A recent incident at a local, elementary school basketball tournament evidences the painful reality that, even today, our society has not ridden itself of sharp class distinctions and the unattractive offshoots that come with them. My name is Daniel Balke, and I teach 4th and 5th grade at
Saturday, 23 February 2008
When Class Trumps Class
Friday, 15 February 2008
8 out of 10 and the meaning of life
This is the one I've been waiting to write.
David is a ten-year old 4th grader in my homeroom class. His social skills, though, are more akin to those of a second grader, and, as one of three non-Navajo students in a school of over 275, he faces a daily barrage of emotional and, often, physical thrashing.
Academically, David struggles, as well. His motor skills are atrocious and his organizational prowess equally concerning. A hard worker, David still struggles to keep up with the class in terms of completing and turning in assignments. Everyday is a battle for David in my classroom.
However, David is also an incredibly caring and kind young person. In fact, he single-handedly ensures that the question I hear more frequently than any other during the day is, 'Mr. Balke, can I have a hug?' An eager participator, David is never short on comments or effort to contribute to classroom activities and discussions. I always enjoy seeing David's smiling face.
David is a recent arrival in Navajo Nation. His anglo father, a Kentucky native, married a Navajo woman over the summer and relocated his three children, both of whom I also have as students, to Navajo Country. Last year, David attended a Christian school in Carlsbad, New Mexico, wherein he, his family, and school community developed an 'Individual Education Plan', which enabled him to receive focused care and instruction through the special education process. Unfortunately, in a series of still unclear, and altogether shady, incidents, David's IEP and any significant records thereof, were lost in the move, leaving him without recourse for the attention he needs to succeed in the school environment. From the first day David entered my room, I felt we would struggle every bit of the way to bring him up to par. This initial inclination has proven painfully true.
As the year's progressed, David and I have scraped and clawed our way in the direction of academic success. And, slowly, we've seen some signs of progress. Spelling scores improved, handwriting became clearer, papers and other school materials started to come back from the home- in his own way, David was clearly moving in the right direction. Notwithstanding, when I introduced this week's batch of spelling words to students and announced that our 'big goal' would be for every one of them to earn at least an 8 out of 10, I couldn't help feeling surprised and, perhaps cast aside as a bit unrealistic at this point, David's bold question of what would happen if he were to get a 10 out of 10. Still, I replied that that would be great, and off we set to work toward our 80% mark, which we call proficiency.
Through two practice tests, it became clear that 8 out of 10 would be a struggle for David, let alone achieving the 10 for 10 dream number. He seemed up-beat, though, about his chances, and held on to his list of words. He informed me, moreover, that he'd been studying at home with his family and felt good about his chances for the test. So, when 8:05 arrived this morning and, with it, our big test, I was curious to learn just how far David had really come.
The test came and went in a flash. My students skipped on to their next class, and, after setting the 5th graders to work on a writing assignment, I got to work grading homeroom spelling tests. About half-way through, I arrived at Mr. David's. The first thing I noticed was the relative clarity of his handwriting. Each letter was separated, and I recognized exactly which ones he intended to write. David started off strong, spelling paragraph perfectly and with wonderful penmanship. 'P-a-r-a-g-r-a-p-h'- you got it dude! One for one. Our second word, strategy, posed a bit of a problem, and David's response was one letter off- one for two. Word three was also narrowly misspelled, again one letter in the wrong spot serving as the culprit. '1 for three' I said in my mind, sighing as myu excitement shifted toward resignation that proficiency for David would have to wait at least one more week. Then, David got hot- real hot.
'Article'- no problem. 'Author'- a breeze! 'Continue'- are you kidding? 'Illustration'- holy cow! Through ten words, and after one more hiccup, David was sitting at 7 of 10, one short of his goal of eight. I offer my students one bonus word per week- a chance to test their skills and improve their score. David had one more shot at meeting his big goal. The word was 'accurate', a common word with a double-c combo that had given even my top-performing students trouble all week. My eyes moved across David's eleventh line deliberately. 'A'- good; 'c', ooook; 'c'- yes, got the hard part; 'u', half way home; 'r'- could we really...; 'a', oh, dude- 't', one more!; 'e'- HE DID IT!!! I think my fifth grade class thought I'd gone insane because I'd never expressed such a loud and seemingly out of nowhere burst of emotion in front of them before (and I tend to be fairly animated). I wanted to run next door to Mr. Mendrop's to break the good news to David, myself. I thought of his dad, who'd been in for half-a-dozen meetings regarding David's problems and progress so far this year, wanting so badly for his son to excel, spending countless hours with him, his other daughters, and new wife and step-son talking about goals, discipline, and hard work. I pictured him posting David's test on the refrigerator and, more clearly, I pictured David's smile as he handed the test to his dad. I saw the irrepressible joy, the sheepish grin, the sense of pride- 'I did it, dad!'. That's exactly what I wrote on his paper, clearly, and with red marker- 'You did it!!'.
