I. Distortions

During my final semester at the University of Maryland, I began to panic at the thought of graduation. What was I going to do after? When talking to classmates, some already had jobs waiting for them in LA or knew where they would stay in NY as they searched for work and auditioned for shows. Having passed up a chance to move to Chicago with AmeriCorps a couple of years before, I wanted to take another try at breaking away from DC. This time, I wanted New York.

Taking a professor’s advice to first find a job in NY before moving there, I began to search for opportunities and learned about the New York City Teaching Fellows program. It would not only give me a job but allow me to earn a Master’s in Education. I filled out their application, and within a few weeks I received a response. They wanted me to come up and interview, which included performing a mock lesson plan. I won’t bore you with the details of how it went, but something magical happened at the end of that long day. Not knowing if I had gotten the job, I climbed onto the bus at Port Authority and settled into my seat. Soon, the bus started up, and the operator turned on her mic to introduce herself and go over rules. “Good evening. My name is Trudie. I will be your driver to Washington, DC this evening.” My eyes opened wide as I smiled. Trudie. My mother’s name. A rare name. I got the job!

I have no idea why the Universe moves its creations in such an organized chaotic way, nor should I. It’s been doing its thing long before I was ever conceived of and will continue to do so long after this incarnation ends. It places us in the location we need to be at just the right time, or away from a location at just the right time. Think of the people who were supposed to be at work in the Twin Towers on 9/11 but were running late or decided last minute to call out and go fishing. But then you have to ask, what about those who did clock in that morning? Again, I don’t know. The Universe does what it does, shifting our movements through thoughts, moods, stalled subway trains, and lost keys. Our only job is to remember that the Universe has us and to be present for each moment. To always reach for that inner light as we transmute each personal experience into the collective celestial dance.

After officially learning that I landed the teaching job, I was at home on Capitol Hill one afternoon watching TV. As my program switched to a commercial, an image of young school kids appeared, and I experienced a surprisingly strong visceral reaction. My stomach dropped, and I immediately pulled my body away from the screen. “That’s not a good sign,” I thought to myself. Not wanting to look any further into my feelings due to the upcoming move, I pushed the moment away. I was going to New York.

“Yes, you are going to New York,” said the Universe. “But you will not remain a school teacher for long.”

“Then what will become of me?”

“Follow my lead and you shall see.”

It’s true. I didn’t remain a teacher for long. After graduating in May, I quickly moved into a loft in Ft. Green with a photographer, musician, two dogs, a cat, and more than a few water bugs. I made it through the summer orientation and classes and successfully found placement as a first-grade teacher at a combined elementary and middle school in Brownsville. By mid-August, I was preparing my classroom.

My new school was modern and the principal, who hired me on the spot while visiting that summer, seemed approachable. Although the neighborhood had a bad reputation, I didn’t feel threatened or out of place. Across the hall from my classroom was another teaching fellow, which helped me feel less nervous. And then there was that fateful moment each day when my students took their seats and I closed the classroom door. It was time to teach. But what the hell was I supposed to be teaching? I was never quite sure.

My first grade class was made up of the talented and gifted students. And let me tell you, being smart does not mean calm and quiet. They were the smartest and the loudest out of all the first graders. “Don’t worry, Mr. Lawrence, they were like that last year,” said the gym teacher one afternoon as I struggled to keep our class line in order.

The most interesting thing I noticed about my students were, they could quickly read each other and figure out who was in the wrong class.  Within the first month, the students scanned and locked in on anyone lost and confused—basically pointing at the child as a collective and saying, “Not one of us.” When identified, each student was politely moved to a classroom that better matched their needs. In doing so, we were able to keep a good momentum. Where we were going at such a fast pace, I did not know. But we were on our way.

When returning to school each day, I would gather up the courage to be better than the day before. “Mr. Lawrence, you are always the last one out with the kids. You need to be faster. We have places to be,” said a frustrated parent at the end of the school day. Then a father wanted to meet with me and the principal because I gave his son a C on an assignment when he was used to excelling in everything he did. I apparently made the boy cry. During the meeting, the principal suggested, “Why don’t you try smiley faces instead of letter grades.” Now I was seriously lost. How was I supposed to measure my kids’ abilities with smiley faces?

