shipmates were tense as we launched that first day. Their muscles rippled as they braced the boat against the incoming waves, waiting for that exact moment when the surf died down enough to let us paddle away from shore. They hollered sharply at one another when they started pushing and paddling and quickly threw us a life rope to hold onto. We were pummeled by wave after cresting wave as we launched the catamaran (little more than a few logs roped together). My stomach lurched, salt water filled my mouth, and my hands burned from clutching the rope. When we finally reached the third breaker—a legendary and dangerous barrier between the shore and the open water—we started laughing hysterically. The launch was the most extreme roller coaster I'd ever been on, and we were relieved and adrenalized to have made it this far.

During that afternoon of sailing in the Bay, Ram (the captain of our boat) eagerly shared his world with us. He told us about learning English, about his daughter's upcoming marriage to her best uncle, about fishing for 36 hours straight and giving all of his catch to the boss. He asked us about being teachers, about America, about our impressions of India. Eventually he must've grown tired of playing tour guide, for he dove off the boat as gracefully as any Olympic diver and began splashing around in the waves with us. But while he butterflied and played freely, he warned us about the fierce riptides in the Bay. He urged us, in his simple English, to hold onto the life rope as we swam. There was a real danger that we could be swept away. Later, he laughed hysterically when we couldn't hoist ourselves back onto the catamaran and his shipmates had to lug us up by the armpits. They laughed even harder when Karen kept slipping through their hands, her soaking pants and t-shirt—modestly kept on for the swim—making her as slick and elusive as catching a fish with your bare hands.

Returning to shore was even more perilous than launching. Once we crossed back over the third breaker, the waves lashed at us from behind, sending us slamming into the beach and then sucking us back a hundred yards. We laughed and coughed as we inhaled mouthfuls of water when we finally stumbled off the boat. We were thankful for Ram's navigational expertise and marveled that he did this every single day.

Lakshmi, of course, was there to greet us, jumping up and down and then running to hug us and offer us our sun-freshened towels. She gently pushed hair out of our eyes and placed sunglasses back on our heads while we dried ourselves, and then walked hand-in-hand with us back to the Ideal Beach Resort, where we were staying.

Weeks later, after another boat ride and more beachside hugs and conversations with Lakshmi, we were invited to Ram's house for a post-boat ride refreshment. In the six weeks we had been in India, Ram was the first stranger to invite us into his home, and he did so with tremendous delight. We met his wife, his brother, his wife's oldest brother (also Lakshmi's fiancé), even his mother and her dog. We were treated to freshly picked coconuts and bananas; Ram scrambled up the tree while we arranged ourselves on the grass mat in the main room of his little clay house. For hours, we laughed about our boat rides and Ross's red hair ("This man is sick?!" Ram worried at one point). We compared notes on marriage customs, learning that Lakshmi's match was the best possible arrangement you could have in Tamil culture. We also learned about Ram's aspirations for his children: some were married to businessmen, one daughter was a school teacher in Chennai, and Lakshmi was even remaining in school, in spite of her imminent marriage. In fact, the marriage was being pushed back solely for Lakshmi's schooling. Ram was a proud and fair patriarch, clearly harboring upwardly mobile hopes for his daughters and his family.

Photos were taken, addresses exchanged, and Ram proudly proclaimed us his new American friends. We were leaving Mahabalipuram the next day, and India only a few more after that. It had taken us a whole summer to finally break past the tourist culture we'd been traveling in, and it was Ram who so graciously invited us to do so. And it was Lakshmi, beautiful and clever Lakshmi, who gave us an India of twinkling smiles and enormous hugs, of hopefulness and beauty and friendship. When I tell stories about that summer in India, I inevitably ramble on about Ram, the God who saved India, and Lakshmi, the Goddess of Fortune.

And then I always pause when I remember these images: Ram's furrowed brow as he worried for our safety in the Bay. Lakshmi looking eagerly for us on the beach each morning. Sitting cross-legged on Ram's cool dirt floor and toasting with fresh coconut juice to our new friends.

I'm trying to remember these images this week, but I am instead flooded with images I can only imagine. Lakshmi and Ram live only a few yards from the beach in Tamil Nadu, India's southeasternmost and most tsunami-devastated state. The resorts on either side of their home are reported to have been damaged; one was almost entirely destroyed. With anguish, I acknowledge what must have become of their home, and I shudder to think of them and the oncoming assault of water.

