What is important

28/03

What is important

Remembering what is important is important. Sometimes we lose track of the big picture, the point of it all, the reason we do the things we do. It’s important to remember. And to remind each other. Because when things get hard, or tiring, or discouraging, or just plain painful, it is easy to forget and to give up. And then nothing can happen, nothing at all, if we lose sight of what’s important.

Staying true to what’s important is important. And it’s hard to do. I feel like sometimes the world and everyone in it is actually trying to make you forget – it bombards you and assaults you and throws nasty spikey things at you until you can’t stand it anymore and you’re ready to just curl up and sleep into numb oblivion.

That’s when we have to remember what’s important. We have to dodge, and throw back, and sometimes just let things hit us. Because if we curl up and sleep our dreams will not be of things that are important. They will be of nothing. And then, hope is gone.

***

I wrote this as a free write with my AS Language class today. It has been a long, hard term. Perhaps the hardest in my short teaching career. No doubt there will be harder ones (happy thought) but my some of core beliefs of how I should relate to students and what it means to be a teacher – and the limits and borders of that – have been deeply shaken. I feel so drained and battered. And I needed the truth of today’s free write. I need to remind myself what’s important.

What is important:

·         my students & their well-being

·         the truth & telling it when necessary

·         justice & making things better

·         safe spaces & allowing voices to be heard, safely

·         love

Rebirth/Resolutions

Rebirth/Resolutions

                                           

The topic for writing group this week:

rebirth/resolutions

Finally! something positive

Something with hope

Something not “murder”.

I spend the week mulling

waiting for some flash of

inspiration

brilliance to impress

them all.

Ideas of threads,

storylines, clever lines of poetry

Flit around like the commonly

picked up and discarded resolutions

of new years

Exercise more/Eat less/Give up

alcohol/coffee/chocolate

      ***

Late to lunch one day

Driving madly in the pouring rain

Pondering rebirth/resolutions

Sending an “I’m late again!” text

I round the bend

Out of the corner of my eye

A man, a boy really,

Glances around

At the suitcase he is pulling

That is soaking up the water

That is coming in sheets

Over his backpack

Running off his head

Filling the puddle he is wading through.

200 metres down the road I imagine myself

Stopping

Picking him up

Imagine the grateful look

The seats absorbing some of the cold water

Off his body

His suitcase

Imagine

Helping

But I was late

again

My noble imaginings were just that

 (only without reality one has to

question the nobility)

Ten minutes later

Ordering my camembert sandwich

Sipping my filter coffee

Boy with the suitcase

Forgotten

Noble imaginings

Gone

In my privileged

Car windows up

Camembert eating

Existence

It feels wrong to think of

to write

clichéd poetry

--that will be discussed over cappuccinos

and Danish pastries at Cork road--

about

rebirth/resolutions

When so many

Dragging suitcases

Through Zimbabwe’s rain storms

Cannot.

"Dear student, as you leave this place" 2013

A poem for this year's Upper 6 leavers.

Dear student, as you leave this place

Allow me to send

you off

with some thoughts,

hopes, and dreams,

I have for you.

                    

I have seen

and heard

and felt

your pain, your joy.

You have brought me

tears and laughter.

From the depths of where you have come from

what you have known

here

May you know

now and always

that within you

is power--

power to determine, to choose

who you will be

who you will let others be

Be peace

Be strength

Be grace

Be love

And let others be

peace  --  strength  --  grace  --   love.

I hope

as you go out into the

big wide

that you, dear student,

never forget the

power of words

to determine

you,

to determine

others.

Do not let

anyone use this power over you

-without your permission-

again.

I hope that words will

instead

move and inspire

you

to be more

than you ever thought possible

I hope you use words to

instead

move and inspire

someone else

to be more

than they ever thought possible.

                                      

I dream for you

the best that I have seen in you.

May you find

the good

the truth

in others, in yourself,

in this place.

And when you do, dear student,

Cling!

Hold fast!

With---all---your---strength.

May you know

everyday

everywhere you go

that

you

can

be

more.

