Day 2 In Cuba: Old Cars, Long Meetings, and a Little Cha Cha

Day 2 In Cuba

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

I am still pinching myself—I am in Havana.  Old cars cruise the street.  Music blares from apartments.  Laundry hangs over balcony walls.  Dogs roam the sidewalks.  Old women smoke cigars.  People everywhere are falling in love.

Looking at our agenda, I would say that today was probably the most difficult day for me. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I cannot sit still long.  Meetings that stretch for hours leave me doodling or pacing in the back of the room, and no matter how compelling the speaker or the subject, I lose interest and become impatient, antsy, and rammy.  Unfortunately, I experienced this a bit today—an engaging, charismatic teacher—one who was part of Castro’s original literacy movement 5o years ago ran a session for us to inform us about Cuba’s education setup.  Sarah Daisy, our guide/escort/interpreter for the week translated her words.  But the lilt of the words and the cadence of the Spanish began to lull me, and I once again found myself standing in the back of the room. 

That being said, the professor’s session was incredibly informative and struck a cord with me, as she kept mentioning the importance of family and community involvement with their schools.  Cuba underwent a huge public awareness campaign called “Educate Your Son” (yes, I know, I too have a problem with this title…) that really brought the importance of early childhood education (0-5 years) to the forefront of parenting.  The campaign reminds parents that they are the most important resource for their children in those early years.  She talked about how decisions for children are made with the families and how they are involved with the school.  It was very impressive.

Before our next meeting, we had an hour of free time, and so my new friend Peggy and I hit the pavement and explored the neighborhood taking pictures, meeting new people, and just soaking it all in.  The streets of Cuba teem with life and color.

We then traveled over to the organization that is hosting us and met a lovely woman who spoke to us about how they work with other international organizations.  We discussed political issues—particularly the one with the Cuban 5—five men who have been arrested in the US and are being detained and accused of terrorism.  It is very interesting to read the US version and then to hear the Cuba version.  It makes you realize the different perspectives that emerge from cultures.  It also makes you realize that Cuba may not be the only place that uses propaganda.  I am finding myself wondering how much of it we are fed ourselves.

We had a city bus tour, and this would be my third bus tour this year.  DC, Huntsville, and now Havana.  All I will say is I hate bus tours and ended up falling asleep. 

With an hour and a half back at the hotel, I finally got out for a run along the pathway that weaves alongside the waterfront—the Atlantic on one side, Havana on your other.  The intense pollution, uneven tar, inhibiting heat, and ridiculous machismo of the men sitting on the seawall, riding their bikes, or just driving by, made running difficult, but  how often do you get to run in Havana?

Dinner was heavenly—and I was able to rouse my delegation to some dancing to the cha cha band; we even got the cook and waiters to dance with us.  But it was a restaurant for tourists, and I am desperately wanting to find my way into the real Cuba to talk to real Cubans.  I asked Sarah Daisy about this, and she told me that tomorrow when I am free for the afternoon to just start talking to people and adventure will find me.  I want to eat at roadside stands and walk crumbling streets.  I want to hear people’s stories.  I think I can talk a couple of the other delegates into this as well.  I was not able to successfully convince anybody to hit up the jazz club across the street tonight, but I’m working on it.

My vegetarianism doesn’t quite fit into the pork pork pork diet here, but they are delighted that I eat fish, and so I have had fish for four straight meals.  It has all been delicious, but I wonder how much fish I will have eaten by the end of the week!

I miss my TOY friends—we would have a blast here together and it feels odd to be on a trip without them.  And I miss my family.  My husband and I travel well together, and there are so many times I wish I could turn to him to exclaim over something.  Tomorrow we get to explore on our own.  My goals:  find some souvenirs, ride in a big old car, dance with a Cuban, and talk with a child. I just want to absorb it all. So I am.

