I wrote this memoir, "Windows," in honor of my third-grade teacher Ms. Newman who recently passed away from cancer. Ms. Newman's passion remains an omnipresent force in my life that has inspired me to both study and pursue a career in educational policy. - Tristyn Mandel
Windows
There is a pulse and vital circulation to education. School is a stepwise journey: a road of opportunity, full of teachers and mentors who offer a welcoming and a stimulating world of learning in their classes. There are educators who influenced my mindset and development greatly. Teachers hold the sacred mission of striving to “reach and teach” a class of students under their care, so that each individual learner can discover their full potential. It is an awesome mission. My memory is sweet and rich with recollection of teachers from elementary school who ‘threw open the windows” of my mind, and created an engine of creativity within me. My shining elementary school paragon was Ms. Newman. She created a third grade classroom that became my weekday world.
Ms. Newman was an incomparably lovely woman. She was petite, barely standing five feet tall; but she radiated serene dignity and authority and she walked with the fluidity of unfurling silk. Her style and gait captivated her student’s attention. Ms. Newman had a gentle, gravely voice that never left the comfort zone of a whisper, but it made everyone listen in carefully as though jewels were falling from her lips! Her presence was commanding, scholarly, and eminently polite; and she ran the classroom with apparent ease. I respected this because Ms. Newman generated significant presence despite her small physical demeanor. Being child-size myself, I felt safe around her, but she also showed me by example that a small person could function and be perceived as a big person too.
Inside her classroom I felt free to explore and to express myself. The room was large and expansive, with nature-revealing windows so it felt like the inside and outside flowed continuously. It was compartmentalized into versatile corners of lively activities. Books with interesting titles crowded the shelves and artwork decorated the walls. Something creative was always brewing: poetry writing, origami folding, or watercolor painting galore. I used to melt into a beanbag on the carpet and read and write stories. In making stories, I poured out my thoughts and mixed my emotions with the protagonists’ journeys. I felt like there was safe room for making mistakes and for spare minutes to set sail on daydreams. I emotionally knew I was where I belonged.
Ms. Newman taught me to toughen up and to rise up to academic challenges. I had an unreasonable dose of math anxiety; and when math period came I felt bristly like a porcupine: irritated and annoyed. The long-division Ms. Newman wrote on the blackboard seemed virtually impossible to solve or to even approach. I tensed in frustration, which turned into resentment. Ms. Newman calmly walked over and had me go step by step. I saw in this method that even when you don’t want to face something, working it through step by step with calm patience is the way up and out. Even when exasperating, approaching things quietly and coolly -- breaking the task into small manageable pieces -- one can get better results. I still think of this method every time I step into the daunting environment of my tenth grade Pre-Calculus class.
Ms. Newman lived and worked in Japan for many years before she came to our school, where she fell in love with Japanese culture. Sushi as food was the only Japanese tradition I was familiar with when I started in her class. Ms. Newman truly brought Japan into our classroom by teaching us how to write Japanese characters, having us recite Japanese words of the day, reading us customary Japanese folktales and bringing in scrumptious Japanese food treats to experimentally sample. We watched movies about the lush fuchsia cherry blossom trees in serene gardens, the time-honored tea ceremony, the fascinating clothing fashions, and the high voltage technology. My favorite was our introduction to Haiku poems: I found their simplicity irresistible and their ability to convey a powerful message in just a few short lines breath-taking. I thought Haiku was cogent and elegant; just like the American teacher who introduced it to me.
I learned how Japanese children study by a window so they can alternate their close book-reading focus with long views into green nature. To this day, I like to study this way: It helps me to periodically clear and refresh my mind. Ms. Newman taught me how to learn and how to change my ways by exposure to another culture. I was an eight year old, third grade Great Neck student with a provincial outlook. Ms. Newman’s classroom was a radiating channel to the wider world! When I think of Ms. Newman, I think of ‘windows’ and broadening options. She took students ‘upstairs’ from their half-sleeping ‘basements’ of minds. Her teaching was enlightening and she lit student’ torches of curiosity from within. I heard news that Ms. Newman died, and at a too-young age: She is alive in me. She is a star in my universe of learning. I’ll perpetuate her legacy throughout my schooling; and if I become a teacher I’ll pay homage to her supreme, luminous example.
There is a pulse and vital circulation to education. School is a stepwise journey: a road of opportunity, full of teachers and mentors who offer a welcoming and a stimulating world of learning in their classes. There are educators who influenced my mindset and development greatly. Teachers hold the sacred mission of striving to “reach and teach” a class of students under their care, so that each individual learner can discover their full potential. It is an awesome mission. My memory is sweet and rich with recollection of teachers from elementary school who ‘threw open the windows” of my mind, and created an engine of creativity within me. My shining elementary school paragon was Ms. Newman. She created a third grade classroom that became my weekday world.
