(no subject)
A couple days ago I woke up to the realization that I've been battling a mild depression since Fuente. I greeted the day noticing the all-too-familiar symptoms -- random insomnia, fatigue throughout the day, disinterest in work, and a general negative outlook when in reality nothing is wrong. Even Shoghi, with his infinite good cheer and patience, has recently had trouble getting me to arise from the funk. (Not a day goes by that I don't thank the powers that be for gifting me this invaluable partner in crime who does his best to mentor me out of all useless emotional drivel.)
Luckily, the faster I realize that an official chemical aberration is the cause of my listlessness, the faster I know to snap the hell out of it. But nothing makes me want to destroy my self-piteous distraction like what happened in my classroom later that day.
I have a student named Victor Santiago. He is a runt of boy, eleven, but looks eight, with large black eyes and sneaky dimples. He reminds me of an African-folktale trickster character who uncharacteristically displays a rather sweet disposition (only if he has decided he likes you, of course). There are many assignments he does not do for my class, including the final written portion of a project I assigned them over a month ago. I demanded he stay in my class after school and git-er-done to receive a C- on the project as a whole. The questions I asked on the project are a three-question series that were meant to aid a student in understanding the purpose of myths: Who are the characters, what does it tell you about human nature, and what does the myth explain about the world.
Once he finished, Victor walked up to me with his chicken-scratched lined paper, and I thought "hallelujah, a finished assignment!" He handed it to me with a nervous smile and turned to go as I glanced over it. A sentence caught my eye: "The thing that is explains about human nature is the people look up to the sky and thank Zeus for giving them fire." I called him back.
"Victor, sweetie, your answer doesn't make sense. What do you mean by that?" He looked at me blankly and seemed uncomfortable. "Do you understand the question?" He shrugged. I continued, "The question I am asking is more about how the Gods act like humans. You see, you know how there is a version of God in our Christian faith?" He nodded, his very black eyebrows furrowing to concentrate on my face. I asked him "Do you go to church?"
"Sometimes..." he responded.
I continued, "Well, what is the God that Christians believe in like? Is he perfect or human or... what? How does he behave?"
Victor looked puzzled for a moment, trying to guess my answer. Another student in the back of the classroom piped up "No, he's absolutely perfect because he died on the cross for our sins!"
"Yes, Ashely, that's right. The Christian god is perceived as perfect, but the Greek gods were extremely human. They loved and lost and felt jealous and got angry at each other all the time. They were very much like us. Understand? Go read the story again, Victor--actually, bring it here to me."
The story is about Prometheus and his gift of fire to the humans, and Zeus' subsequent anger and rather severe punishment to Prometheus. Victor walked a few feet to a student desk and brought me the story. I read through the first paragraph and explained the gift of fire to the humans. Then I came across a sentence that exemplified how the gods mirror human emotion, and I asked him to read it aloud to me.
The sentence was about twenty words long. As he read, he stumbled over pronouncing unfamiliar words, some as simple as the word "flickering"... and of the twenty, there were four essential words he needed help to pronounce. I started an improptu lesson on context clues for figuring out the definitions, but soon realized that if he didn't understand twenty percent of what he was reading, the lesson was useless. The words he didn't know included "appeased," "savory," and "nostrils." And I came to a most shameful realization that he simply could not read the text I gave him. I doubt Victor can read above a typical second-grade level right now. I felt this inexplicable stinging guilt for giving him something he couldn't do.
As he blundered painfully through that simple sentence, I noticed his upper lip was sorely chapped. It was spotted and cracked, a stark contrast to his perfectly smooth lower lip.
"Your lips is really chapped, isn't it?" I asked, to divert attention from the offending text in front of us.
"Yeah." He nodded, perhaps puzzled by the sudden change in the subject. "Ms. Lily, am I going to get a bad grade on the project?"
"No, Victor. I realize now you really can't read what I gave you, and that's not fair, is it?" He shook his head, with a sheepish smile playing across his chapped lip. "We're going to have to start working together to get your reading level up, honey. We'll start next week. I'll find a book you like, if you''ll come."