Day One In Cuba--Entering Surreality

Monday, October 10, 2011 11:06 pm

Day 1

Cuba.  I am in Cuba sitting on a bizarrely large bed made up of two double beds pushed together (thanking whoever the room gods are that I don’t have a roommate) in a room that overlooks the city skyline of Havana.  The air outside is humid, and while I know I should be tucked in, putting myself to sleep, contagious Latino excitement fills the air.  Today is a national holiday for Cubans, and the streets are lined with people sitting alongside the ocean.  The jazz club across the street exudes waves of blue and green lights, and the mojitos here slide down a little too easily.  Sleep eludes me.

This morning—which feels a lifetime ago—I started out in Miami.  After a late night of couch talk with my old high school friend, I awoke this morning and strolled down to an Argentinian bakery and sat outside eating croissants and drinking fresh squeezed orange juice reminiscent of Mexico.  When I arrived at the airport, I found myself in a terminal that did not compare to any my other flight experiences.  Men resembling Oompah Loompas in their black outfits with neon green stripes around their midsection canvassed the terminal, convincing passengers to excessively wrap their luggage in neon green plastic wrap.  English was barely heard anywhere, and the counters were barely labeled with small signs of airlines I have never heard of.  Police officers rode through the hallways on mountain bikes.  When I looked out the window, it was obvious we were in a very remote area of the Miami International Airport. 

I walked around a bit and finally found my airline—Sky King.  (Really.)  And then I found the rest of my delegation—a diverse group of mostly university professors from around the country (except dear Rebecca, who made a very long trip from Uganda).  They stood in a group to the left of a long, snaking line full of Cubans with carts stacked unimaginably high with neon green packages—TVs, fans, tires, and bags and bags of who-knows-what-kind-of-stuff.  We got our boarding passes and checked our luggage.  Apparently, you can fly out of Miami directly to Cuba.   Who knew? Everything appeared to be normal, until the attendant came around with a pad of paper and publicly took down everybody’s body weight.  It was definitely an icebreaking moment of unexpected group intimacy, but I was suddenly a bit nervous about the possibility of a delicately balanced airplane.

We then received notice that our flight was delayed by 3 hours, so settled into a hotel lobby to meet.  Quick introductions indicated that we have a group of all women who, while committed to research and literacy, are truly part of this delegation because of the desire to visit Cuba.  Adventurists at heart, we will find excellent companionship among one another, I think.

Security and the flight were surprisingly uneventful.  The plane was large, and the landing was one of the smoothest and most relaxing I have experienced.  We caught sight of Havana outside our window, and then swooped over the lush, green countryside skimming the landscape for some time—so low we could see the details of palm trees and cars on the highway.  Perhaps this was a piece of propaganda to show us the beauty of the land? I appreciated it.  

Inside the Havana airport my picture was taken in Customs and I was made aware that intricately designed fishnet stockings are the current trend for the women workers at the airport.  We waited for some time for our luggage and then left the interior.  A large crowd awaited their families’ arrival outside—it looked like a Beatles concert—people reaching over the gate, cheering when a recognized face emerged.

We got a brief taste of the gorgeous scenery and old cars that await our cameras over the next few days and met our personal tour guide—Sarah Daisy—an articulate, honest, engaging Cuban.  “Ask me a question, and tell me what kind of answer you want,” she cheerfully told us.  “The official answer, or the regular citizen answer.”  She is honest in the struggles of Cuba, but also revels in its successes.  She is a wealth of knowledge and tells interesting stories.  She asks that we cast no judgment on her country until we’ve examined it closely.  I’m looking forward to spending the week with her.  Our hotel is a 5 star hotel that sits alongside the Carribean and my room is on the 13^th floor, on which the elevator does not appear to want to stop.

Dinner was served in Old Havana—a maze of cobblestone streets and old, brick austerity.  Cats meander across the architecture 20 feet in the air.  Dogs laze around in the square.  Families play with their kids.  Women with baskets of fruit on their head, smoking cigars ask for money.  Mojitos are served with meals and the fish is simply to die for.  The heat does not break.