Ms. Newman was an incomparably lovely woman. She was petite, barely standing five feet tall; but she radiated serene dignity and authority and she walked with the fluidity of unfurling silk. Her style and gait captivated her student’s attention. Ms. Newman had a gentle, gravely voice that never left the comfort zone of a whisper, but it made everyone listen in carefully as though jewels were falling from her lips! Her presence was commanding, scholarly, and eminently polite; and she ran the classroom with apparent ease. I respected this because Ms. Newman generated significant presence despite her small physical demeanor. Being child-size myself, I felt safe around her, but she also showed me by example that a small person could function and be perceived as a big person too.
Inside her classroom I felt free to explore and to express myself. The room was large and expansive, with nature-revealing windows so it felt like the inside and outside flowed continuously. It was compartmentalized into versatile corners of lively activities. Books with interesting titles crowded the shelves and artwork decorated the walls. Something creative was always brewing: poetry writing, origami folding, or watercolor painting galore. I used to melt into a beanbag on the carpet and read and write stories. In making stories, I poured out my thoughts and mixed my emotions with the protagonists’ journeys. I felt like there was safe room for making mistakes and for spare minutes to set sail on daydreams. I emotionally knew I was where I belonged.
Ms. Newman taught me to toughen up and to rise up to academic challenges. I had an unreasonable dose of math anxiety; and when math period came I felt bristly like a porcupine: irritated and annoyed. The long-division Ms. Newman wrote on the blackboard seemed virtually impossible to solve or to even approach. I tensed in frustration, which turned into resentment. Ms. Newman calmly walked over and had me go step by step. I saw in this method that even when you don’t want to face something, working it through step by step with calm patience is the way up and out. Even when exasperating, approaching things quietly and coolly -- breaking the task into small manageable pieces -- one can get better results. I still think of this method every time I step into the daunting environment of my tenth grade Pre-Calculus class.
Ms. Newman lived and worked in Japan for many years before she came to our school, where she fell in love with Japanese culture. Sushi as food was the only Japanese tradition I was familiar with when I started in her class. Ms. Newman truly brought Japan into our classroom by teaching us how to write Japanese characters, having us recite Japanese words of the day, reading us customary Japanese folktales and bringing in scrumptious Japanese food treats to experimentally sample. We watched movies about the lush fuchsia cherry blossom trees in serene gardens, the time-honored tea ceremony, the fascinating clothing fashions, and the high voltage technology. My favorite was our introduction to Haiku poems: I found their simplicity irresistible and their ability to convey a powerful message in just a few short lines breath-taking. I thought Haiku was cogent and elegant; just like the American teacher who introduced it to me.
I learned how Japanese children study by a window so they can alternate their close book-reading focus with long views into green nature. To this day, I like to study this way: It helps me to periodically clear and refresh my mind. Ms. Newman taught me how to learn and how to change my ways by exposure to another culture. I was an eight year old, third grade Great Neck student with a provincial outlook. Ms. Newman’s classroom was a radiating channel to the wider world! When I think of Ms. Newman, I think of ‘windows’ and broadening options. She took students ‘upstairs’ from their half-sleeping ‘basements’ of minds. Her teaching was enlightening and she lit student’ torches of curiosity from within. I heard news that Ms. Newman died, and at a too-young age: She is alive in me. She is a star in my universe of learning. I’ll perpetuate her legacy throughout my schooling; and if I become a teacher I’ll pay homage to her supreme, luminous example.
The Grinch Who Stole My Vacation
December twenty-sixth was just like any other winter day; people could smell the holiday spirit in the air and feel the leisure of the winter vacation. They could see the powdered snow on the ground, while enjoying the cozy comfort of their heated houses. I, for one, was excited to dive into my book and read myself into another world. Then, the Grinch arrived, turning this too-good-to-be-true fantasy into a never-ending nightmare.
As I was peacefully brushing my teeth, the lights began to flicker and so did my heart. Oh no, I thought, this again?! Déjà vu… It had been almost two months since my last encounter with Mother Nature, and just when my Hurricane Sandy scars had finally healed, a Nor’easter blew in and tore up new wounds. It swept into my world like an unwanted solar eclipse, devouring any light from both my house and my disposition. Can I not even have two months without a power outage – 60 simple days of peace and serenity?
I had faced Sandy. I had gone eye to eye with torture itself and survived. I was a hurricane veteran. My older brother, Josh, on the other hand, was not. Contained by the Yale bubble, Josh hadn’t experienced one second of a power outage – not even a flicker – during the storm. He was an alien on a foreign, intimidating planet. “How long will this last?!” he moaned.
Although everybody had thought that we had survived the long-awaited, highly feared Mayan apocalypse, it looked like 2012 had arrived a few days late. As the wind whistled and the rain rustled, my house’s heater halted. I watched the thermometer’s temperature drop, each degree digging deeper into the buried box of my Hurricane Sandy memories.
Preparing for a never-ending night of torture, I stocked up on lanterns and packed on the blankets. Just when I was ready to catch life’s curveball, my nightmare had ended; the storm decided to return my power.
My fears disappeared, and reassurance flowed through my veins. My experiences with Mother Nature have instilled in me one universally applicable life lesson: hope for the best but prepare for the worst; anything greater is a gift. I was thankful that the holiday spirit of giving had captured the robber – the Grinch who stole my vacation.