The most eye opening day in terms of how well my kids were doing was when the principal instructed me to observe the head first-grade teacher’s class. Apparently, I tended to yell when my kids were out of control, which was all of the time. The principal therefore thought it wise that I observe how others managed their students. I was grateful for the opportunity.

When visiting the class of the head first-grade teacher, I watched as she asked a student to place his book in his desk. The child looked at her with big eyes and did nothing. She asked him again to place the book in his desk. The child placed the book on his desk. She repeated herself, and the child placed the book on the floor under his desk. The teacher then said, “This is on your desk, this is under your desk, this is in your desk,” as she performed all three positions for him to see. In that moment, I understood how special my students were. And in seeing their intellect in comparison to those in other classes, I adored my class! They were able to take in so much more than the average 6 year old, which meant I could communicate with them at a level I hadn’t fully realized.

For example, while the head teacher was helping students learn on, in, and under, I was losing my cool because my students never used commas. This made their writing blocky and boring. They understood how to write a sentence. They understood how to form a paragraph. Yet, for some reason, they didn’t know how to use a comma in order to create a poetic pause or make two clunky sentences into one that was more palatable. Frustrated, I made a lesson plan to help solve the problem. The easiest way I could think of teaching how to place a comma was by using the breath. I wrote a list of sentences on the board without placing a comma and we read them together. As everyone took an audible breath at the same time while reading each sentence, I would stop and say, “Did you hear that? Did you hear the breath? Comma!” By teaching it this way, they could allow their own breath to help them detect where a comma might be useful. They also would begin to notice how punctuation affected their breath and therefore could affect their emotions. Or so I hoped.

By the end of October, I was doing better as a teacher. I no longer had to constantly yell at my students. Now more aware of the mental abilities of the class, it occurred to me that if I lost control, one of three things happened. One, I didn’t explain the instructions clearly. Two, I was going too fast and lost them. Or three, I was going too slow and bored them. If ever I lost control, I would simply ask, which one of the three am I doing? It was no longer about what they were doing wrong, but what did I do wrong. Once I spotted the error, I would make the correction and calm would return.

Sometimes, I would allow a child to break a rule because I knew it was in their best interest. Like the day Jesus didn’t want to read with the class and took it upon himself to wander around the room reading words on his own. At the start of the semester, I would have yelled. But now, my mind quickly recalled his mother being concerned because he doesn’t like to read. As I continued to read with the class, I kept and eye on Jesus as he independently became acquainted with the words around the room. Allowing myself to observe his relationship with reading, and wanting to make it a positive one.

There are only two moments that haunt from my short time as a teacher. One is how I left. I gave an official notice to my principal during my mid-semester review. The week before, he had observed my class on Halloween day. The head first grade teacher was horrified that he would observe my class on a day when all the teachers would be struggling to control their students. By now, I was not worried. I knew my students and I knew that scolding them or threatening them would have been useless. Instead, I focused on the positive. I told them how amazing they were and how the principal wanted to visit after hearing so many great things. He wanted to see how special the class was for himself. And that is exactly what my students let him see. They were so well behaved my wildest student, a child no other teacher would take, (“We all have one, Mr. Lawrence. He’s yours.”) would have peed on himself had not the principal asked me why his finger was in the air. So focused on the lesson, I had missed it. Eyes darting towards the child shaking in his chair, I apologized and told him to go. He ran. They did me proud.

“You’re a natural teacher,” the principal said at at the start of the review. “Thank you, but I have to leave,” I responded. I felt too lost, and the discomfort in the role was draining me. Even my new New York boyfriend had become concerned and protective when he saw how quickly the new role was changing me for the worse. Instead of accepting my decision, the principal placed more pressure on me. He was about to become tenured and needed perfection this school year. I could harm his image if I left. He instructed two counselors to stay on top of me, demanding that I stay.

One Friday, as the students were away for lunch, I decided it was going to be my last Friday. I scanned the room to see what was important to take if I should never come back. My eyes landed on a book. It was Xavier’s favorite book. Xavier was apparently from one of the roughest families in Brownsville. “He’s going to grow up to be a criminal,” said one teacher. “He’s one of my smartest students,” I replied. I met his older cousin, who seemed like a nice kid, too. And that is probably why I was already beginning to be noticed by some of the older students, many saying hi to me in the hall even though I had no clue who they were. Because I was learning to see them.