Miss Bell, October 2013

Dear lower-going-on-upper 2013

Written a few weeks ago for a very, unusually special Lower-6 (Junior/Grade 12) class.

Dear lower-going-on-upper

I’ll have you know

I only write poetry when I

care

about something

a lot.

But I do-

about you.

So, here it is.

I cherish the privilege of

standing in front of you.

I’m grateful each time

you let me glimpse

the reality of your world.

I understand the honour of that gift

and hold it with two hands

in awe.

When I think of you

I have so much hope,

dear lower-going-on-upper sixes

You can be so much

do so much

--dare I hope it—

change so much.

I hope, too,

the light never leaves your eyes

            or your heart

Don’t let anyone

            no matter how nice

            or mean

Take it from you.

I hope, too,

you remember

how you felt

here

and out there

and that you protect

the best in yourself and

in those yours to protect.

Outside will try to take

your joy

your love

your humanity --

Hold tight,

dear lower-going-on-upper.

Hold for dear life

Refuse to let go--

Sing, love, give,

And

dance

in the rain.

Miss Bell, October 2013

I am in love

I'm coming back... slowly...

2 October

At the very beginning of my student teaching, when I had actually got to the all-important teaching part that the previous three years of assignments, readings and class lectures had led up to, I remember sending a letter to my parents with the subject: “I’m in love”. My poor mother heart’s leapt for a minute and then she read my letter (and I’m sure her loving heart leapt again, but alas, not for the original reasons). I was in love with teaching. There was no other way to describe it – I had found the place that I am most happy and comfortable: at the front of the classroom.

I still love the act of teaching; I have begun to see its broken, painful, soul-wearying parts since I have started doing it “for real”. But I am still in love with it.

However, I love students more. I think about my classes (and yes, it is true, there are ones I… like more) and I have this feeling of utter joy and love welling in me.

I sat with a student yesterday, trying to mend a messy relationship (that had resulted in a very difficult lesson to teach last Tuesday) and told her that relationships were the most important part of my teaching, of my life. And they are. An incredibly wise man once told our student teaching class to find other things in our life besides our teaching. This troubled me for some time. I eventually took my worries to him. What if I never have anything else? What if teaching is my all, my life? And he said that was okay.

I’m listening to a song right now by Matt Maher, “Christ is Risen”. The chorus has two beautiful lines:

Come awake, come awake,

Come and rise up from the grave!

Cue Inner Dad’s Voice

Now, now, Beks, don’t take things out of context. You can’t apply these words randomly to teaching. They are not talking about teaching but about—

Yes, Inner Dad’s Voice, that’s true (I take delight in interrupting Inner Dad’s Voice). It is about Christ having risen. But, you see, that is the point.

(Despite not having a face, Inner Dad’s Voice manages to look skeptical)

I look at my students, at the ones who make me laugh in so many way, who make me cry for so many reasons, and I see God. He is there. I recently had a very difficult situation with a large group of students who shook my view of them and humanity and goodness and evil (still processing that blog). But, what I realized, through a lot of thinking and talking, is that within each one of these precious young people is, yes, evil, but also, the image of God. An image that is capable of the most incredible beauty. This is a broken place, we are broken people, but there are glimpses of the kingdom in the faces of my students and the feeling of deep, deep love that I have for them.

And so, Inner Dad’s Voice, the whole chorus rings true.

Christ is risen from the dead

Trampling over death by death

Come awake, come awake,

Come and rise up from the grave!

            Christ is risen from the dead

            We are one with Him again

Come awake, come awake,

Come and rise up from the grave!

This joy and love is straight from Him because He has risen and I am awake and so in love with His students.

From Segregation to Integration: a History of Africa

I secretly wrote a poem for the schools Allied Arts competition (I assure you I didn't cheat and enter a high school competition - the Sixth Form category is an "Open" section as well.) And I won the category. Impressive? - not really - my competition was mostly high schoolers (I felt like an impostor at the prize giving sitting with all the cute Grade one and dignified Form Four winners - it made me reconsider ever entering again!). But I thought I would share it as, though highly personal, it is now public.