December twenty-sixth was just like any other winter day; people could smell the holiday spirit in the air and feel the leisure of the winter vacation. They could see the powdered snow on the ground, while enjoying the cozy comfort of their heated houses. I, for one, was excited to dive into my book and read myself into another world. Then, the Grinch arrived, turning this too-good-to-be-true fantasy into a never-ending nightmare.
As I was peacefully brushing my teeth, the lights began to flicker and so did my heart. Oh no, I thought, this again?! Déjà vu… It had been almost two months since my last encounter with Mother Nature, and just when my Hurricane Sandy scars had finally healed, a Nor’easter blew in and tore up new wounds. It swept into my world like an unwanted solar eclipse, devouring any light from both my house and my disposition. Can I not even have two months without a power outage – 60 simple days of peace and serenity?
I had faced Sandy. I had gone eye to eye with torture itself and survived. I was a hurricane veteran. My older brother, Josh, on the other hand, was not. Contained by the Yale bubble, Josh hadn’t experienced one second of a power outage – not even a flicker – during the storm. He was an alien on a foreign, intimidating planet. “How long will this last?!” he moaned.
Although everybody had thought that we had survived the long-awaited, highly feared Mayan apocalypse, it looked like 2012 had arrived a few days late. As the wind whistled and the rain rustled, my house’s heater halted. I watched the thermometer’s temperature drop, each degree digging deeper into the buried box of my Hurricane Sandy memories.
Preparing for a never-ending night of torture, I stocked up on lanterns and packed on the blankets. Just when I was ready to catch life’s curveball, my nightmare had ended; the storm decided to return my power.
My fears disappeared, and reassurance flowed through my veins. My experiences with Mother Nature have instilled in me one universally applicable life lesson: hope for the best but prepare for the worst; anything greater is a gift. I was thankful that the holiday spirit of giving had captured the robber – the Grinch who stole my vacation.
Fourth Time’s the Charm for Three-Year-Olds
As I stepped into a room full of sleeping three-year-olds, the wave of calming music came over me and a strained whisper sounded from my left.
“Hi, Jarett!”
“Oh…hi!”
One of the “teachers” – daycare worker – was sitting at her desk, watching over the napping children. Two other teachers were preparing for the children to wake up – which was about to happen in any minute.
My fourth day of volunteering at CLASP in Great Neck felt the same for me as the previous three days – scary. Not yet accepted by all of the kids in the classroom, I felt nervous; I hoped that today would be the day when they would all come to enjoy my presence. Sadly, I had hoped for this every day…but it never went the way I had wanted it to; I had to work harder.
I heard the sudden ruffling of sheets as the kids began to groggily rise out of their miniature mattresses laid out on the floor. Fulfilling my duty, I approached one of the three-year-old girls in order to help her pack up her bedding.
“Do you need help?”
“Mm-mm,” she responded along with a shaking of her head.
Sighing to myself, I walked over to another child – one who had accepted my aid on previous days.
“Do you need help, Nu-nu?”
“He-he…” she said, laughing with a big smile on her face. Knowing that was her sign of acceptance, I held open her bag while her small, slightly pudgy hands grabbed the bedding and forced it into the bag. It satisfied me to know that at least one person enjoyed my company. Even if I couldn’t make myself likeable to every kid in the room, knowing some of them liked me was a great reward.
As the day rolled on, the teachers instructed me to play with the kids, entertain them, and have fun. It was easy to enjoy my time; it was truly a thrill to play with three-year-olds who only strived to have fun and did whatever pleased them. No worries or fears ever entered their minds. Following the model they set, I took up the reins and let all fear leave me.
Approaching Christopher from across the room – the child who had wet his pants the other day and thus I was too keen on getting too close to him – I smiled at him while he stared at the pale, tan couch in front of him.
“What are you doing by yourself? Don’t you want to play with other kids?”
“No!” Before I could even wonder why not, he was jumping onto the couch, shouting, “Look, look!” wanting me to watch his every move. A smirk crept onto my face, unable to prevent my joy at watching an adorable three-year-old at play – while knowing he was fond of my presence around him.
I couldn’t be done there, though. I was on a roll; Nu-nu and Christopher had both showed me their appreciation and I knew I could achieve more.
Seeing Nu-nu playing with Skylar, another three-year-old girl, in the corner, I walked over and happily asked, “What do you want play with?”
“A puzzle! …This one!” Skylar said with confidence, pointing at the Rainbow Fish – one of my favorite books as a child – puzzle. Helping her take it down from the shelf, we began assembling it with Nu-nu. Slowly the puzzle was being completed and producing a multi-colored fish, captivating the makers…as well as the other kids. Seeing the fun of putting a puzzle together (with me, of course), other kids joined wanted to put together puzzles, too.
As Bob the Builder met up with the Rainbow Fish, a mass of kids swarmed around me. Wanting to get in on the “puzzle action,” kids came and went for the next hour, wanting to build puzzles with the volunteer sixteen-year-old – me.