Some would say this is not meaningful. Some would call it just a lucky test, not entirely relevant in the grander scheme of David's life. But for one small moment on a cold February day, young David, my student, learned what it was like to own the universe. You're right, David- two a's, two c's, a 'u', an 'r', 't', and 'e'- you were as accurate as anyone can be. Right now, in this moment, the world is yours.
So, when they tell you that, together, we can't achieve great things, when they scoff at the ability of every child to excel academically, and when they say that some things are just not possible, think of David. Can we do anything? Can we move mountains? Yes, we can, folks. Yes, we can.
Ecstatically,
--Mr. Balke
David is a ten-year old 4th grader in my homeroom class. His social skills, though, are more akin to those of a second grader, and, as one of three non-Navajo students in a school of over 275, he faces a daily barrage of emotional and, often, physical thrashing.
Academically, David struggles, as well. His motor skills are atrocious and his organizational prowess equally concerning. A hard worker, David still struggles to keep up with the class in terms of completing and turning in assignments. Everyday is a battle for David in my classroom.
However, David is also an incredibly caring and kind young person. In fact, he single-handedly ensures that the question I hear more frequently than any other during the day is, 'Mr. Balke, can I have a hug?' An eager participator, David is never short on comments or effort to contribute to classroom activities and discussions. I always enjoy seeing David's smiling face.
David is a recent arrival in Navajo Nation. His anglo father, a Kentucky native, married a Navajo woman over the summer and relocated his three children, both of whom I also have as students, to Navajo Country. Last year, David attended a Christian school in Carlsbad, New Mexico, wherein he, his family, and school community developed an 'Individual Education Plan', which enabled him to receive focused care and instruction through the special education process. Unfortunately, in a series of still unclear, and altogether shady, incidents, David's IEP and any significant records thereof, were lost in the move, leaving him without recourse for the attention he needs to succeed in the school environment. From the first day David entered my room, I felt we would struggle every bit of the way to bring him up to par. This initial inclination has proven painfully true.
As the year's progressed, David and I have scraped and clawed our way in the direction of academic success. And, slowly, we've seen some signs of progress. Spelling scores improved, handwriting became clearer, papers and other school materials started to come back from the home- in his own way, David was clearly moving in the right direction. Notwithstanding, when I introduced this week's batch of spelling words to students and announced that our 'big goal' would be for every one of them to earn at least an 8 out of 10, I couldn't help feeling surprised and, perhaps cast aside as a bit unrealistic at this point, David's bold question of what would happen if he were to get a 10 out of 10. Still, I replied that that would be great, and off we set to work toward our 80% mark, which we call proficiency.
Through two practice tests, it became clear that 8 out of 10 would be a struggle for David, let alone achieving the 10 for 10 dream number. He seemed up-beat, though, about his chances, and held on to his list of words. He informed me, moreover, that he'd been studying at home with his family and felt good about his chances for the test. So, when 8:05 arrived this morning and, with it, our big test, I was curious to learn just how far David had really come.
The test came and went in a flash. My students skipped on to their next class, and, after setting the 5th graders to work on a writing assignment, I got to work grading homeroom spelling tests. About half-way through, I arrived at Mr. David's. The first thing I noticed was the relative clarity of his handwriting. Each letter was separated, and I recognized exactly which ones he intended to write. David started off strong, spelling paragraph perfectly and with wonderful penmanship. 'P-a-r-a-g-r-a-p-h'- you got it dude! One for one. Our second word, strategy, posed a bit of a problem, and David's response was one letter off- one for two. Word three was also narrowly misspelled, again one letter in the wrong spot serving as the culprit. '1 for three' I said in my mind, sighing as myu excitement shifted toward resignation that proficiency for David would have to wait at least one more week. Then, David got hot- real hot.