I exchanged US dollars for CUCs at the hotel and went across the street to a small market where I had to spend $8.40 CUCs for a 12 pack of bottled water (approximately $9 USD).  But I am supposed to run tomorrow, and already feel dehydrated.  I cannot figure out how to log on to the Internet, for which I also had to pay, but will attempt that in the morning.  The walls are thin; I can hear the mopeds zooming by on the streets and the couple next door engaged in a lively conversation.  Propaganda about America and Castro line the downstairs lobby hallway.  They clearly know who their audience is.

Tomorrow we begin our explorations.  I am anxious to start thinking about literacy rates, healthcare, and the desire for socialism.  My readings have reinforced the importance that I cannot look at the culture through my American lense.  There are two sides to every story, and this story, I believe will be an interwoven one full of the complexities of humanity, struggle, and justice.

Testing Season

'Tis the season.

For eight straight days, my 8th graders are settling into my room, uncustomarily set up in sterile rows facing front, handed #2 pencils, and asked to sit in silence for over an hour to complete their NECAPs.  It does not feel natural, and the students comment that they do not feel at home in here, in this setup.

But they listen attentively as I read aloud the same instructions they have heard for the past five years.  The same instructions that all students across the state and New England are hearing.  They do not feel as though I am personalizing their instruction.  They do not like that I cannot help them or guide them.  Yet, they still open their booklets, at the same time, and begin to read and write.  They use up every last minute allotted to them.  They fill their spaces.  I watch them and hope that all I've taught them about reading for information and writing about texts will become evident here, because even though this test was never intended to test my teaching, it is used in that way.

As a teacher who often works from intuition, who knows that science and data cannot name or dictate all parts of life, my first instinct is to criticize standardized testing in schools:  there is irrefutable research that shows that noninstructional factors--like poverty, parent education, and community--explain most of the variances between school districts.  When the 2010 PISA scores were examined closely, the only consistent correlation between achievement and another factor they could find was that between student achievement and parent education.  And when teacher accountability and performance is tied in with test scores gains, there is a 26 percent error rate. Clearly these are red flags. 

Yet, I am also a teacher who loves data.  I analyze what my students know and then use that to drive my instruction--because that's what we should be doing.  We should be able to justify every single moment of teaching in the classroom.  And to do this, one must test; it is inevitable.  Testing is not perfect.  It can be biased, and accuracy can be thrown by too many personal issues that students carry in the door with them--they will be the first to admit that.  But this imperfect source of gathering information is a place to start. 

I talk to my kids about all of this.  I go over their scores with them, so they know where they can improve.  We talk about what these scores mean and what we need to do in the classroom together over the course of the year.  I do not teach to the test.  I teach my curriculum, and I must do so with confidence that the test is aligned with my curriculum.  I explain each part of my curriculum to my students and tell them why it is important.  I listen to their frustrations about testing, but watch them pour over the data.  They see value in this, too, despite the obvious imperfections.

Amidst all of the criticism of standardized testing, voices of reason fail to emerge.  We need reform in this area, absolutely, but we need not throw the baby out with the bathwater. We need to push for more adaptive testing that indicates growth and not status. If policy makers had included educators in the decisions that led to this test-heavy educational environment, we may have arrived here earlier.  Once again, we are reminded that teachers, the experts, need to be the guiding voice in these kinds of decisions and educational policy.  But we do eventually learn from our mistakes.  New testing practices that are being examined do adopt better practices, and educators are being included in the conversations.  For the time being, however, we must embrace what positive we can from our imperfect system and use it to benefit our students.

Goodbyes

“Let me say before we part, so much of me is made of what I learned from you.  You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart.  And know whatever way our stories end, I know you have re-written mine by being my friend...” ~Elphaba (from Wicked)

Jay Maebori, WA

There is physical pain in saying goodbye for me.  I feel it when my 8^th graders graduate or when a student moves away.  But the heaviness that squeezes my heart today after having said goodbye to the other 2011 State Teachers of the Year is nearly suffocating.