“Oh wow, Jarett. You’re playing with all of the kids!” announced a teacher, impressed with my charisma.
I had reached the highest point. I had reached my goal. Every three-year-old in the room had come over at one point and wanted to play with me and the other kids. Every minute I had enjoyed myself, having fun watching the cute kids trying to push puzzle pieces into wrong positions, or seeing their joy at doing something correctly.
Sadly, my joy had to be cut off. Time to go. Waving “good-bye” to the kids, I got up and walked towards the exit. With a slight hint of sadness, the kids also waved, but by the time I was at the door, they were back to having fun and entertaining themselves.
Yet, I knew I had a left an impact. They had fun with me, accepted me, and cared about me. And I had had a great time with them.
As I stepped into a room full of sleeping three-year-olds, the wave of calming music came over me and a strained whisper sounded from my left.
“Hi, Jarett!”
“Oh…hi!”
One of the “teachers” – daycare worker – was sitting at her desk, watching over the napping children. Two other teachers were preparing for the children to wake up – which was about to happen in any minute.
My fourth day of volunteering at CLASP in Great Neck felt the same for me as the previous three days – scary. Not yet accepted by all of the kids in the classroom, I felt nervous; I hoped that today would be the day when they would all come to enjoy my presence. Sadly, I had hoped for this every day…but it never went the way I had wanted it to; I had to work harder.
I heard the sudden ruffling of sheets as the kids began to groggily rise out of their miniature mattresses laid out on the floor. Fulfilling my duty, I approached one of the three-year-old girls in order to help her pack up her bedding.
“Do you need help?”
“Mm-mm,” she responded along with a shaking of her head.
Sighing to myself, I walked over to another child – one who had accepted my aid on previous days.
“Do you need help, Nu-nu?”
“He-he…” she said, laughing with a big smile on her face. Knowing that was her sign of acceptance, I held open her bag while her small, slightly pudgy hands grabbed the bedding and forced it into the bag. It satisfied me to know that at least one person enjoyed my company. Even if I couldn’t make myself likeable to every kid in the room, knowing some of them liked me was a great reward.
As the day rolled on, the teachers instructed me to play with the kids, entertain them, and have fun. It was easy to enjoy my time; it was truly a thrill to play with three-year-olds who only strived to have fun and did whatever pleased them. No worries or fears ever entered their minds. Following the model they set, I took up the reins and let all fear leave me.
Approaching Christopher from across the room – the child who had wet his pants the other day and thus I was too keen on getting too close to him – I smiled at him while he stared at the pale, tan couch in front of him.
“What are you doing by yourself? Don’t you want to play with other kids?”
“No!” Before I could even wonder why not, he was jumping onto the couch, shouting, “Look, look!” wanting me to watch his every move. A smirk crept onto my face, unable to prevent my joy at watching an adorable three-year-old at play – while knowing he was fond of my presence around him.
I couldn’t be done there, though. I was on a roll; Nu-nu and Christopher had both showed me their appreciation and I knew I could achieve more.
Seeing Nu-nu playing with Skylar, another three-year-old girl, in the corner, I walked over and happily asked, “What do you want play with?”
“A puzzle! …This one!” Skylar said with confidence, pointing at the Rainbow Fish – one of my favorite books as a child – puzzle. Helping her take it down from the shelf, we began assembling it with Nu-nu. Slowly the puzzle was being completed and producing a multi-colored fish, captivating the makers…as well as the other kids. Seeing the fun of putting a puzzle together (with me, of course), other kids joined wanted to put together puzzles, too.
As Bob the Builder met up with the Rainbow Fish, a mass of kids swarmed around me. Wanting to get in on the “puzzle action,” kids came and went for the next hour, wanting to build puzzles with the volunteer sixteen-year-old – me.
“Oh wow, Jarett. You’re playing with all of the kids!” announced a teacher, impressed with my charisma.
I had reached the highest point. I had reached my goal. Every three-year-old in the room had come over at one point and wanted to play with me and the other kids. Every minute I had enjoyed myself, having fun watching the cute kids trying to push puzzle pieces into wrong positions, or seeing their joy at doing something correctly.
Sadly, my joy had to be cut off. Time to go. Waving “good-bye” to the kids, I got up and walked towards the exit. With a slight hint of sadness, the kids also waved, but by the time I was at the door, they were back to having fun and entertaining themselves.
Yet, I knew I had a left an impact. They had fun with me, accepted me, and cared about me. And I had had a great time with them.
Everyone has had a few nicknames they have been called throughout their lives whether they are bad or good. This memoir, unfortunately, happens to be about one of my less favorable ones. - Annie Lee
Fanny Annie
It was supposed to be just a regular school day. As usual, the classroom bustled with the sight of gross nose-picking, the giggles from finger painting, and the loud hoots from senseless candy gambling. Despite the lively scene, it was Friday and everyone knew that when the clock struck noon, it was going to be vocabulary test time. Vocabulary tests were pretty big deals in Ms. Garfield’s kindergarten class--it was practically like our SATs! Yet, three months into Ms. Garfield’s class and at six years old, I already knew the a-to-z’s like the back of my hand and had the vocabulary insight of a second grader. I was ready to ace that test.