Over 200,000 people have died. That number is enormous, bigger than I can wrap my mind and my grief around. I compare it to places I've lived in order to comprehend…like the entire city of Cambridge, Massachusetts being washed away and killed. The numbers stun me.

But it is for Ram and Lakshmi that I mourn. They are the faces I picture with each news blast and disaster update, and it is for them that I am grieving. I have no way of knowing for sure if they survived. Their home surely did not, and so the only address I have for them no longer exists. Without certainty of their safety, I try to imagine the best. Ram's aquatic skills were as superhuman as his divine name might suggest, and Lakshmi was resourceful and as fortune-filled as her namesake. Surely, they must have out-witted the water. But then I remember the Bay of Bengal on a sunny, monsoon-less summer day: Fierce. Thick. Swift. Perilous. On a sunny, monsoon-less summer day, it was a dangerous and threatening creature that put us in imminent danger. Ram was all too aware of this.

And so today I am grieving, quietly and painfully, for Lakshmi and her father. My grief is not the nameless, faceless grief for the magnitude of a far-away natural disaster. It is the personal grief for the loss of friends. I am mourning for Ram and Lakshmi, but I am also grateful for them, for their generosity and hospitality, for the personal glimpse they have given me of worlds and disasters far away.

Swift boating, plucky smiles, gut-shaking laughter. May the Goddess of Fortune find a way to visit them now, despite a beach and a home and a world being washed away.

Letter to Corps Members

Dear Future Chicago Teachers,

Congratulations on your acceptance to Teach For America's Chicago corps! Now that the application and waiting process is over, you are about to make a life-changing decision. Being a teacher is simultaneously exhausting and awe-inspiring, and teaching in Chicago—the country's third largest school district and once deemed "the worst in the nation"—is rife with its own particular struggles and successes. But I am writing to tell you: the decision to join our movement is absolutely worth it. It's the best decision I've ever made.

As a first-year corps member, I went through the excitement and apprehension about joining Teach For America only a few months ago, and so the magnitude of this decision is still quite fresh. In fact, I think about it every morning as I greet my sixth-grade class at the Chicago job feels impossible, when the inequities of Chicago's public education system seem insurmountable. Of my 24 sixth graders, only three are reading on grade level; most are reading on a third-grade level, and one can hardly read at all. Many of my students still struggle to add two-digit numbers, and most can't even use a ruler. Added to this is the fact that school seems so disjointed from the realities of my students' lives. Sure, I can teach them about plot structure and topic sentences, but I wonder: What about the fact that Daje is getting jumped every day on her way home from school? What about Brandon, who missed school for two weeks because no one was home to make him get up in the morning? What about Jerome, who has made it to sixth grade without learning how to read? What about Rueben and Rachel, who are brimming over with so much eleven-year-old energy that they can't sit still for three International Charter School on the city's South Side. I'll be honest: There are days when this minutes?

But these very disparities are what make this work worth it. My students need me, to teach them to read, to get organized, to add dollar amounts. They need me to push and encourage and stick with them. And, happily, I've come to need them: their humor, their questions, their honesty, their hugs, and their observations.

Even in their craziest moments, my gaggle of demanding and brilliant eleven-year-olds inspires me to work my hardest and become the best teacher I can. Sure, there are failed lessons and frustrating moments, but there are also innumerable successes and breakthroughs. Some days, it's the whole class loudly and proudly reciting our class pledge:"I'm smart, I'm brilliant, and I'm ready to learn!" Other days, it's Rueben and Rachel harnessing their energy to win our root word relay game. Or it's Brandon, begging to spend recess with me so he can do his homework, and Jerome—my non-reader—spending hours with me after school learning how to decode and sound out words. It's Mariah and Maurice cheering when they improve on a math test, and Marcus getting asked to read his essay to our alderman. It's Brittany passing her first reading quiz, and Dantrel illustrating the elements of a story. It's the notes, hand-colored and decorated, thanking me for teaching my students math, for helping them improve their test grades, for making them feel good about themselves. Darian's note was especially poignant: "Thank you Ms. Gibson for helping everyone in the class with their math, and for making everyone learn how to only get 'A's in your class. I hope someone makes you feel this way, too, because we are all doing better in your class because we love math and we love you."

Teaching in Chicago will take dedication, creativity, and humor. On some days, it will try you, but you will be supported by an extended community of dedicated parents, teachers, principals, community leaders, and—most importantly—170 other Chicago corps members, all facing and overcoming the same challenges. Together, this community is working to ensure that every child realizes his or her own potential. Together, we are working to ensure that Juwan does in fact go to Princeton, Carolyn becomes a lawyer like she dreams, and Marcus will visit South Africa. What we do today, in Room 200W at Chicago International Charter School and in classrooms across the city, is ensuring that every one of our students has the opportunity and skill to realize his or her dreams.

