Thanks, Ryan Adams

“Hell, I still love you, New York.” – Ryan Adams

“Do you love New York?”

“Do you love New York more than Texas?”

“Are you ever coming back?”

First thing is first. New York and I have a strange, and perhaps lasting relationship. Unlike most lasting relationships I’ve had with people, my connection to NY wasn’t instantaneous. New York was always a place I liked visiting, but I think it bears mentioning that I love Texas. I was never the type of person who hated where they were from; in fact, I love where I am from and let me tell you why:

New York takes away your specialness.

Slow your roll, people. Let me make my point before I get hate messages about how wrong I am. My students always tell me that I can’t tell everyone that they are special, because if everyone is special, then no one is. In the City that Never Sleeps, everyone is special, and therefore no one is. It’s simple supply and demand. You have a higher degree? So do all your friends, and your waitress. Oh, you can play an instrument? My friend so-and-so can play three. You think it’s impressive that you can speak four languages? So can your cab driver.

My point is this: in this particular Petri dish, the competition is fierce. And I cannot figure out for the life of me how people manage to grow huge egos in this city. I trip eight times a day on the street which keeps me sufficiently humble. I have gotten lost above ground more times than I can count. I have gone the wrong way on the subway only to end up in Queens. Yes, these are the things that keep you human.

But the more important other side of this coin is that everyone is special. Everyone is interesting, funny, clever, intelligent, progressive, determined, seeking, tenacious, poetic, artistic, and hungry. The thing to remember is that if you made it this far, someone and some other place helped you get there.

You are special because of where you come from.

Someone put you in piano lessons. Someone bought you a drum set. Someone told you that you were clever enough to make it in comedy, let you buy fashion magazines so that you could one day make it to Parsons, gave you an A on a paper so that you could have the confidence to try your hand at being a writer, or put Legos under the tree so that you could build mini versions of the buildings you would one day derive from pure imagination.

Do I love New York more than Texas? It’s not a qualifying question. It’s not even a legitimate question. You may find yourself divided. But the thing I am figuring out is that you don’t have to be. I love both places because one raised me and one raised me up.

I don’t know if I’ll ever move back to Texas. I try not to speak in absolutes, because I am only absolutely sure that I am a horrible fortune teller. I live in a pretty small corner of the universe (contrary to most New Yorkers’ belief) and most of the day to day stuff that I worry about doesn’t matter that much. Most of the stuff that does always has. And whether you’re an hour ahead or an hour behind, that’s probably true for you, as well.

Teacher-y Things

Every former colleague always ask me, “What are the kids like where you teach?”

Well, they are:

Messy

Self-absorbed

Goofy

Hormonal

Stressed

Care takers

Thoughtful

Thoughtless

Hot

Cold

Steady

Temperamental

Self-conscious

Loving

Hard on each other

Hard on their teachers

Hard on the world

Hard because of the world

Oblivious to the rest of the world

Seeking the end of the world on December 21^st so that they don’t have to take my final.

Just kidding about that last one… (sort of). They’re kids. They are no different than any kid I have ever taught, babysat, been a summer camp counselor to, sat on a front porch and listened talk about their prom, heartbreak, or graduation with, or bandaged up on a playground.

I am not a parent, so I hope I don’t oversimplify this particular statement, but school shootings (and shit, I hate that it’s even a term we can pluralize) paralyze me. I never get used to tragedy, and I guess that’s a good thing, but I cannot divorce myself from doing what most parents do, which is think: That could have been my kid. Except I think about my students.

I have this pattern that I can’t seem to break. The first six weeks of school, I am the least favorite teacher on the block. A notoriously hard grader, a champion of the phrase “do it again and don’t hand it to me until you’re proud of it,” a big fan of apologies to someone’s face and looking them in the eye, and a proponent of manners (i.e., do not suck your teeth, roll your eyes, talk under your breath, walk away angry), I don’t always rock kids world at the beginning. But boy do I give it a good rattle.

Then the 7^th Week hits. Suddenly it’s starting to make sense. I don’t hit hard with the “I told you so,” (although I think it) but kids start writing well, they start reading harder articles, they learn my mannerisms… I learn their names. It’s a win-win situation. 

Here in Brooklyn, we’ve got some tough nuts to crack. At this time of year some of my students get pretty depressed because they aren’t looking forward to Christmas Break. School is their safe space; it’s really their whole world (and not-so-surprisingly these aren’t the best students) because it’s where they have limited pressure. I work with some pretty tough teachers. These peeps are no joke. They bring it. You have to. Kids will catch you slipping, and game over. We bust our tails to make school a tender place… and they never want to leave. Well, they do want to leave class, but if they could stay there and just hang out, they would… all night.

*knock knock (4:05 pm) walking out the door

Kid: Ms. Son, which train do you take?

Me: I take the G. I walk down Jay Street to get there.

Kid: That’s mad far, Ms. Son; we’ll show you a faster way.

And just like that, I collected seven misfits that walk me to the train every day after school. It’s a good mix of kids. I ask about the highs and lows of their day, how physics is going (always a hit), or weekend plans. We play “We’re selling hot dogs for lunch”, a game that my friends Robert and Tom came up with to pass time, where you impersonate someone using only the phrase “We’re selling hot dogs for lunch” to guess the impression.

When I lived in Texas, I had good relationships with kids. I feel like I was exactly where I needed to be for as long as I was needed. I’m a big believer in moving on when the time is right. Sometimes I think about leaving education, but then I think about the 7^th Week. Some people work several years, or even a whole career, and they never hit that turn where you go from being adversary to advocate.

I asked my students the other day before I introduced a new and very difficult concept, “I know this writing is tough, but I need to know something. Do you trust me? Do you trust that I have your best interest at heart? Do you believe that I come here every day to make you a better person? Do you believe that I will never ask you do challenge yourself if it won’t make you better?” Essentially proving that this (teaching) only works if they trust me. Let’s just be real about that.

Schools are supposed to be safe (well-built, sturdy, durable) buildings, but the classroom is a cultivated safe space. We work really hard to create a space where kids can escape a bad home life, a place where kids can connect with at least one adult on campus, and a place where they can be honest.

Working in a time and space where school shootings exist, and subsequently working in a school doesn’t scare me (well, no more than living in a city that was attacked eleven years ago). What scares me is that people might stop equating schools as a safe place, and that message does permanent damage. I can’t do anything about the guns. Or the crazies. Or people that get super political, from either side. I’m not really on a side (and I don’t say that because I am a big person. I say that because I honestly don’t have any answers).

What I do have are your kids for eight hours a day. When they’re with me, I try to keep the bad stuff out and shine light on the good stuff. Safety is a pretty relative term. I would hope that if you are a parent, you can think of at least one teacher with whom you’ve left your child that you consider a champion and an advocate. I don’t mean against bullets, because I cannot protect against bullets. What I can do is listen to your kid when they have questions about the world they are about to participate in full time and try to soften the edges.

I’m pretty satisfied with that.