Wilma Ortiz, MA

We have met as a cohort four times over the course of this year—in Dallas, where we were prepped for the year; in DC where we were set forth to use our voices; in Alabama where we learned to take risks; and finally, this last trip in New Jersey and New York City where we were able to process our insecurities, confusions, dreams, and futures.

Jennifer Facciolini, NC

The relationships built through these trips have grown to become part of our identities, both professionally and personally. I know what this looks like from the outside. We have, after all, only spent a total of 22 days out of 8 months in one another’s company; it sounds absurdly shallow to say that these are some of my best friends.  But we have been woven together during a time when we are juggling the complexities of new roles and being immersed in experiences at home and nationally that have changed who we are.  Not one of the 55 of us is the same teacher or person we were a year ago.  And in the midst of exciting, turbulent change, we have needed to reach out to those who fully understand, simply because they are experiencing the same.  And I think this is a difficult concept for many of our colleagues, friends, and families to accept. 

Erika Webb, KY

And I understand.  Because how is it possible to fully describe my preciously wild Wilma, who embraces me each time we meet and reaches out to hold my hand during dinner?  Or my steadfast Jennifer who lets me curl up on her bed in my pajamas in the middle of the night, and then says just the right things to ease my mind?  How do I explain that my beautiful Erika’s spirit is so much the same as mine, that the very first time we met, we fell into a conversation like old friends?  There is no way to articulate my comrade Jay’s ability to make me laugh aloud at absurdities, and then moments later delve into a serious discussion about pedagogy, a good novel, or humanity.  And words cannot accurately capture the treasured friendship of my dear Paul, whose honest, forthright conversations have accompanied me on many long meanderings through Alabama heat, city traffic, and riverside trails.

Paul Andersen, MT

These are my people.  And I have fallen in love with them. They have reinvigorated my teaching and challenged my thinking.  They are part of what defines me.  They have left “handprints on my heart.” There are many things that have taken me by surprise this year, but nobody prepared me for the intensity of the friendships I would build, nor the heartache of leaving those people on a warm September morning in Times Square.  

But then I remember,  we were all brought together because we can make amazing things happen—and there’s nothing so amazing about visiting an old friend. We’ll see each other again. It’s what friends do, after all.

A Little Honest Reflection

"And, because there was an honesty about all that was going on, it connected with the people in the street." ~Ben E. King

Confession: I did not want to return to school this year.

 In the days leading up, I agonized over how to stay upbeat and positive in the classroom, how to pretend I cared during endless meetings, and how to invest the time necessary to do a good job. I confided in my husband that I wanted a job that didn't overwhelm me--one that didn't overtake my life. I daydreamed about writing books, public speaking, consulting...anything but the classroom.

Before speaking at three inservices, I broke down to a friend that I felt like a complete fraud. How can I stand in front of what totaled thousands of teachers and inspire them to go out into their field and take on the world, when I didn't feel like I had the strength to do so myself?

And so I resigned to starting my year with a "fake it til you make it" kind of attitude, feeling the word fraud emblazened upon my forehead.

But I didn’t have to fake it.  Because as soon as real live kids walked through those doors, I fell in love with teaching all over again. It is nearly impossible to break away from clichés when you are talking about love, I tell my students when they are writing, and that is how I feel when I talk about teaching.  Teaching is love for me. A breath of fresh air, a drink of cold water, contagious energy…it’s all there.  I was immediately engulfed in their very joy of living.  Did I really contemplate not spending my days with such an amazing creature as the middle school student?

When I arrived home from school one day last week, I joyfully declared to my husband, "You will be happy to know, that I love my job." He smiled at me, wearing that smug, "I told you so" kind of look, and reminded me that he had actually ignored all of my griping. "I knew," he said, "that as soon as you got back in the classroom with the kids you'd be fine. It's who you are--what else could you be but a teacher?"