There was one rule that I absolutely loved about the vocabulary test: If you finished early, you were able to to go to the book corner and just chill out. I, of course being a whiz, was one of the first to finish and strutted towards the small corner in my flowy pink peach dress. I always wore my nicest dress on Fridays so when I stood up to hand in my test, everyone would see how great I looked.
While on my knees looking at the bottom shelf, I pondered on what novel to choose.
Should I read the one about the magic tree house or the one about blue whales?
As I struggled with my inner conflict, I slightly turned my head to the right to see another kid staring at the dusty books..
Oh my lordy. It’s Joshua. HOT Joshua!, I screamed into my unconscious.
There were three Joshuas in my class: Gamer Joshua, Icky Joshua, and HOT Joshua. Gamer Joshua never gave anyone the time of day for anything and instead always glued his eyes to the screen of a grey Gameboy that constantly chirped the sounds of jabs and kicks of “Super Street Fighter.” Icky Joshua was a legend. He was known for being one of the dirtiest kids in kindergarten history. Every time he came back inside after recess, he would have to be patted down like a convict to make sure he wasn’t bringing in hordes of worms again. And then we come to the handsome HOT Joshua: Mr. Tall, Lean, and Handsome all rolled into one (basically as good looking a kindergartener can get!). He had the biggest brown eyes that just charmed everyone he met.
While we were kneeling, Joshua saw me staring at the two books and recommended that I read the magic tree house book “since there’s a pretty character with your name in it.” I squealed a little inside; I swear I was in heaven at that moment. I tried to keep the conversation going, but for some reason he kept acting a bit suspicious. He made fidgety movements and couldn’t keep still and kept answering “Mhm” or “I See.” But then all of a sudden, he stopped.
He turned to me slowly and gave a weak smile but then there was that fateful sound.
TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!
I couldn’t believe it. Did HOT Joshua just make the loudest fart ever in the history in mankind?! Now if you’ve been paying attention, you would realize that all of this happened while most of the class was still taking the vocabulary test. I turned my head away from the bookcase and HOT Joshua and faced towards the class. All of their heads stood up like meerkats in the wilderness, some confused and others stifling their laughter. I turned back to HOT Joshua and I couldn’t believe what he was doing.
He lifted his hand and his index finger pointed towards me!!!
What?! Oh my god, he’s blaming me for his gross fart?!!!
But it was too late. The blame had already been set. At that moment, everyone in the room had the skewed idea that it was me who farted imbedded in their minds.
After the test had finished, everyone was released to go outside to the park. My friends still supported me and asked me what was up.
“It was HOT Joshua!,” I constantly whined but they didn’t believe me. HOT Joshua was too perfect to perform such a gross action. As we were hanging by the swings, I spied the culprit by the handball courts. There was no way I was going to take any of his crap anymore. Eyes red with anger and my peach-colored sleeves pushed up to expose my fists, I marched over to him. He didn’t even know what was coming. I whacked him over the side of his waist--hard.
“You Chicken! How dare you do that?!
I don’t regret that I punched him that day. I could have done more damage if it wasn’t for my sissy punches and that a teacher had grabbed me off of him. Even after our little bout, he never even apologized. I’m sure that if I learned how to use the middle finger, it would have been more meaningful as I was being dragged away; however I used my pinky. Afterwards, even after my vehement denial of the fart, I was labeled, “The girl who toots” and “Fanny Annie” for the half a year but at least I somewhat got my revenge.
It was supposed to be just a regular school day. As usual, the classroom bustled with the sight of gross nose-picking, the giggles from finger painting, and the loud hoots from senseless candy gambling. Despite the lively scene, it was Friday and everyone knew that when the clock struck noon, it was going to be vocabulary test time. Vocabulary tests were pretty big deals in Ms. Garfield’s kindergarten class--it was practically like our SATs! Yet, three months into Ms. Garfield’s class and at six years old, I already knew the a-to-z’s like the back of my hand and had the vocabulary insight of a second grader. I was ready to ace that test.
There was one rule that I absolutely loved about the vocabulary test: If you finished early, you were able to to go to the book corner and just chill out. I, of course being a whiz, was one of the first to finish and strutted towards the small corner in my flowy pink peach dress. I always wore my nicest dress on Fridays so when I stood up to hand in my test, everyone would see how great I looked.
While on my knees looking at the bottom shelf, I pondered on what novel to choose.
Should I read the one about the magic tree house or the one about blue whales?
As I struggled with my inner conflict, I slightly turned my head to the right to see another kid staring at the dusty books..
Oh my lordy. It’s Joshua. HOT Joshua!, I screamed into my unconscious.
