Political Musings pt 3- Social Justice Education

(I think I was feeling a little gloomy when I wrote this post but I'll share it anyway. None of us are one mood robots, eh?)

So, being a product of a liberal arts education and more or less a supporter of Freire, I consider myself a proponent of social justice education. The thing is, for me it gets personal. I don't have conversations about social and systemic injustice in a way that is vague and more theoretical than not. So, the question I've begun to ask myself is, "Just how much of myself and my personal interests am I to let into the classroom?" Do I even have the option or the capacity to make such a decision?

I've had a few classes now covering President Obama's acceptance speech, and also the speech Bruce Springsteen gave the day before elections.
When I tell my students flat out that the American Dream is a lie, is that going a bit too far? I felt it might have been. When I tell them to be aware that I have a particular U.S. experience that comes with its own set of biases I want them to be critical of the information I present to them. But if I'm honest with myself I want them to be critical of it in the way that I am. Since Italy is almost completely pro Obama I haven't had much push back, but I still get this impression that I'm trying to indoctrinate a new generation of freedom fighters.

But it's just so personal! I just can't believe in a dream that says that many of the people I grew up with in the Boston "hood" of Dorchester, or in the lower 9th ward of New Orleans just didn't try hard enough to succeed. I can't believe in a dream that blames someone for not being able to overcome generations of ingrained societal hierarchies and prejudices that we pretend don't exist any more. Kinda like that Sicilian I met at Lago d'Iseo who swears to me and anyone else who will listen that the mafia no longer exists in Sicily.
But I digress.

I've also been working with a teacher on movies such as Apocalypse Now (based on Conrad's Heart of Darkness) and Last of the Mohicans, and that got me to thinking about the colonial aspects of education, the power of culture and language in the classroom, and the ways in which I don't realize I assume a particular type of Italian culture or experience of my students. Only recently has it really stuck with me that some of my students aren't actually Italian citizens. Even some of the ones who were born here. I realize that in my classes I make blanket questions about Italian culture without stopping to ask about the other cultures students come from or other experiences they can compare this one too.

So once again I've come to this crisis of identity: The acknowledgement of my own acts of oppression despite often viewing myself as the oppressed. The difficulty and downright annoyingness of acknowledging that time and time again could be why I never seem to remember the lesson.
The thing is that I know my education gives me power and access I can't deny. So does living in Europe, having an ipod, a Mac, and a guitar that I can play.  No matter how old and dilapidated these items are, and no matter what struggles I face here in Milan, all of these are still symbols of wealth and status, of certain approved of life experiences. But you know, I think status is invisible. Or at least somehow deeper than the surface level of how many places you can pin on your facebook map,  the name brands on your back and the electronic devices in your pocket or on your desktop. No matter how much I learn or acquire I don't think I'll ever feel any different from a poor Afro-Latina who will always be sensitive about how people judge her by her cover.

Political Musings part 2

For those of you who read the previous post on politics, you'll know that at the end of the post I resolved to stay awake. I am pleased to inform you that I did indeed stay awake, and that I, a few other Americans, and countless Italians cheered like crazy when Obama was elected president for the second time. It was 6:30 in the morning, and I don't know how any of us were still on our feet after having partaken liberally from the open bar all night. Well, I should speak for myself...

And somehow I also managed to make it through five hours of teaching at school and then two more hours of conversation classes before finally making it home and sleeping for the next 14 hours.

Well since a picture is worth 1000 words I'll let them do the rest of the talking (mostly).

We were clearly the envy of everyone at the election event. I mean, we had Nutella! And we were playing American cards. There were a few really awkward camera-man moments. He kept coming back to film us. It didn't help that we were the first people to cop out and sit on the floor, since there weren't enough chairs to go around.

 

It was a lovely night, and I'm happy the tears shed were tears of joy :).

On Dante and Immigration

Surely, had Dante been born just a few years later, he would have included Italy's immigration process as one of the punishments in Hell. Maybe it would be the hell for control freaks, so they could be reminded every waking moment (and of course every moment would be since it's hell...) that no matter how well they prepared or how early they planned to arrive, there would always be a problem and they would always be late.