"Yes, Ms. Lily. I'll come read with you."
"Good. We'll start next week."
Yes, very good, for the both of us, Victor. You can learn to read something you like, and I can concentrate on finding that thing and getting my head out of my ass.
Luckily, the faster I realize that an official chemical aberration is the cause of my listlessness, the faster I know to snap the hell out of it. But nothing makes me want to destroy my self-piteous distraction like what happened in my classroom later that day.
I have a student named Victor Santiago. He is a runt of boy, eleven, but looks eight, with large black eyes and sneaky dimples. He reminds me of an African-folktale trickster character who uncharacteristically displays a rather sweet disposition (only if he has decided he likes you, of course). There are many assignments he does not do for my class, including the final written portion of a project I assigned them over a month ago. I demanded he stay in my class after school and git-er-done to receive a C- on the project as a whole. The questions I asked on the project are a three-question series that were meant to aid a student in understanding the purpose of myths: Who are the characters, what does it tell you about human nature, and what does the myth explain about the world.
Once he finished, Victor walked up to me with his chicken-scratched lined paper, and I thought "hallelujah, a finished assignment!" He handed it to me with a nervous smile and turned to go as I glanced over it. A sentence caught my eye: "The thing that is explains about human nature is the people look up to the sky and thank Zeus for giving them fire." I called him back.
"Victor, sweetie, your answer doesn't make sense. What do you mean by that?" He looked at me blankly and seemed uncomfortable. "Do you understand the question?" He shrugged. I continued, "The question I am asking is more about how the Gods act like humans. You see, you know how there is a version of God in our Christian faith?" He nodded, his very black eyebrows furrowing to concentrate on my face. I asked him "Do you go to church?"
"Sometimes..." he responded.
I continued, "Well, what is the God that Christians believe in like? Is he perfect or human or... what? How does he behave?"
Victor looked puzzled for a moment, trying to guess my answer. Another student in the back of the classroom piped up "No, he's absolutely perfect because he died on the cross for our sins!"
"Yes, Ashely, that's right. The Christian god is perceived as perfect, but the Greek gods were extremely human. They loved and lost and felt jealous and got angry at each other all the time. They were very much like us. Understand? Go read the story again, Victor--actually, bring it here to me."
The story is about Prometheus and his gift of fire to the humans, and Zeus' subsequent anger and rather severe punishment to Prometheus. Victor walked a few feet to a student desk and brought me the story. I read through the first paragraph and explained the gift of fire to the humans. Then I came across a sentence that exemplified how the gods mirror human emotion, and I asked him to read it aloud to me.
The sentence was about twenty words long. As he read, he stumbled over pronouncing unfamiliar words, some as simple as the word "flickering"... and of the twenty, there were four essential words he needed help to pronounce. I started an improptu lesson on context clues for figuring out the definitions, but soon realized that if he didn't understand twenty percent of what he was reading, the lesson was useless. The words he didn't know included "appeased," "savory," and "nostrils." And I came to a most shameful realization that he simply could not read the text I gave him. I doubt Victor can read above a typical second-grade level right now. I felt this inexplicable stinging guilt for giving him something he couldn't do.
As he blundered painfully through that simple sentence, I noticed his upper lip was sorely chapped. It was spotted and cracked, a stark contrast to his perfectly smooth lower lip.
"Your lips is really chapped, isn't it?" I asked, to divert attention from the offending text in front of us.
"Yeah." He nodded, perhaps puzzled by the sudden change in the subject. "Ms. Lily, am I going to get a bad grade on the project?"
"No, Victor. I realize now you really can't read what I gave you, and that's not fair, is it?" He shook his head, with a sheepish smile playing across his chapped lip. "We're going to have to start working together to get your reading level up, honey. We'll start next week. I'll find a book you like, if you''ll come."
"Yes, Ms. Lily. I'll come read with you."
"Good. We'll start next week."
Yes, very good, for the both of us, Victor. You can learn to read something you like, and I can concentrate on finding that thing and getting my head out of my ass.