There were three Joshuas in my class: Gamer Joshua, Icky Joshua, and HOT Joshua. Gamer Joshua never gave anyone the time of day for anything and instead always glued his eyes to the screen of a grey Gameboy that constantly chirped the sounds of jabs and kicks of “Super Street Fighter.” Icky Joshua was a legend. He was known for being one of the dirtiest kids in kindergarten history. Every time he came back inside after recess, he would have to be patted down like a convict to make sure he wasn’t bringing in hordes of worms again. And then we come to the handsome HOT Joshua: Mr. Tall, Lean, and Handsome all rolled into one (basically as good looking a kindergartener can get!). He had the biggest brown eyes that just charmed everyone he met.
While we were kneeling, Joshua saw me staring at the two books and recommended that I read the magic tree house book “since there’s a pretty character with your name in it.” I squealed a little inside; I swear I was in heaven at that moment. I tried to keep the conversation going, but for some reason he kept acting a bit suspicious. He made fidgety movements and couldn’t keep still and kept answering “Mhm” or “I See.” But then all of a sudden, he stopped.
He turned to me slowly and gave a weak smile but then there was that fateful sound.
TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!
I couldn’t believe it. Did HOT Joshua just make the loudest fart ever in the history in mankind?! Now if you’ve been paying attention, you would realize that all of this happened while most of the class was still taking the vocabulary test. I turned my head away from the bookcase and HOT Joshua and faced towards the class. All of their heads stood up like meerkats in the wilderness, some confused and others stifling their laughter. I turned back to HOT Joshua and I couldn’t believe what he was doing.
He lifted his hand and his index finger pointed towards me!!!
What?! Oh my god, he’s blaming me for his gross fart?!!!
But it was too late. The blame had already been set. At that moment, everyone in the room had the skewed idea that it was me who farted imbedded in their minds.
After the test had finished, everyone was released to go outside to the park. My friends still supported me and asked me what was up.
“It was HOT Joshua!,” I constantly whined but they didn’t believe me. HOT Joshua was too perfect to perform such a gross action. As we were hanging by the swings, I spied the culprit by the handball courts. There was no way I was going to take any of his crap anymore. Eyes red with anger and my peach-colored sleeves pushed up to expose my fists, I marched over to him. He didn’t even know what was coming. I whacked him over the side of his waist--hard.
“You Chicken! How dare you do that?!
I don’t regret that I punched him that day. I could have done more damage if it wasn’t for my sissy punches and that a teacher had grabbed me off of him. Even after our little bout, he never even apologized. I’m sure that if I learned how to use the middle finger, it would have been more meaningful as I was being dragged away; however I used my pinky. Afterwards, even after my vehement denial of the fart, I was labeled, “The girl who toots” and “Fanny Annie” for the half a year but at least I somewhat got my revenge.
"Clearing Away the Rubble" is a piece written as a tribute dedicated to four of the most influential people in my life. It is based off a task which asked to write a piece in which I dedicate four people to my personal "Mount Rushmore".
Clearing Away the Rubble
I am a troubled man. Conflict has bludgeoned my life since I took my first breath of curious air. In a span of about two years, I met the four people who would carve me into the man I am today – or rather, who would carve my spirit. And because they carved me, I now carve a memorial to them in my own Mount Rushmore with pen and paper. The four gurus assumed physical identities – the terminal, the homeless, the scientist and the doctor – even though the wisdom they imparted was undoubtedly supernatural. Each, through different avenues, taught, inspired, and enlightened me. What I appreciate even more, though, are the scars they’ve left me with: the melancholy, the grief, and the questions with which I’ve built my universe.
The most influential of all is the woman I spent the least amount of time with, Temperance O’Connor, a cancer patient. She spent her liveliest days in the terminal ward of the hospital. While her physical appearance seemed to have been chiseled by Michelangelo himself, her brain was her most beautiful feature. She was the first to introduce me to astronomy, the first to show me the simplicity of death, and the first to unveil before my very eyes, the audacity of the human spirit. While she was a scientist through and through, she valued the idea of religion – or at least the notion of a superior being watching over us. This religion provided an escape into the world of hope even though her future seemed bleak at best. It’s this same concept of hope that lies at the core of my being. It was hope that allowed me to come to terms with her passing just three days after I met her. During my two years of living in the hospital, I had come to believe that hope was just a distraction from reality, something that was there to lead us on a path to an even steeper precipice. When Temperance passed away, I learned that I was very wrong. She had taught me that hope was there to comfort us in the fear of falling and to make our moments of happiness even happier.