'Article'- no problem. 'Author'- a breeze! 'Continue'- are you kidding? 'Illustration'- holy cow! Through ten words, and after one more hiccup, David was sitting at 7 of 10, one short of his goal of eight. I offer my students one bonus word per week- a chance to test their skills and improve their score. David had one more shot at meeting his big goal. The word was 'accurate', a common word with a double-c combo that had given even my top-performing students trouble all week. My eyes moved across David's eleventh line deliberately. 'A'- good; 'c', ooook; 'c'- yes, got the hard part; 'u', half way home; 'r'- could we really...; 'a', oh, dude- 't', one more!; 'e'- HE DID IT!!! I think my fifth grade class thought I'd gone insane because I'd never expressed such a loud and seemingly out of nowhere burst of emotion in front of them before (and I tend to be fairly animated). I wanted to run next door to Mr. Mendrop's to break the good news to David, myself. I thought of his dad, who'd been in for half-a-dozen meetings regarding David's problems and progress so far this year, wanting so badly for his son to excel, spending countless hours with him, his other daughters, and new wife and step-son talking about goals, discipline, and hard work. I pictured him posting David's test on the refrigerator and, more clearly, I pictured David's smile as he handed the test to his dad. I saw the irrepressible joy, the sheepish grin, the sense of pride- 'I did it, dad!'. That's exactly what I wrote on his paper, clearly, and with red marker- 'You did it!!'.
Some would say this is not meaningful. Some would call it just a lucky test, not entirely relevant in the grander scheme of David's life. But for one small moment on a cold February day, young David, my student, learned what it was like to own the universe. You're right, David- two a's, two c's, a 'u', an 'r', 't', and 'e'- you were as accurate as anyone can be. Right now, in this moment, the world is yours.
So, when they tell you that, together, we can't achieve great things, when they scoff at the ability of every child to excel academically, and when they say that some things are just not possible, think of David. Can we do anything? Can we move mountains? Yes, we can, folks. Yes, we can.
Ecstatically,
--Mr. Balke
Friday, 1 February 2008
The Contours of Privilege and The Trip That Wasn't
This afternoon, on my way to a campaign event in Santa Fe for Senator Barack Obama with good friend and fellow Obamaniac, Alicia Fitzpatrick, my dear Sophie suffered a blow-out. Sophie, a beautiful, well-conditioned '92 Mazda MPV minivan, was going steadily along I-40 when, all of a sudden, a large burst and bump occurred, and it quickly became soon that a rear tire had given way, and it was up to the two of us to steady the vehicle were we to maintain safety. Thankfully, we successfully slowed Sophie and were able to steer her to the side of the road. The first thought when the tire gave way, and I later, at a happier time, confirmed this with Alicia, was one of survival- O.K.; the tire has burst; how can we maintain safety. However, after slowing to a stop, a blessed occurrence, to be sure, the reality that we'd not be seeing our beloved Senator in our home state quickly set in, driving home a strong sense of melancholy over what might have been.
This posting, however, is not of regret. It's about a powerful realization that the afternoon and early evening's events conjured in my mind, that is, the great privilege and luxury my status as a middle class U.S. citizen affords me. It is, in fact, the privilege that the candidate I've chosen to support for president works everyday of his life works to bestow on those who've gone voiceless in this country for far too long. It is a reflection that Alicia and I uncovered later in the night, as we made our way back to Ramah, New Mexico after a long, and what turned out to be an extremely enjoyable evening.
After settling to a stop on the shoulder of I-40, roughly 40 miles outside of Albuquerque, my thoughts never turned to panic. Indeed, I knew that Alicia and I would be taken care of. Indeed, the notion that we'd not have the resources necessary to get us to safety and, eventually, a warm and safe stopping for the night never entered my mind. As a citizen of, and licensed drive in, the State of New Mexico, I am required to own auto insurance. My salary as an employee of the Gallup-McKinley Schools System allows me to purchase a policy that provides 'roadside assistance', meaning that I can call for a toe-truck and feel assured that I will be reimbursed for all costs of the service, as well as labor that goes into replacing a damaged tire (by the way, if some are wondering why I did not simply add the spare, I just comment that driving on an interstate on a sixteen-year-old spare did not seem sufficiently safe to either of us; moreover, the wheel is quite difficult to access, and we simply thought it a better move to call for a toe, again, and as I'll continue to illustrate in this posting, a resolution borne of our economic privilege).
