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 Occasionally, I come across a book that is so seductive to my imagination that I leave it in the library instead of checking it out. I go there for secret trysts with it whenever I can. My first affair was with a book called The Joys of Motherhood by Buchi Emecheta (Nigeria). I found the book waiting to be checked out, picked it up and scanned the first page. The title was so intriguing compared to the wistful image on the cover. Such an emotional contradictioin could not be overlooked. After a few pages, I found myself faithfully visiting the book. I admit that the only reason I did not check it out was because it was in Special Collections. But I loved the feeling of intimacy and importance that this special relationship created. I found myself hurrying to the library to find out what was going to happen and wondering how I would cry or laugh that day as I read. Depending on my schedule, I might only be able to read one chapter and have to leave feeling quite sad, yet satisfied. I finally finished the novel. I read the last words and sighed with was still for moments after. Unbelieving that it was over. Unbelieving that it had felt so good to be so involved with a story. To feel like I understood and shared the weight of the characters’ living. To be wrapped in by the words, the humor, the sadness, the reality. To be torn between tradition and needed change. Emecheta is amazing. I’ll wash her feet if we ever meet.

That was months ago. My new library love is No Woman, No Cry: My Life with Bob Marley by Rita Marley. It’s lovely. It reads like your listening to her talk.  Not stuffy or literary, but musical like Jamaican English peppered with bits of patois. Makes me listen and hear her voice as I read. So often, the stories of women are smothered. The excuse is that they’re smothered in the mothering, the cleaning, the cooking, the chores that “we do best.” But it just ain’t so. Rita tells the story of her feisty quirkiness as a little girl. And it makes me remember that we all have that little girl inside of us. Full of ambition and sass and certainty. Everyone of us dreams big dreams about phenomenal things like being famous singers and animal doctors and painters, and even morticians. We want to do everything. And yes, we would like to be recognized for the spunk of our spirit as we do it. Rita tells her story with what could only be her voice. It moves like someone remembering, and it is replete with memories that make you listen to the “backup” singing of this one “little birdie” with a smile and a familiarity that can only come from hearing her tell her own story. For now, I’ll meet with Rita in the library when I can get there. We’ll sit for a while every time. I’ll listen and laugh at her humorous way of recalling people, sigh at her gritty descriptions of Kingston, and of course wonder at every detail and image she could not possibly have shared. I’ll want to ask her questions, and maybe one day, I will.

I’m going back to school again. After a summer of “teaching” language and literature at Camp Vandy summer camp for 4-15 year olds, it is again my turn to be in the classroom. I won’t short the experience of the summer camp though. I will recap:

I was prepared for the first  three weeks because I planned in advance. The following seven weeks were filled with me always chewing the insides of my cheeks (more sanitary than biting nails, but just as anxiety induced) early in the morning and thinking of what class activities will be  enjoyable to four year olds and not terribly boring or uncool to twelve year olds (the 13-15 year olds were only there for two weeks). It wasn’t a matter of what to cover and how to cover it; fortunately I’ve been blessed with on-the-spot creativity and resourceful intellect. It was a matter of activity. Kids must be kept busy or they become destructive with their energy (destructive to furniture, eardrums, sanity…) and I always found myself scrapping at the last minute for activities.

Now, it may be that I am a novice, but most of the problem, I believe, is that I simply did not spend enough time planning for each class. I did not create lesson plans. I relied too heavily on the fact that I can quickly innovate ideas and simple activities, but it was not nearly enough. Yet, somehow this did not spur me into the action of taking more time to plan. Part of it came from the my subconscious excuse that it was a summer camp and not a real school year. But what a terrible excuse. And what a shortchange.

Now, I’m not saying that my kids didn’t get anything. Far from it. My kids learned about Bantu knots, djembe drums, spoken word, West African dance, basic theatre. We did freewrites to music; we meditated to Tibetan singing bowls; we listened to everything from Bob Marley to Soukous to Santana. We did a lot and they were incidentallyexposed to much culture. But I could have been so much more intentional. And this is what I have learned about teaching.

A good teacher is intentional. A good teacher uses unplanned moments to teach, but always has a plan of deliberate lessons and activities. This is what gives children the balance they need in education, the routine and the surprise. This is what I have learned. To say that I have learned it means that I must apply it.

I say this because I prepare for the next phase in career. I’ve considered being a substitute teacher because I desire flexibility of schedule while I finish my last year of grad school and work on my thesis. I wonder if/hope this is not a cop out. Part of me feels that this is a backward step in the plan. To go from a full time teacher to selling hot sauce to  teaching private Spanish lessons to summer camp program coordinator to substitute teaching. I mean, I realize that some back steps are necessary in any dance. Salsa would be impossible if there were no backsteps. There’d be no tango, no kuku, no samba, no swing. I realize that we must be willing to sacrifice the forward step at times in order to have a beautiful dance. So, am I to sub this year???

Finally, I’ve begun my thesis. WOOT! I’ve never been a fan of academia (ask for the details on my accidentally enrollment into a Master’s of English program). I love to read, absolutely. I love to think about and feel what I read. I enjoy discussing what I’ve read. But research has always felt like such a pain. I recognize in myself a tendency towards procrastination and, to be blunt, laziness. Research requires time. And time is something I can be so stingy with. I love to spend my time reading books for pleasure. Books that make me sigh and laugh out loud and turn the pages greedily. And then I like to lie across my bed and feel the characters. Then I might want to get up and straighten a corner of my room. I’ll probably be hungry by then, so it’s into the kitchen for a snack or dinner. The point is, I never like getting around to getting started on papers. I can imagine that many people are very like me in this aspect.

But I tell you what. I was in the library yesterday doing some reading for my review of literature (which I must turn in to my thesis committee soon). And boy did I come across some interesting information on one of my favorite poets, Lucille Clifton! I mean, I literally got giddy at the small cubicle at which I was sitting. I grinned and I couldn’t sit still and I “wowed” out loud. It was an exciting moment because I feel such a personal connection with Mrs. Clifton.

And that’s what it comes down to. Following my interests when it comes to academia. That’s what it’s always supposed to have been about, but it doesn’t seem like professors like to remind you of that. The passion somehow seems drained out of education. Certainly the excitement. I’ve only had one professor in the past year who has shown visible excitement about teaching. It’s not that visible excitment is the only kind that exists, but it makes a difference when you want your students to be excited about learning. Why is it that after the fourth grade most teachers feel it’s unecessary to use differentiated voices and accents when reading aloud? Why do they even stop reading aloud? Why does the classroom get quiet and dry and dull? Phooey.

When/if I teach college, I’ll make sure to be just as animated when I read Song of Solomon (Morrison) and Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck) as when I read Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus (Willems). I am going to use accents like when I read Kallaloo: A Caribbean Tale (Gershator). My classroom will be colorful and the students who have jobs and car payments will be required to role play and use color and improvise and create things other than just words on paper. Otherwise, I will be bored, terribly bored. And I will quit or lose my job. No worries though.

For now, I am going to be a student. I’m going to be taking a class called Caribbean Literature, about which I am very, very excited. I think because I read an excerpt of Whole of a Morning Sky by Grace Nichols of Guyana and fell plum in love. But, also because there is such a rich and deep connection across the diaspora. It’s like meeting a cousin you’ve always heard about but never met. So soon I’ll be meeting my West Indian selves in books! Yay!