I soon learned that hope was not alone in my soul. Uncertainty was just as important, if not more so than hope. And I learned this fact of life from a man whose whole life was uncertain: the homeless man. He was suffering from renal failure, something that I was being treated for. He didn’t have much money so transplantation wasn’t an option, and from what I picked up from the stacks of paper growing near his bedside, he didn’t have much time. Every day, he would wake up, pray to God and be filled with reassurance – some divine guarantee that everything was going to work out. The confidence with which he spoke made me believe that even I was going to be okay, as if his prayers would finally let me go back home. It almost seemed as if he knew what was going to happen every second of every day, as if an angel were telling him what to say. He, too, passed away one week after I met him. Even though he preached hope and the word of the Gospel every day, he taught me to doubt – or rather his demise taught me to doubt. He thanked his “loving” God for the life he was living, but this “loving” God took his life as quickly as he imparted it. The uncertainty in my life made me question every aspect of the universe and my place in it. My parents loved God, so why did he put this burden on them? My parents went to church every day, yet every night they had to come back to a sick child. What could a child have done that made him deserving of a debilitating condition? One might ask, “how can you doubt and hope at the same time?” Well, after about three months of searching, I found the love of my life that would allow me to reconcile those opposites: astronomy. From that day on, I began to appreciate the ancient field in a way that most people don’t. Ask an astrophysicist why he loves astronomy and he’ll tell you that he loves it because it gives him so many answers. I wish I could say that that’s the same answer I would give, but sadly, it’s not. I love astronomy for its vast and empty spaces. These are the spaces that allow me to hope for and doubt the existence of an answer to a question that has puzzled me to this very day: will I ever be the healthy boy my parents wanted? The answer that I’ve come to terms with is the one I’ve always abided by: I don’t know.
But, uncertainty also requires a certain hint of conviction. And who better to teach me about conviction than a scientist. Astrophysicist, Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson gutted and bled my soul. Within the first five minutes of watching his show, my soul and body disconnected. Dr. Tyson graduated from Harvard University and got his doctorate in relative astrophysics from Columbia University. He was the director of the Hayden Planetarium and the Chief Science Officer in thirty-two NASA missions – and he was black. That last little detail hung over all the rest like a rain cloud. When he was growing up, his race prevented him from moving up in his field until he realized that race wasn’t the obstacle. It was the lack of conviction with which he spoke that held him back. He was a timid child growing up, and during his life time astrophysics was no field for a black boy. Similarly, astrophysics is no place for an Indian boy. The molds into which I am forced to fit by my parents have never coincided with what I want to spend the rest of my life doing. Being a doctor, engineer or lawyer never seemed even to interest me when I was growing up. But how could I disagree with my parents after all the stress I put them through? How could I say no to the people that stood by my bedside every night praying that I would live another day? The answer I learned from Dr. Tyson was to say no even louder. He instilled in me the essence of conviction – to believe in the power of what I was saying.
And to speak my thoughts in the face of adversity, I needed to be taught the power of perseverance. Dr. Ortiga was my nephritic doctor, and he spent his whole life persevering. He spent more time looking at pictures of my kidneys than talking to my parents. He was enamored by my syndrome and wanted to discover the clockwork behind it. I owe him my life. Other doctors said that the chance of a baby being born with nephrotic syndrome was one in forty-five million. They said that the chance of my being cured was close to zero – so close in fact that they asked my parents to donate my body when I died so that the disease could be studied further. Dr. Ortiga never gave up because he insisted that for every problem God put on the Earth, there was a solution, and he would find that solution. On May 5th 1998, he found the solution. Now nephrotic syndrome is very treatable. But because Dr. Ortiga was using novel treatment methods, he didn’t realize that there would be new, unforeseen side effects. Psoriasis was mine. Even though I was “stained” with this disease, I appreciated Dr. Ortiga’s efforts. He gave me a permanent reminder of what I went through as a child and how I would carry that experience to adulthood. In the face of complete adversity, Dr. Ortiga discovered a new treatment that would ultimately free me from the pains of my syndrome and only allow me to look at the positives.. Today, I enjoy being captured by my disease. I have fallen in love with it. I have fallen in love with my savior, and I will never forget what it has done for me.
These four people, each in a unique way provided me with an avenue of change. They allowed me to turn my perceived misfortune into hope, and they forced me never to forget my ordeal. I was forced to rethink my experience. My believing that the situation was grave only made my predicament worse. These men and women carved my soul. Leaving permanent marks, they chiseled away at me. Granted, at some points it felt like they were using dynamite to clear away the rubble. Nonetheless, I managed to remain upright. Because of these architects, I now look at the universe as a place of hope, a place of doubt and a place of quiet contemplation.
I am a troubled man. Conflict has bludgeoned my life since I took my first breath of curious air. In a span of about two years, I met the four people who would carve me into the man I am today – or rather, who would carve my spirit. And because they carved me, I now carve a memorial to them in my own Mount Rushmore with pen and paper. The four gurus assumed physical identities – the terminal, the homeless, the scientist and the doctor – even though the wisdom they imparted was undoubtedly supernatural. Each, through different avenues, taught, inspired, and enlightened me. What I appreciate even more, though, are the scars they’ve left me with: the melancholy, the grief, and the questions with which I’ve built my universe.
The most influential of all is the woman I spent the least amount of time with, Temperance O’Connor, a cancer patient. She spent her liveliest days in the terminal ward of the hospital. While her physical appearance seemed to have been chiseled by Michelangelo himself, her brain was her most beautiful feature. She was the first to introduce me to astronomy, the first to show me the simplicity of death, and the first to unveil before my very eyes, the audacity of the human spirit. While she was a scientist through and through, she valued the idea of religion – or at least the notion of a superior being watching over us. This religion provided an escape into the world of hope even though her future seemed bleak at best. It’s this same concept of hope that lies at the core of my being. It was hope that allowed me to come to terms with her passing just three days after I met her. During my two years of living in the hospital, I had come to believe that hope was just a distraction from reality, something that was there to lead us on a path to an even steeper precipice. When Temperance passed away, I learned that I was very wrong. She had taught me that hope was there to comfort us in the fear of falling and to make our moments of happiness even happier.