I immediately reached for my cell phone, service for which my salary allows me to afford, even though I regularly go over my allowable calling and text messaging limit, which yields significant extra costs. I dialed the number of my State Farmer Agent, and, like neighbors, they were there. After some maneuvering on both ends, I connected with Route 66 towing in Grants, New Mexico. By this point, Alicia and I figure it would be more sensible to try to make it back to our respective homes- we were not going to get to Santa Fe to see the Senator and the thought of proceeding to Albuquerque seemed without reason, and, at least in my mind, might have made powerfully clear how close we'd come to the speech. Speaking with the operator at Route 66, I quickly realized I had no way of letting her know exactly where we were, as we'd not stopped near a mile marker. As a result, Alicia and I got out of Sophie and headed in opposite directions, seeking a mile posting. Minutes later, Alicia called me and said that a police officer had pulled over, told her the mile marker, and that I should start heading back. Moments later, the officer was just behind me, waiting with a smile to return me and Alicia to my injured minivan (if Sophie's personification disturbs some in the reading audience, all I can say is that, if you'd experienced her charming appearance and mind-blowing performance, you'd bask in her glory and think her much more than a vehicle, as well!).
After roughly an hour of rich discussion, during which Alicia reflected fondly of times spent traveling around Africa and, more specifically, an incredibly economical safari through Tanzania, D.J., our Route 66 tow-man and new-found friend, arrived to return us and our ailing minivan to Grants. Happy to be making progress, Alicia, D.J., and I headed west.
As we made our way toward Grants, we discussed coming to terms with, indeed becoming aware of, the privilege and guilt associated with being white in the United States. She reflected on and described times in her early childhood when she remembers having felt incredibly lucky for the color of her skin. I recalled one of my first days of school at Hillrise Elementary in Las Cruces, New Mexico, when a peer of mine named Ruben pushed me down and exclaimed annoyedly, 'white boy!' Before this point, I'd known that I was, indeed, white, but I'd never had my race called out so blatantly into the open, and, more importantly, never had I experienced my race used in an aggressive way against me. It was my first taste both of the disgusting discimination faced by myriad minority and other disaffected groups in this country, whom, for reasons entirely beyond their control, experience a lack of opportunity and equal footing, as well as the privilege attached to my whiteness, which, in most settings in this country, allows one to do whatever she or he pleases and have the expectation that she or he will be able to do so.
Once we reached the tiny town of Milan, New Mexico, just outside of Grants, a group of young, hard-working used tire salesmen greeted us and said they'd have us back on the road in no time. It was getting on 6:30, and I was quite relieved that these fellas had waited past the close of the business day to send us on our way. Alicia and I were parched and aiming for a drink, and we rejoiced at the welcome sight of an 'Allsups', New Mexico's de facto official convenience store, near-by. First, though, I had to square up with D.J. The towing bill was hefty, upwards of $200, but, again, I was able to pay the tab without a second thought, using a debit card, and knowing that, on Monday, I'd turn in the receipt at State Farm and begin the process toward a full refund. Again, my privileged economic status afforded me a peace of mind not enjoyed by millions of folks right here in this country. I wondered how their path, from blowout to Grants, would have differed from mine. Would they have had the means of getting a tow-truck? Could they have paid without suffering a severe financial setback? My mind raced.
Everyone should have the privilege of spending a Friday night in a gas station. As I dined on a dinner of Diet Coke and Rold Gold Pretzels, Alicia sippered her Allsup's coffee and told me of her grandfather, who'd served in WWII before moving into a successful career with EPA. I stated to Alicia my belief that, quixotically, the EPA had been created under the Nixon Administration. At first, she dismissed it, but then, after thinking more and becoming less and less sure, called a few family members to set the story straight. Imagine her surprise when her father confirmed that, indeed, the environmental watchdog had been created by Nixon, not exactly your champion of liberal causes.
Before long, an employee of the tire center entered Allsups and gave us word that Sophie was bandaged up and ready to go (much as Alicia and I had been fired up and ready to go a few hours before as we made our way toward Santa Fe and Obama). We returned to the shop, and I went inside to settle with my saviors of the evening. Happily, they handed me a bill that said "$28.33"- tire and labor included. My first thought was happiness at the incredibly reasonable price, rather than what it probably should have been- what, exactly, is the nature of this 'tire'?! Fortunately, one of the gentleman, after giving me some words on checking my vehicle before making a substantial road trip, assured me that he'd put a 'good tire' on Sophie, and that I should be fine. As I removed my debit card to pay the fellas, they informed that they only took cash, and I'd have to drive down the road to an ATM to settle up.