Every day you would have to endure surly staff. Every day you would have to face the fear of irritation due to the lack of toilet paper in the smelly bathroom that had the toilet positioned next to a street level window with no curtain. Every day you would have to deal with children who, while are cute enough, quickly become tiring when it's noon and you've been waiting around since 7:30 for your 8:24 appointment because you had to arrive before the public transportation went on strike that day.

While you wait outside to actually get into the immigration office so you can keep on waiting some more, you would have to endure the horrible cloud of cigarette smoke that never went away. And of course, you can't move for fear of losing your space in line. And trust me, since the line goes down the street and around the corner, you don't want to lose a before-the-corner spot.

Yes, I daresay Dante would have had himself a good time with this. Maybe it could be an antechamber kind of punishment, to emphasize the peripheral nature of those of us not yet quite fully legally in the country.

Well, I thank the muse (currently unnamed, since I haven't found someone to stalkerishly fantasize over and connect to anything numerically significant) who guided me into the purgatory that was the second immigration meeting of the day (still suffering, but here at least I had hope it would end soon), and then who led me to the paradise that was the train ride back. 

Though it may have felt like an eternity, it most certainly was not. Yes, I thank my unnamed muse that it was just one day.

Bathroom Blues

So I was debating which topic to focus this post on but I figured I could put the bathroom and the update on romance together. It's a dud. So you see it's fitting, because it just gets flushed down the toilet anyway... (Feel free to imagine a soft sigh here) What is cool about this situation is that I knew it would be a dud before I got the message from the middle-woman going between us. I had a dream last night and I felt like it was saying dude has some serious baggage with someone in his past. Then today the friend tells me he's got some problems with his ex and isn't ready to start anything yet. The thrilling feeling of "I knew it!" and "This is so cool!" trumped the despair of dashed romantic hopes.
I exaggerate a bit. I'm young yet and there's always hope ;).

So, on to the next part. For those of my friends who do not share my sense of humor regarding bathrooms and bodily functions, you can stop reading now. (Jilli-bean, this message is especially for you. Especially if you're eating.)

Now then. One has many memorable first moments when going to a country for the first time. Other than the memory of underarm odor on the ride over to my host family's house, I remember the increasingly pressing urge to go pee. It was bad. So my first footsteps on non-airport Italian land was the shopping center parking lot where we pulled over so I could do my business. I figured out that the toilets flush by stepping on a button on the floor, and I contemplated the feelings of increased manual cleanliness this left me with as I washed my hands at the sink.

We arrived home with little fuss after that. However, later that day a need of another kind arose. Now, the toilets in this house are designed so that they're really deep, so anything dropped in has a ways to go and gives off this loud splashing sound. The bathroom is right across from the host brother and sister's bedroom, so I feel like I have to creep around and go when no one's in the room or too close to the bathroom door. Anyway, this first day I go in peace, but then I realize there's no foot flush. I'm filled with dread. I couldn't very well ask my host sister how to flush the toilet considering what I had just done. I stood around really awkwardly, and then it hit me! In Vienna the toilet flushes were in the wall behind the toilet! I look up in hope, since all this time I had been staring at the ground and feeling rather panicky, and there it was: a little white button in the wall, poking out like a beacon of hope. I reached up, pushed the button, the toilet flushed, and I felt the relief which had hitherto been denied me. Yaaaay. I washed my hands.

While I still creep around like a bandit when I have to do number two, I'm pleased to say that after more than a full month here I am getting the hang of the toilets. My only other complaint is the fact that I keep finding the host brother's pee on the toilet seat. This should not be a recurring problem, or a problem at all. Kid's old enough to know how to aim and or clean up after himself. ugh. Let's just say me, the sponge, and the cleaning spray are very well acquainted.

Well, that's all folks! More posts of my adventures in Italy coming up. You'll have teaching experiences, and when I finally develop a decent social life, all kinds of other things to hear about in the near future as well!
Ciao ciao for now.

Milano!