There is a class of eager, brilliant, and loving students waiting for you in Chicago. I hope you choose to join them. They will change your life, and you will change theirs.

I look forward to meeting you in Chicago!

Flying Chairs, Angry Stares, and Lessons (Not?) Learned

It’s Takeima and Larry that worry me. Larry worries me because of his exhaustion. When it’s my turn to teach, Larry puts his head on his desk and declares that it’s naptime. Takeima also shuts down…she sits there, stony-faced, unwilling to speak to me or her classmates. They worry me, but mostly because they are the two students who make me visibly frustrated. I try all that I can with Takeima and Larry—I use positive reinforcement, I encourage them, I give them choices. I am also stern and dole out consequences and stop their behaviors in their incipient moments. I try everything I can think of, but nothing seems to work with Takeima or Larry. I am worried because they do not respond to me, and by the end of every period I am flush with frustration and helplessness.

I had my worst day yet on Friday. Takeima decided that she is in love with Mr. Ramirez and so was livid that she had to be in my reading group. Not only did she refuse to read, but she refused to let her classmates read: she clicked her pen and hummed and muttered under her breath for the entire class period. And Larry…Larry threw a chair on his way to the Principal’s Office. Within fifteen minutes, I had exhausted every trick I knew, and by 20 minutes into the hour, I had lost all but two of my students. They called each other “guacamole head,” they hummed “Caroline” by OutKast, they insisted they were going to go #2 in their pants if I didn’t let them go the bathroom, they kept losing their pens and notebooks and handouts. By 30 minutes, my face was burning red and Raven and Elvira were doing a better job of controlling the class than I was. For a moment, their classmates would actually quiet down when one of them implored, “Dang! You’re wasting our time!” or “But I want to read.” By the end of the hour, we’d gotten through about fifteen minutes of the lesson…and this was the rest of the lesson from the day before. Two days to cover thirty minutes of material. I felt like the worst teacher ever.

And so after school on Friday, near tears, I thought to myself, “Why am I putting myself through this? I could be teaching at a school where the kids want to behave, where they know how to behave. No wonder no one wants to teach in Watts.” The moment I let myself acknowledge those feelings, however, I was smacked in the face by the gravity of the situation. That very frustration is the reason I have to keep doing this. I have to continue because no one else wants to. Because everyone keeps giving up on these kids, writing them off as problems, as no good, as lazy and misbehaved. And while that may be true on the surface, I know that it is not the entirety of their situations.

There are moments when I break through to Larry and Takeima. Moments where Takeima is jumping out of her seat to participate and moments where Larry stays awake and isn’t drawing pictures of guns. There are moments when I see that they do, in fact, want to learn. These are the moments that keep me going.

Takeima and Larry—and everyone else in Room 56 at Markham Middle School—have far more complex lives than I can imagine. Larry’s father is infamous at Markham for showing up at school at 8am, sloppy drunk, cursing, and looking for Larry. And Larry, for some reason, doesn’t sleep at night. His bed is in the living room right now, and he’s lucky to get two or three hours of sleep a night. And Larry—tiny, twelve-year-old Larry who doesn’t even come up to my shoulders—is one of the angriest people I’ve ever met. He walks around with his shoulders tensed, brow narrowed, ready to spit out venomous insults at anyone who tries to penetrate his angry armor. And Takeima has apparently suffered unfathomable tragedies, the details of which I’m not allowed to know. But I have been told that she’s dealing with a lot.

There are moments when I worry that my frustration with Larry and Takeima and all of Room 56 will derail me this summer. But then I think of the complexities of their lives, their frustrating and dehumanizing school experiences thus far, their 12-year-old faces getting excited about a story or a lesson, and I am refocused. I am refocused on holding them to high academic and behavioral expectations and on finding ways to inspire them to work towards these high expectations. My true frustration is not Larry, and it is not Takeima. My true frustration is that I can’t think of ways to reach them, to inspire them. I can’t think of ways fast enough, and I worry that four weeks will pass and Larry and Takeima will simply have lived through yet another uninspiring school session. I worry about it, but I will not let that happen. I just hope that my determination is enough to make a difference to Takeima and Larry.