As I pulled out some items from my wallet to serve as collateral while I made my way to the ATM, I wondered again what I would have done if I did not have any money in my account or access to an ATM close by. Could I have gotten my car out of the shop? How would I have made my way home? What do folks without these options do? Again, I realized that I've never had to seriously entertain these notions because my financial status and privilege provided the security to avoid them. Again, my mind raced.
As Alicia and I hit the road back to her home near Ramah, we talked and talked and talked. I realized that, all in all, it had been an incredible, adventurous, and, yes, quite enjoyable night. We'd not seen the Senator by whom we feel ever so mystified, but each of us had a strange suspicion that we'd see him soon as a candidate for the presidency seeking to win New Mexico in the general election. The momentum Senator Obama has generated in the last few weeks and, more concentratedly, since his big win in South Carolina represents subject matter for another posting. However, each of us had a happy night- we'd had valuable conversation and learned a lot about one another. I'm happy to have shared the experience with Alicia and look forward to traveling to Israel and the West Bank with her over Spring Break.
The most important development of the evening, however, was the exposure I had to my economic privilege. As I drove home, the world opened up to me. I saw the Zuni Mountains before me and open land in every direction. I basked in the beauty of my native New Mexico. We truly are a lucky people in this state. The silent radio allowed my mind to wander, and I continued to reflect upon why I should have access to so much comfort and security, while others scrounge daily for some semblance of a safe existence. As I neared Highway 602, which would lead me the final stretch back to Gallup, I saw two cards pulled over on the side of the road, hazards on, clearly incapable of driving on. There was no tow-truck, just a couple of individuals outside, toiling in the frigid winter air. I wondered if they would make it to a warm bed later that night, and who would be there to greet them when they did. I wondered if they felt anger over their situation and marveled at the disparity between the way my situation had played out (i.e., waiting in a warm car for a tow-truck, riding back to a service station in the cab of a warm tow-truck, utilizing insurance to pay for the tow and the replacement of my tire, and driving home quickly and safely in my revamped Sophie) and the way in which their's seemed to be developing. I conclude, I think, that this disparity should alarm me. But alarm is not a bad thing unless it fails to move you to action. I have many reasons for wanting to make this world a more just, equitable place. I'm thankful that yesterday afternoon, evening, and night served as further motivation for this cause. Thanks for reading.
Guess blogger- Alicia Fitzpatrick
This posting, however, is not of regret. It's about a powerful realization that the afternoon and early evening's events conjured in my mind, that is, the great privilege and luxury my status as a middle class U.S. citizen affords me. It is, in fact, the privilege that the candidate I've chosen to support for president works everyday of his life works to bestow on those who've gone voiceless in this country for far too long. It is a reflection that Alicia and I uncovered later in the night, as we made our way back to Ramah, New Mexico after a long, and what turned out to be an extremely enjoyable evening.
After settling to a stop on the shoulder of I-40, roughly 40 miles outside of Albuquerque, my thoughts never turned to panic. Indeed, I knew that Alicia and I would be taken care of. Indeed, the notion that we'd not have the resources necessary to get us to safety and, eventually, a warm and safe stopping for the night never entered my mind. As a citizen of, and licensed drive in, the State of New Mexico, I am required to own auto insurance. My salary as an employee of the Gallup-McKinley Schools System allows me to purchase a policy that provides 'roadside assistance', meaning that I can call for a toe-truck and feel assured that I will be reimbursed for all costs of the service, as well as labor that goes into replacing a damaged tire (by the way, if some are wondering why I did not simply add the spare, I just comment that driving on an interstate on a sixteen-year-old spare did not seem sufficiently safe to either of us; moreover, the wheel is quite difficult to access, and we simply thought it a better move to call for a toe, again, and as I'll continue to illustrate in this posting, a resolution borne of our economic privilege).