Alright folks. I had all these grand ideas about how when I got to Milan I would have all of these fabulous blog and vlog posts about my teaching experience and all the fabulous places in the city I've been. And eventually, all the fabulous places I've been in Milan and all of Europe and then the world.

While I still plan to make it to Morocco, the U.K., Ireland, Bulgaria, France, and any other place I can get to on Ryan Air, I've been in Milan for almost a month now and this is my first blog post. I've had a month of observing the goings on of my host family, my students, the teachers I work with, the inhabitants of this city, and I've been itching to write it all down in some pithy manner, or to at least blabber it out on youtube.

I'll summarize most of what's happened so far, but some things still deserve their own blog post.
Wait, let me introduce the host family to you. I am unsure of how honest I should be here, but whatevs. Here they are!

Father- Dennis Merlini: a rather self absorbed but well-intentioned man (who is sitting across from me now singing his heart out with X-factor karaoke.) he adores theatre and music etc.
Mother- Diana Cicconi: a soft spoken woman, until she gets pissed off, and then the whole city can hear her. A lovely cook, a lovely person, and possibly my only kindred spirit in the household. I consider myself lucky to have found even one. She plays a little piano.
Son- Nicolas Merlini, 13: previously thought of as demon child, but on closer consideration I have decided to peg him as rebel with a slight cause, and as perhaps a bit spoiled. Incredibly intelligent.
Daughter- Hilary Merlini, 15: an artistic marvel, a fabulously creative mind complete with artsy moodiness. I admit I locked myself in my room today to avoid the moody vibes. Also slightly spoiled (and more than slightly vain, but hey, she's a cute kid), a cute soft spot for her little brother, a fairly good cook, a fabulous baker.

On the ride from the airport the first thing I noticed was the conspicuous lack of deodorant in the vicinity. I was saddened to note this was not an anomaly. Walking into classrooms full of non-deodorized hormonal teens all day can be a real treat. Yup.

I have been to see the Museo Novecento, the Castello Sforzesco, the Duomo, a theatre I don't remember the name of, Iseo Lake (by far my favorite of all the trips), an architecture museum, the church of San Maurizio, one wine bar, and one super chic night club (Just Cavalli) where I met a possible romantic interest (friend of the colleague who invited me). Trust that should this possible romance go well or not go well, I'll want to write about it.

I even got to hear a Stradivarius played live at a free concert at the Duomo, and on November 23rd I will play my first ever gig in Milan! Not paid of course, but beggars can't be choosers. The drinks are free and mama is thirsty, so I'll get my money's worth out of the night ;).
As you can see, I'm working up a reserve of stories for my grandchildren. I envision myself as the hip, slightly eccentric afro-artsy-grandmother type.

During this month I've likely found every way to do something without paying for it. Free museum hours, no cover charges, and careful usage of the trams has allowed me to survive for weeks on 1 euro and 31 euro cents, which I am safeguarding for possible emergency expenditures. Naturally I've lost a bit of weight and gained an appreciation for sucking up my pride and begging my mother for help.

Final bit and I'll wrap this post up. For those of you who are wondering what I'm actually doing in Milan, I am taking part in the SITE Program supported by ITS Pacioli. I give supplementary lessons in English classes and teach afternoon conversation classes. I also tutor to earn some side cash. For reasons all too obvious to me I have been pegged as the perfect person to lead a Gospel Choir. I occasionally teach step dance to those classes that are interested.

Political Musings

One night during my freshman year of college I went to sleep. When I woke up the next morning the first African-American president of the United States had been elected into office. Something that I could not even bear to watch, that I hadn't even dared to hope for, had come true.

I remember when I first learned not to hope for things beyond my color. I was 10 years old. My mother, my aunt, and I were standing together in the living room, pausing in our conversation about something or other to watch a wrestling commercial in which "The Rock" strutted and flexed his sweaty muscles. Unlike my mother and her sister I had not yet learned to appreciate his particular physique. Instead, I was contemplating what bet my mother and I would make over who would win when we watched wrestling in the evening. It came as a surprise to me then, when my aunt suddenly asked me why "The Rock" would never be president.

