Moving!

MOVING!

I'm in the process of updating my blog and integrating all of my websites. Things are still under construction, but please bookmark/RSS feedify my new blog:

http://sarahbsd.wordpress.com/

All my new content will be at this new address.

New York, a Retrospective of Sorts

The last view of my street. If I hadn't been carrying a bright pink over-stuffed duffle, binder-laden TC tote, and BTR currier bag while dragging my equally bright pink carryon with wheels, I would have turned to snap a picture of Landlord (and now friend) Larry and his associates supervising the demolition of the basement of the English Language Clubhouse I called my home with summer. I didn't want to seem weak by stopping to rearrange or visibly struggling with my bags while I strode down the block toward Frederick Douglass and the inevitable flow of attentive taxistas. I figured this picture taken during the first week of my stay in New York from the street outside my door was pretty good at approximating the visual feeling of my last moments in New York today.

I start with Larry because he rocks. An unexpected friend who got me out to live music twice in the city, once for excellent jazz on the Upper West Side and then again last night for a debut appearance at the Lenox Lounge in Harlem. Sadly, the zebra skin walls are no longer the real thing--though I did run my fingers down the wallpaper just in case. The music was R&B and the sax was unbelievable. I don't even like saxophones, but it really was amazing what this musician was able to do with his instrument. The company was good, five folks, one hailing from Boston (me), one from Japan, one from Brooklyn/Ukraine, one from Harlem, one from North Carolina/St. John. The catfish was cajun in all the right ways.

During the five plus hours we were at the Lenox in full surround sound, we happened upon the Skip Gates Beer Media Bonanza topic. Larry framed it in the most interesting of ways, and in my fixation with this evolving national interest in engaging with race in a sustained albeit odd manner, I had not heard anyone else describe the conflict this way. He referred to the Crowley-Gates encounter as a reference point for a broader discussion we were having about Republicans and Democrats.

In that moment engulfed by zebra striping and the hypnotic base-sax-drum thrust of Lenox Lounge sound, I realized that the majority of Americans had actually engaged in an authentic shared moment of discourse on race in America. In my lifetime, we had not yet had this "opportunity" for a common data point across lines of class and race able to illuminate the dangerous, almost instantaneous deluge of emotion, partial rationality, and secondary instinct that surge forth unnamed and unhindered to form words and actions. Across the range of the mundane and the menacing moments in our lives, we more often than we realize have the Crowley-Gates encounter with those we hold at arms length. In our most intimate relationships where trust and curiosity govern, we need not guard against these deluges--and more often in the easy and familiar contexts of those relationships it feels more like a trickle than a torrent. Yet in those untested relationships with others who pass in and out of our lives, we are constantly sizing up the other. It is the subtlest of language cues held in the body, the dress, the accent or twang in our voices that all signal how we should react to the unfamiliar other.

I do not think we can underestimate the power of careful examination of these moments. We are too untrusting of ourselves and others. We have few people in our lives who we can "go there" with, and when we do choose to actually go there, it is rarely with someone who stands firmly planted across lines of race and class. In a city like Boston where the wisdom and pain of past and present vividly paint a segregated community still separated physically by race and class, we must appreciate the startling opening this Cambridge scandal has provided for our nation. Let's face it: often times it is the sensational and only the sensational that gives Americans common ground enough to reach across the lines that divide and hold us firmly in place: American Idol, Michael Jackson, Osama, Sadam, OJ, Obama to name a few. Now add to that Crowley-Gates. More often than before, privileged Americans are examining race, power, and the other--and many Americans are doing it in a sustained way and with folks who may or may not share their point of view. Even those among us who have waded in these perplexities of race, class, and power differentials are finding this explosive episode an opening for a broader exploration of the validity of elite claims to understanding and representing blackness. This national splurge of perspective-taking, questioning, and listening is a welcome interruption to usually inconsequential (yet pleasant) banter of our daily news sources and doorway conversations.

Last meals and moments in Nueba Yol

One square meal today, and it was ropa vieja y jugo de piña a Cuban place on Broadway. I enjoyed it very much, and it saved me from snacking and caffeinating my way through these very long days of class. I actually felt great all day--though I was very, very sleepy after consuming so much deliciosity in the late afternoon.

Today was the last day of classes. Sigh.

Tomorrow we have a much anticipated final exam, and then we are done for the summer. We have been grinding this out all month; I'm not sure any of us have the presence of mind to do much more than just show up, test, toast one another, and then disperse. Me, I'm all about the intentional community aspect of cohorts, groups, teams, etc., etc. I have to keep reminding myself though that this is not my baby. These are my beloved new colleagues, and we have plenty of time to grow and work together. It is not on me to build the community. It's bastante for me to participate. Funny how sometimes holding back is a marker for growth. We are each one of us so wonderfully quirky, present company exemplified.