I immediately reached for my cell phone, service for which my salary allows me to afford, even though I regularly go over my allowable calling and text messaging limit, which yields significant extra costs. I dialed the number of my State Farmer Agent, and, like neighbors, they were there. After some maneuvering on both ends, I connected with Route 66 towing in Grants, New Mexico. By this point, Alicia and I figure it would be more sensible to try to make it back to our respective homes- we were not going to get to Santa Fe to see the Senator and the thought of proceeding to Albuquerque seemed without reason, and, at least in my mind, might have made powerfully clear how close we'd come to the speech. Speaking with the operator at Route 66, I quickly realized I had no way of letting her know exactly where we were, as we'd not stopped near a mile marker. As a result, Alicia and I got out of Sophie and headed in opposite directions, seeking a mile posting. Minutes later, Alicia called me and said that a police officer had pulled over, told her the mile marker, and that I should start heading back. Moments later, the officer was just behind me, waiting with a smile to return me and Alicia to my injured minivan (if Sophie's personification disturbs some in the reading audience, all I can say is that, if you'd experienced her charming appearance and mind-blowing performance, you'd bask in her glory and think her much more than a vehicle, as well!).
After roughly an hour of rich discussion, during which Alicia reflected fondly of times spent traveling around Africa and, more specifically, an incredibly economical safari through Tanzania, D.J., our Route 66 tow-man and new-found friend, arrived to return us and our ailing minivan to Grants. Happy to be making progress, Alicia, D.J., and I headed west.
As we made our way toward Grants, we discussed coming to terms with, indeed becoming aware of, the privilege and guilt associated with being white in the United States. She reflected on and described times in her early childhood when she remembers having felt incredibly lucky for the color of her skin. I recalled one of my first days of school at Hillrise Elementary in Las Cruces, New Mexico, when a peer of mine named Ruben pushed me down and exclaimed annoyedly, 'white boy!' Before this point, I'd known that I was, indeed, white, but I'd never had my race called out so blatantly into the open, and, more importantly, never had I experienced my race used in an aggressive way against me. It was my first taste both of the disgusting discimination faced by myriad minority and other disaffected groups in this country, whom, for reasons entirely beyond their control, experience a lack of opportunity and equal footing, as well as the privilege attached to my whiteness, which, in most settings in this country, allows one to do whatever she or he pleases and have the expectation that she or he will be able to do so.
Once we reached the tiny town of Milan, New Mexico, just outside of Grants, a group of young, hard-working used tire salesmen greeted us and said they'd have us back on the road in no time. It was getting on 6:30, and I was quite relieved that these fellas had waited past the close of the business day to send us on our way. Alicia and I were parched and aiming for a drink, and we rejoiced at the welcome sight of an 'Allsups', New Mexico's de facto official convenience store, near-by. First, though, I had to square up with D.J. The towing bill was hefty, upwards of $200, but, again, I was able to pay the tab without a second thought, using a debit card, and knowing that, on Monday, I'd turn in the receipt at State Farm and begin the process toward a full refund. Again, my privileged economic status afforded me a peace of mind not enjoyed by millions of folks right here in this country. I wondered how their path, from blowout to Grants, would have differed from mine. Would they have had the means of getting a tow-truck? Could they have paid without suffering a severe financial setback? My mind raced.
Everyone should have the privilege of spending a Friday night in a gas station. As I dined on a dinner of Diet Coke and Rold Gold Pretzels, Alicia sippered her Allsup's coffee and told me of her grandfather, who'd served in WWII before moving into a successful career with EPA. I stated to Alicia my belief that, quixotically, the EPA had been created under the Nixon Administration. At first, she dismissed it, but then, after thinking more and becoming less and less sure, called a few family members to set the story straight. Imagine her surprise when her father confirmed that, indeed, the environmental watchdog had been created by Nixon, not exactly your champion of liberal causes.
Before long, an employee of the tire center entered Allsups and gave us word that Sophie was bandaged up and ready to go (much as Alicia and I had been fired up and ready to go a few hours before as we made our way toward Santa Fe and Obama). We returned to the shop, and I went inside to settle with my saviors of the evening. Happily, they handed me a bill that said "$28.33"- tire and labor included. My first thought was happiness at the incredibly reasonable price, rather than what it probably should have been- what, exactly, is the nature of this 'tire'?! Fortunately, one of the gentleman, after giving me some words on checking my vehicle before making a substantial road trip, assured me that he'd put a 'good tire' on Sophie, and that I should be fine. As I removed my debit card to pay the fellas, they informed that they only took cash, and I'd have to drive down the road to an ATM to settle up.
As I pulled out some items from my wallet to serve as collateral while I made my way to the ATM, I wondered again what I would have done if I did not have any money in my account or access to an ATM close by. Could I have gotten my car out of the shop? How would I have made my way home? What do folks without these options do? Again, I realized that I've never had to seriously entertain these notions because my financial status and privilege provided the security to avoid them. Again, my mind raced.