I gave the question serious thought, nervous but also secretly pleased at the attention being given me as my mother and aunt awaited my answer. "...Uuumm." I stalled some more before finally saying, "Because he's not qualified?"
My aunt sucked her teeth. She was dissapointed. I could see.
I did not like dissapointing adults but surely my answer was the right one. "The Rock " was a wrestler. He couldn't be the president because he was not a politician! Simple, right?
"Wrong! It's because he's Black!" My eyes widened. This did not occur to me. I had already internalized the ideology that lighter-skinned Black people could do more and were liked better. I figured "The Rock" was light, so therefore the only thing stopping him was proper training.

Though my mother had not spoken during this exchange I could tell that she agreed with my aunt. When she finally did speak it felt as if she was ashamedly defending my naiveté on the matter. "You can't expect her to know that. She's too young." "Yeah, well she should know."
I should know.

I do know that three women, along with countless others, saw something happen that should not have been considered amazing or a milestone. That sentiment alone is enough to suggest that our journey toward equality is far from over.
This time, as the winds of change sweep over the United States, I want to be ready to meet them. I have decided to stay awake.

Summary of the Past Few Weeks

Heeeeeey there reader!

So it's been awhile since my last blog update and naturally much has happened. I'd like to say my tardiness on this matter is because I'm super busy being super cool and awesome, but really I've been super busy avoiding life and playing video games in between watching the Olympics and feeling sorry for myself. (Those Nike commercials work wonders on the bruised ego of an overweight non-Olympian. I now believe greatness is in me too!)
However, despite my concerted effort to not do anything, I'll have to cut down the last few weeks to five musically memorable occasions.

Here we go!

5. I wrote a song! 
7/16 I finally wrote a song. The one before that was 6/13 and the one before that 5/22. Given this pattern I can expect to write one in a few days. I'm used to writing much more than this so hopefully the one song a month curse will be broken soon.

4. Mother and I remember our roots (Honduras). 
My mom and I have recently started watching "Por ella Soy Eva", a novella about a man who is framed for fraud and decides to become a woman to regain his honor while he hides out from the law, which thinks he's dead because a hobo stole his ID etc and then got blown up in his car while digging through it for more loot. I can go on for days with this one...
Well anyway, we made it through one episode valiantly, quite pleased with ourselves that our Spanish was good enough to actually know what was going on. The next episode we used subtitles though, since it's infinitely easier to read Spanish than it is to make out another country's accent while they speed through their lines.

On that note (and this is where the music comes in), I had the best time talking to this guy in the subways in Spanish after he asked if I could sing anything in Spanish for him. I only know worship songs but he didn't mind. Anyway, I had to tell him three billion times that my family was from Honduras before it sank in.
One time at Harvard a guy from El Salvador flat out told me: "You're the blackest Honduran I've ever seen!" He must not see many Hondurans...

3. The repeat offender
So a week or so ago I let this kid sing the ABCs on my mic. He seems to now think he has some rights to it because a week or two later he and his mother were passing by and he grabs my mic in the middle of song and says goodbye to everyone since the train was coming soon. He sang a bit more, la la di da... This time it wasn't cute.

2. God is good
So I decided to play outside again after spending the morning with a friend who was visiting. I only had a salad for lunch, just plain greens and balsamic vinegar dressing, and I was despairing over how I was going to find the energy to go into the subways and put a few hours in there. As I'm packed up this guy comes up to me and offers to make me a PB&J sandwich. Yaaaaaaaay! It turns out he and the group of high schoolers he was working with were from a summer missions program and were finding a way to help out some of the homeless in the area. Because it was their contribution for enjoying my music, I fought the shame of eating a sandwich a homeless person could have eaten. It didn't take us long to realize that in college we both participated in Intervarsity Christian Fellowship, since I had done something similar in a summer program through them. I spent another hour outside before hitting the subways having conversations with the homeless in the Boston Commons and it was a wonderful time.

1. Bieber is back!
At this point I might as well proclaim myself a Belieber. Some of the most fun I have in the subways is singing "Baby" with the little ones (though chillin' with homeless people is a really close second). The most recent group of kids sang along with me, and before I knew it, all the kids in the subway were joining in. Excellent times.