My favorite moment with Xavier was on a day I was rushing to get the students out to their families on time. The class was much calmer at this point, but they were still struggling with staying in order when moving through the halls. I called for the kids to line up to leave, and Xavier remained in his seat with his head on the desk. “Xavier, let’s go,” I yelled. Nothing. Not wanting to waste time, I picked him up, and his head fell on my shoulder. I looked at the rest of the students and saw they had made a perfect line. As we made our way through the halls, the principal spotted me and said, “Mr. Lawrence, is something wrong with that student?” Hearing the principal’s voice, Xavier lifted his head, wide awake. He had tricked me. As I processed his prank, I realized why. The kid from one of the “baddest” families, who is supposed to be a future criminal, probably rarely had moments like this one. And being as smart as he is, he found a way to experience it. I placed Xavier down, and we proceeded to make our way outside.

On that final Friday as his first-grade teacher, I grabbed Xavier’s favorite book and told him I wanted him to have it. I told him to never stop reading and to not listen when others refused to acknowledge his intelligence—that he was smart and amazing. A classmate seated next to him sensed what was happening and asked if I was leaving them. “No,” I said.

The second moment is when I turned in a student’s hateful letter to my head first-grade teacher due to not knowing how to handle the situation. When cleaning up the classroom one afternoon, a note fell out of a student’s desk. I picked it up and was shocked by the violent words a student had written to her classmate, even calling her a bitch. Although I was impressed by the child’s ability to write such a letter, even if she failed to use a comma, the letter itself was very inappropriate. The head first-grade teacher quickly made the decision to remove the child from my class. This decision concerned me because I knew how far behind the average first-grade student was. I feared that such a decision would put the girl behind permanently, as well as distort how she saw herself. Yes, she did something bad, but she was not bad. To me, it would have been better to simply meet with the parents and discuss the situation openly, then monitor how the girls got along after that. But that was not an option to the head first-grade teacher. The decision was made and the student was removed.

Not long after, on that final Friday, I was walking to the train and remembered that the student who had written the note would always wave from her window as I passed by. I had been so overwhelmed and in my head the past few weeks that I had neglected to look up. This day, this final day, I did. I was shocked to see only black behind a torn screen flapping in the wind. Empty. I realized something must be occurring with her family. Her angry note was a sign that she was struggling and we responded by hurting her more. I had failed her.

I think of this student often, wanting to ask her to forgive me—for not being able to sense that she was in trouble. I pray that she did not allow that moment to affect how she saw herself and her potential, even though I know it most likely did. Children, even the talented and gifted ones, usually can’t think their way through emotional events as adults should be able to. Everything is personal and acts as evidence of how much they are valued by those they love. Even as an adult, I struggle to not allow the hurtful actions of others influence my sense of worth and what I believe I am capable of achieving. Therefore, imagine how a six-year-old must struggle after not only losing the home they know, but their teacher and classmates too. Imagine being six and your father never comes back. Suicide, they say. His decision. Cracks begin to appear in the mirror and one’s image is fractured. A distorted self-image at such a young age may take years, if not a lifetime, to correct.

What do you see when you look in the mirror? Do you see someone worthy of kindness and love? Someone you would fight for if threatened? Someone you are proud to claim as your own, flaws and all? You should.

What do you see when you look at the world around you? Do you see your fellow man and woman, all struggling to figure it out? All with their own insecurities, strengths, weaknesses, and traumas appearing and disappearing throughout the day? Or do you simply place them on a sliding scale of those who are better, equal, or beneath you?

Do you scowl when you see someone attractive? Roll your eyes? Try to knock them down a notch to feel a bit better?

While walking through the crowd, take the time to notice yourself noticing others. Then ask, what is it about me that causes my reaction toward others? What story am I telling myself about them and about me?

Permit your inner self to stand naked in front of your mind. Look at yourself from different mental angles. As you do, accept what you see without judgment. Instead of saying that it’s good or bad, go deeper. Listen and make room for the various versions of yourself, some of which may never have had a chance to be fully expressed. See yourself. Be seen.