As Alicia and I hit the road back to her home near Ramah, we talked and talked and talked. I realized that, all in all, it had been an incredible, adventurous, and, yes, quite enjoyable night. We'd not seen the Senator by whom we feel ever so mystified, but each of us had a strange suspicion that we'd see him soon as a candidate for the presidency seeking to win New Mexico in the general election. The momentum Senator Obama has generated in the last few weeks and, more concentratedly, since his big win in South Carolina represents subject matter for another posting. However, each of us had a happy night- we'd had valuable conversation and learned a lot about one another. I'm happy to have shared the experience with Alicia and look forward to traveling to Israel and the West Bank with her over Spring Break.
The most important development of the evening, however, was the exposure I had to my economic privilege. As I drove home, the world opened up to me. I saw the Zuni Mountains before me and open land in every direction. I basked in the beauty of my native New Mexico. We truly are a lucky people in this state. The silent radio allowed my mind to wander, and I continued to reflect upon why I should have access to so much comfort and security, while others scrounge daily for some semblance of a safe existence. As I neared Highway 602, which would lead me the final stretch back to Gallup, I saw two cards pulled over on the side of the road, hazards on, clearly incapable of driving on. There was no tow-truck, just a couple of individuals outside, toiling in the frigid winter air. I wondered if they would make it to a warm bed later that night, and who would be there to greet them when they did. I wondered if they felt anger over their situation and marveled at the disparity between the way my situation had played out (i.e., waiting in a warm car for a tow-truck, riding back to a service station in the cab of a warm tow-truck, utilizing insurance to pay for the tow and the replacement of my tire, and driving home quickly and safely in my revamped Sophie) and the way in which their's seemed to be developing. I conclude, I think, that this disparity should alarm me. But alarm is not a bad thing unless it fails to move you to action. I have many reasons for wanting to make this world a more just, equitable place. I'm thankful that yesterday afternoon, evening, and night served as further motivation for this cause. Thanks for reading.
Guess blogger- Alicia Fitzpatrick
As the sun sank below the mesas I took a deep breath and became aware of my feet standing on the Earth for the first time since summer. That one moment of absolute grounding and connection with nature was already worth the blowout. I turned to face I-40 and quietly giggled to myself at the irony as I climbed back in Sofie.
Just earlier this week, Daniel and I engaged in a gmail chat about reason. We both believe that most things in life happen for a reason. I wondered if this was going to be an event that would fall under the “most” category or if this was just a random event that Daniel would get a good blog out of.
When it happened I had a stream of thoughts, “Wow, so this is what a blowout is like. There goes another chance of seeing Obama. I don’t even feel it. It must be a back tire. I thought it would be louder. Is there smoke coming from the tire? Yes! Wow! Daniel has really good control of the car. Is he going to pull over soon? I wonder how he is going to handle this situation. Is he going to remain cool? Will he get frustrated? I guess I will find out!” And so began a critical period of watching Daniel as he called the insurance and tow companies. Of course I was interested in how he handled an unforeseen potentially stressful situation because of our upcoming trip to the Middle East! He remained cool!
I had been looking forward to our road trip to Santa Fe, but I welcomed the unforeseen adventures that would unfold throughout the night. It turned out to be a night of firsts. I experienced my first blowout, a ride in the back of a police truck and in a tow truck, and I walked down I-40 with vehicles going past at 90 mph. But what I enjoyed the most was the conversation. With DJ driving the tow truck towards Grants we discussed our identities and privileges and their implications on the lives that we impact everyday as teachers on the Navajo and Zuni reservations. Discussing the construction of identity isn’t easy, but it is necessary to become comfortable with our privileges and to use them to create situations and experiences to empower others. I believe that is one of the most important roles as teachers.
Aside from having a great conversation and a few “firsts” I have to wonder if our course changed something in the lives of those we crossed that night. Two older Navajo women pulled over to see if we were ok, the Laguna police officer drove to us in response to a call, DJ drove the tow truck, the men at the tire shop stayed open to fix the tire, and Landon—a friend of Daniel’s—got our preferential seating at the Obama rally. Did our blowout change the course of any or all of these people? Or was this a message, a reminder, to Daniel and I about the importance of human connections? Was it a little of both? I like to think so.
All in all the night was a blast. Many laughs and stories were shared. And I have confidence that I will see Obama someday, but will probably use my car to get there! Daniel, we couldn’t make it to Santa Fe, but we will make it to the Dead Sea!
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