From Segregation to Integration: a History of Africa

Accounts--Permanent Residents—TEP—Students

The signs divide us deftly:

Four rows that ebb and wane

Like a tide not sure if it’s coming or going.

We shuffle forward, mute, dumb.

Mindlessly drawn closer and closer,

Packed, desperate, like cattle to be dipped:

The dirty white walls suck our humanity.

We are the same here:

Powerless.

The fate of our state in this place

In the hands that hold the stamps

that give recognition, permission,

Connection.

In the Permanent Resident line I stand behind

A Chinese man

A black woman

Two black men

What history ties them here,

Leaves them, like me, with

“ALIEN” in bold blue block-letters on their IDs?

At the front of the TEP queue

a European – (the real kind, from Europe) –

argues: “I brought it last week. They told me not to worry about the stamp.”

A black woman comes up behind me:

“I’m behind you.”

She joins the student queue.

Mr Patel is called to the front

He leaves, stamped papers in hand,

Satisfaction on his brown face.

The cheerful guard escorts a lady and her baby to the front.

Explanations to the next in line:

(slightly ironic) respect for a mother.

An American

(here long enough to ignore “No cellphone” signs

and need another stamp)

is in the TEP queue beside me.

I can feel him

Trying to make eye contact,

Stretching to touch in this sea

of wearying bureaucracy,

Looking for recognition, solidarity,

Connection.

I ignore him.

Our only connection

The colour of our skin

I’m not like him – a foreigner, different--

I’m Zimbabwean, local.

These are my people: we are the same here.

Connection with him will mark me,

Set me apart, make me different.

I avoid his eyes.

The new constitution

says I can vote now,

Apply for citizenship,

For the word ALIEN to be replaced,

For paper proof of the 27-year allegiance of my heart.

            They’re saying you’ll never survive the process.

These are not my people.

I do not belong.

We are not the same.

Leave without my stamp, I can be refused re-entry.

Just red tape/They’ll never really do it/Not even legal, they say.

But they come back every year for their recognition-giving stamp.

I make eye contact with the American. Smile.

Exchange resigned, connecting shrugs.

The truth hurts, but

We are the same.

Both asking for recognition, permission

Connection.

“Welcome to Zimbabwe, friend.

Apartheid is dead.

Segregation reigns supreme.”

Rebekah Bell

July 2013

Feeling full and grateful

I am feeling very full lately. I shouldn’t be. I have piles of marking that keep growing, no matter how much I work on them. Several of my classes are not where I want them to be at this point in the year: mocks (mock examinations) are in four weeks time and there is much to be covered before then. And yet, I feel full.

I am so grateful to be part of students’ lives. I love the act of teaching; I love imparting knowledge; I love introducing students to the joys of English. But I feel ALIVE when there are relationships that flow out of the position I hold as a teacher. Recently, this has been brought home to me in a powerful way.

Last Tuesday I had an Upper Six Literature class for two periods. I had planned a poetry scansion lesson; I had a counseling session. Feeling very overwhelmed and pressured by school and various issues they all just needed someone to listen and I happened to be there.

Following this I’ve had several other one on one conversations with students about problems/questions/worries. Teenagers are often very guarded about who they let into their world. You have to be invited usually and there are rules. I am always so grateful and feel so privileged when I am invited in. On Thursday I posted a “De-stress with Miss Bell after lunch open to all the Upper Sixes” notice on their board on a little post-it note. I didn’t expect many, if any, to give up their “rest” before afternoon lessons but about a third of the year group arrived. I had planned to make origami butterflies but they just wanted someone to listen to them.

I am not happy they are struggling with so much at the moment but I’ve realized that it takes something like this to open a door that is sometimes carefully locked. And perhaps I’ve realized too that maybe I just think the door is locked. Maybe it’s just closed and waiting for someone to knock, or simply to open it. Maybe we’d all be invited into the lives of young people much more readily than we think if we just walked in and showed up, ready to accept whatever is on the inside.

Either way, right now, I’m blessed and privileged and so full to be here.