He's right. The other day I watched some of my students play with a professional musician as part of our Artist In Residence program, and I left the room crying because the joy on their faces spoke so strongly to me. A student wrote about me, "It sounds like Mrs. Miller has a great family, but what I love about her is that she treats us like we're her family too." I have had parents thank me and I have watched students' eyes come alive as they understand a new concept. I have already had to sit and have some really difficult conversations with students that led to productive decisions. I often come home feeling like I have triumphed. I laugh out loud every single day at my job. How many people laugh out loud countless times every single day because of their work?

I love teaching. What else would I do?

But I don't do well with hiding my feelings, and I feel like part of my job is to be honest with fellow teachers. Know that these confessions do not come easily, because I have been criticized heavily for my honesty this year. However, when I step back and look at where the criticism has come from, it has never once come from teachers. The teachers I have worked with over the past year have thanked me for saying what they feel they can't say (although I argue each time that they too can say these things), and have greeted me so kindly with their support. It is those not in the classroom who expect us to defy the forces of human emotion and smile without acknowledgement of the difficulties we face each day.

Sometimes we just need to hear from one another.  We tend to suffer in silence, feeling as though nobody else understands.  But it’s okay to confess.  It’s okay to be real. We just need to remember that there is a reason why we came into teaching—the kids. And we need to forget the other stuff and embrace the learning and life that exists in our classrooms. And be honest about it. Because only with honesty do we find the truth.

Ten Great Things About the First Day of School

After kissing my oldest daughter goodbye at 2 am before she headed off to Chicago for college, being left with an empty gas tank (and all the gas stations in town are under water because of the flooding from Irene), leaving my plan book at home, and not being able to access my emails where all of our schedules and locker numbers exist, I was thinking today shouldn't be the first day of school.  It seemed too foreboding of bad luck and catastrophe.  But then the students came in and breathed life into this empty building, and I was again reminded why I love the first day of school.  My ten great things about the first day are:

1.  A group of students stands outside my classroom door reading the thank you notes from the Holderness Town Library and the Joplin, Missouri Goodwill office in which our students' generosity from last spring is applauded.

2.  A sixth grader looks down at his toes and back up the length of his body, and then says to me, "I just don't think I'm big enough to be in sixth grade."

3.  Students arrive with feathers in their hair, pink stripes, darker colors, daring cuts...so bold and confident of their ability to be themselves.

4.  When I ask my sixth graders how summer reading was--if it was too much--they yell in chorus, "No way!"  One kid looks up at me and says, "I love the challenge.  It was fun."

5.  An eighth grader grabs me and says, "I can't wait to come to your class--and I have it last, just like last year!"

6.  Our seventh and eighth graders walk in, sit down, and prove why looping is so beneficial.  No introductions, no expectations, no testing boundaries.  They know us.  We know them.  And we work--right from the moment they sit down.

7.  I measure my advisees--some have them have grown 5 inches in the past year--but not only are they taller; their voices are deeper, their wits sharper, and their ability to express themselves clearer.  It's amazing to watch this transformation that only occurs in the middle level grades.


8.  An observer and future teacher who follows the students today to get a  picture of what the first day of school looks like in middle school, comes to our team at the end of the day and tells us each teacher is so very different, but all the important things are consistent.  In a private conversation, she tells me she's surprised that not one of us went over a list of rules during the day.  "But respect," she says.  "Each of you have said, 'Just be respectful.'  Is that your only main rule?"  "If you stress respect," I tell her, "everything else falls in line."  And as I looked around my wing, I realized how true that was.

9.  As I end my day with a four mile loop near the school, I pass a track kid running the loop in the other direction, with her brother in tow on a bike.  We stop to talk, and the brother expresses concern about having to do poetry with me.  But his sister says to him, "It's okay.  Poetry with Mrs. Miller is fun.  She makes it like a game...it's perfect for your brain."  Thank you for that.

10.  5 pm and the building is empty--everybody has their rooms clean and isn't yet stressed about how to make everything happen.  There is a sense of contentment in the air.  The sky always seems to be crystalline blue on the first day of school, and despite the utter exhaustion that drives us teacher to bed early on this day, we feel satsified.  This day is always a reminder of why we teach.

August Newspaper Column

Beginning of School Year Full of Hope