Learning to Teach (Again) in Watts

There is truly power in numbers, I’ve learned this past week.

I knew the Teach for America movement was big, and I knew it was ambitious, but I didn’t really understand how big and how ambitious it was until Monday morning. Walk with over 500 other people, carrying the same red TFA lunch pail and wearing the same blue TFA key holder, and you feel the enormity of your movement and your mission. It was our own march for educational equality on Monday morning as all 500 corps members swarmed out of the Long Beach dorms to a fleet of yellow school buses, waiting to cart us off to some of Los Angeles’s most infamous neighborhoods. At 6am on Monday morning when I left the dining hall, I was exhausted and nervous and introspective. But at some point I looked up from my feet, and my breath was taken away. Do you know what 500 people looks like? It is nearly two Lake Forest Academies, it is twelve busloads, it is a sea of eager faces filling up a parking lot. 500 people here to do the very same thing as me. 500 people committed to the same ideas of social justice as me. 500 people as eager to teach as me.

And then it hit me: this exact scene is also happening right now in New York and Houston. 1500 of us heading to work this morning to eradicate the achievement gap. And when school starts in just a few short weeks, there will be 3000 of us. That’s six times the number of us here at Long Beach, six times this enormous crowd sweeping me off to LA on a wave of purpose. 3000 following in the footsteps of nearly 10,000 alumni who have affected over 1.5million children. 3000 of us working to narrow the achievement gap of three grade levels that separates low-income children (most of whom are African-American and Latino) from their more affluent peers. 3000 of us teaching over 300,000 students—who are seven times less likely to go to college than their more affluent peers—that they can read, they can write, and they can succeed.

I am teaching in Watts, a neighborhood I only know for its riots. I am teaching in Watts, a neighborhood that conjures up images of violence and racial tension and poverty. Maybe this is all true about Watts, but it is my mission in these five weeks to know it as something more than that. To know it in the complex way that my students are bound to know it. The Watts I see from the school bus and the schoolyard looks a lot like Soweto, with similar stucco houses and steel-fenced yards. And the school itself looks a lot like a township school near Cape Town, with brown dusty pathways and layers of fences and barrack-like buildings. It is like no school I have ever attended, I thought to myself repeatedly last Monday. But all week long, we were reminded: It should be just like any other school. We must expect that it can and will be just like any other school.

And so for all of our first week here, we—adults of varying ages and life experiences—went back to school. And in our schools, former corps members drilled into our heads that we must have high expectations for our students. And then they modeled how, from maintaining a positive, encouraging tone and celebrating every small success to giving every lesson plan serious thought and always striving to usher students to the highest cognitive levels. There are moments where I pat myself on the back, pleased to see what I incorporated intuitively into my classes at LFA. And other moments turn a light bulb on for me; in retrospect, I understand the ways I was too unflinching, too serious in my lessons, too oblivious to behavioral expectations. Indeed, every day has taught me something astoundingly important, about my style, my self, my students, and my assumptions.

For a week, I got to be a middle school student again, shuffling between classes with my lunch pail, participating eagerly as our instructors model for us engaging lessons, creating planning, and genuine concern for and encouragement of our success.

For a week, I went back to middle school, but today, I began teaching middle school. My students this summer—all nine of them—are spunky and sassy and challenging.

There is Takeima, who bounces out of her seat to participate. There is Ricardo, who quietly but deliberately offers on-point observations and analysis. There is Juan, who eagerly looks for affirmation of his thoughts at each step of the way. There is Willneisha, whose mischievous smile alludes to a world of complexities behind every comment. There is Larry, who wants to be an artist and can describe in detail every event in “Around the World in 80 Days.” There is Albert, who has such practical and funny ways of improving life at Imperial Courts, his housing project in Watts. And there are Raven and KaldeRome, both brilliant, both beautiful, both sullen and ready to test me. I feel lucky to work with them this summer, but also a little daunted. They are all failing English. How am I going to get them to succeed? How am I going to get them to want to succeed?

I am a little daunted, but I am also exhilarated. This summer is going to be difficult…the next two years are going to be difficult. But, for the first time, I am part of something bigger than myself. In addition to the communities that are allowing me to join them, I am a part of this corps, this TFA. I am one of 3000, supported by nearly 10,000 alumni and countless advocates. I am “building the movement,” in TFA speak. We are a corps, a movement 13,000 strong that is devoted to social justice. I am part of a movement, and that is what will continue to inspire and exhilarate me. That, and KaldeRome and Raven.