I soon learned that hope was not alone in my soul. Uncertainty was just as important, if not more so than hope. And I learned this fact of life from a man whose whole life was uncertain: the homeless man. He was suffering from renal failure, something that I was being treated for. He didn’t have much money so transplantation wasn’t an option, and from what I picked up from the stacks of paper growing near his bedside, he didn’t have much time. Every day, he would wake up, pray to God and be filled with reassurance – some divine guarantee that everything was going to work out. The confidence with which he spoke made me believe that even I was going to be okay, as if his prayers would finally let me go back home. It almost seemed as if he knew what was going to happen every second of every day, as if an angel were telling him what to say. He, too, passed away one week after I met him. Even though he preached hope and the word of the Gospel every day, he taught me to doubt – or rather his demise taught me to doubt. He thanked his “loving” God for the life he was living, but this “loving” God took his life as quickly as he imparted it. The uncertainty in my life made me question every aspect of the universe and my place in it. My parents loved God, so why did he put this burden on them? My parents went to church every day, yet every night they had to come back to a sick child. What could a child have done that made him deserving of a debilitating condition? One might ask, “how can you doubt and hope at the same time?” Well, after about three months of searching, I found the love of my life that would allow me to reconcile those opposites: astronomy. From that day on, I began to appreciate the ancient field in a way that most people don’t. Ask an astrophysicist why he loves astronomy and he’ll tell you that he loves it because it gives him so many answers. I wish I could say that that’s the same answer I would give, but sadly, it’s not. I love astronomy for its vast and empty spaces. These are the spaces that allow me to hope for and doubt the existence of an answer to a question that has puzzled me to this very day: will I ever be the healthy boy my parents wanted? The answer that I’ve come to terms with is the one I’ve always abided by: I don’t know.
But, uncertainty also requires a certain hint of conviction. And who better to teach me about conviction than a scientist. Astrophysicist, Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson gutted and bled my soul. Within the first five minutes of watching his show, my soul and body disconnected. Dr. Tyson graduated from Harvard University and got his doctorate in relative astrophysics from Columbia University. He was the director of the Hayden Planetarium and the Chief Science Officer in thirty-two NASA missions – and he was black. That last little detail hung over all the rest like a rain cloud. When he was growing up, his race prevented him from moving up in his field until he realized that race wasn’t the obstacle. It was the lack of conviction with which he spoke that held him back. He was a timid child growing up, and during his life time astrophysics was no field for a black boy. Similarly, astrophysics is no place for an Indian boy. The molds into which I am forced to fit by my parents have never coincided with what I want to spend the rest of my life doing. Being a doctor, engineer or lawyer never seemed even to interest me when I was growing up. But how could I disagree with my parents after all the stress I put them through? How could I say no to the people that stood by my bedside every night praying that I would live another day? The answer I learned from Dr. Tyson was to say no even louder. He instilled in me the essence of conviction – to believe in the power of what I was saying.
And to speak my thoughts in the face of adversity, I needed to be taught the power of perseverance. Dr. Ortiga was my nephritic doctor, and he spent his whole life persevering. He spent more time looking at pictures of my kidneys than talking to my parents. He was enamored by my syndrome and wanted to discover the clockwork behind it. I owe him my life. Other doctors said that the chance of a baby being born with nephrotic syndrome was one in forty-five million. They said that the chance of my being cured was close to zero – so close in fact that they asked my parents to donate my body when I died so that the disease could be studied further. Dr. Ortiga never gave up because he insisted that for every problem God put on the Earth, there was a solution, and he would find that solution. On May 5th 1998, he found the solution. Now nephrotic syndrome is very treatable. But because Dr. Ortiga was using novel treatment methods, he didn’t realize that there would be new, unforeseen side effects. Psoriasis was mine. Even though I was “stained” with this disease, I appreciated Dr. Ortiga’s efforts. He gave me a permanent reminder of what I went through as a child and how I would carry that experience to adulthood. In the face of complete adversity, Dr. Ortiga discovered a new treatment that would ultimately free me from the pains of my syndrome and only allow me to look at the positives.. Today, I enjoy being captured by my disease. I have fallen in love with it. I have fallen in love with my savior, and I will never forget what it has done for me.
These four people, each in a unique way provided me with an avenue of change. They allowed me to turn my perceived misfortune into hope, and they forced me never to forget my ordeal. I was forced to rethink my experience. My believing that the situation was grave only made my predicament worse. These men and women carved my soul. Leaving permanent marks, they chiseled away at me. Granted, at some points it felt like they were using dynamite to clear away the rubble. Nonetheless, I managed to remain upright. Because of these architects, I now look at the universe as a place of hope, a place of doubt and a place of quiet contemplation.