Will my eyes fall out?

This may sound gross, but I wish that I could get another set of eyeballs, maybe similar to what doctors and dentists do for folks whose teeth are no longer useful. I wish I could just swap my set of eyeballs out and drop 'em in some fizzy effervescent rejuvenating waters. I could rest up the ol' eye sockets, and then return them an hour later or the next morning all fresh and ready to go.

There is a particular drain to the body and the ocular arrangement induced by academia. Soldier on though. This is a privilege to have these concerns.

School Winds Down, Sarah Winds Up

This, the final week but certainly not the final frontier, is a significant marker. Just as our cohort begins to jel and as we gain a familiarity with this new frame as doctoral students, our intensive summer comes to an abrupt end.

Sure, we will all be glad to return to what has been the primary focus of our lives: our jobs and families. Yet, we have started something here, and like all committed and passionate folks, it's hard to leave midstream. Yes, we will be back together at the end of September, and yes, we have a vast array of assignments to complete for this summer and for the upcoming fall semester. There is plenty to read, research, write, contemplate. I have just fully appreciated this space to learn, reflect, synthesize, and develop as an educator and human being. We are among such dedicated, intelligent, and diverse folks here at Teachers College and in our Urban Education Leaders Program.

After five weeks of intense scrutiny and reflection, I find that I am further along the path but still my sights remain squarely set on equity, race, opportunity, language, leadership, and advocacy. No one issue has emerged as MY issue, but I'm deeply committed to addressing the root causes of inequity and continuing to seek out solutions to the very real consequences of our current dropout crisis and school-to-prison pipeline in American urban school systems. I would like to find a way to link this uniquely American experience to a more globalized movement to fight oppression and the resulting poverty and marginalization through youth activism and media experimentation. I have some initial ideas on this kind of project, but first and foremost, I need to focus myself where I truly know the most: American inequity.

In some ways, I would like to stay in this stasis of summer--pondering and experimenting intellectually and indefinitely. I have to admit though I'm looking forward to the next steps of action, of some sort of job, and of more fully putting theory into practice.

Train Rain Roach Turmoil

The storm was fierce.

The rains were blankets, waves, torrents, deadening on the city streets at approximately 6:25 pm this Sunday evening in the big city.

My Boltbus pulled up to the curb at Penn Station, and nearly everyone remained in their seats as the height of the storm came as the doors opened. Having spent 40 minutes more than anyone intended on the bus, it was at once incomprehensible and completely understandable why the movement off the bus and into the rivers of street grime stalled. I zipped up, gathered my bags, and filed off the bus. Darting to the ACE line entrance, I found water rushing over my flipflops and refugees huddled at every opening, peering expectantly up at the street and darkening skies.

The E line seemed to be the only one running. I got up on the platform to find the flow of humans nearly as sweeping as the water flooding down the train tracks below. Humans and refuse alike were forced down the platform and down the tracks. Gurgling grates on the platform bubbled, oozed, seethed with brown water, roaches, and crickets. In controlled but nevertheless feral rivulets, they spread across the walkway. Following the currents, I stepped around the roach fountain as I pushed on.

I looked down the track, but I heard the waterfalls before I could see them. Scouring the downtown E train side across the tracks, I found the source of the piling water sounds. A 15-foot stretch of ceiling had been penetrated by the waters. A waterfall had appeared over a stretch of the platform. People stood adjacent to the falls, waiting for the train.

My E train came within five minutes, and I switched at Port Authority. Not knowing the state of the storm, I preferred to remain underground, taking my chances with the underground roaches and rivers. I used the underground tunnels to get over to Times Square and onto an express #3 train uptown to Columbia's campus. I was lucky all things considered. It took 30 minutes to get from the Boltbus uptown to school and home. I had heard recently that the city simply shut down underground when it rained, and I certainly could see why with the old underground tunnel failings. Just glad my dance with the roaches was brief and at arm's length.

Grrrr... Why can't I do this?

I'm trying to become master of the universe but I'm failing. I want to learn the ins and outs of the back-end world of hosting, designing, and posting webpages. You can check out the link to this post to see just how far I've come with my hosting skills. I now know what FTP is, and I want to use my Filezilla app to do my new website (aimed at taking over the world for the better), but I'm certainly not beyond my fear of severely messing everything up with my Fatcow hosting service. I need help because I'm not down with feeling so technologically inept. It's not consistent with my persona!

Keep an eye out though for my new and improved blog on Word Press. It should be up later this week. I'll put up some links. I just want to get started though on this civil rights social engineering project!