So when I moved to Philly, I went through this phase where I was convinced that being a real artist meant that I had to have a website. Never mind that I all I can do with HTML is, well, spell HTML. Nor do I know how to use any web-page-creation type software. But I'm like, hey, I have some bootleg Dreamweaver on my computer from a very long time ago. No biggie. How hard can this be? I even bought a Dreamweaver-for-dummies book. But then I got frustrated (how the hell am I supposed to make something when I can't touch it?), I finally got this sweet new teaching job with this sweet arts non-profit (thank god, now I have purpose in my life beyond decorating the special board and garnishing slabs of dead baby cows at the Beast (that's what I call my restaurant)), and then I realized that in order to show work on a website, I have to have work.
I'll save the spastic ruminations on my creative constipation for another time. For now, just to clarify: I am a contract employee teaching a T/TH after-school arts program in a downtown office of an organization whose mission is to empower young women. As you might guess, all my students are girls. The ones I've met so far are some loud and sassy 14/15 yr. olds.
Tuesday was my first day. I was somewhere beyond nervous. If you got one of those pathetic phone calls, sorry about that. It was bad. Even after I had stopped second guessing my lesson plan, I was getting the sweats about what to wear. I had no control over my adrenalin. It was weird because I had already sort of met some of the girls. I had been on-site to talk with the retiring teacher, check out the supply closet, meet the social workers, etc etc, and ended up getting introduced to all the girls who happened to be there. We did a quick "around-the-circle" session. Most girls did the whole "My name ________," followed by a glare of some sort, and capped with a very nice and stony silence. Not to be intimidated, the three who rejected the mold included: "My name X and you seem aight. Maybe I'll come back" (she hasn't yet); "I'm Y and you have nice eyes" (that's right, try and butter me up); and last, but certainly not least, "My name Z and I'm gay" (just so you know how it sounded, her name also rhymes with 'gay'). I made the snap decision that being like "My name is Emily and I'm also gay" might be a bit too much disclosure for first contact, so I stuck with something much more lame and forgettable.
So anyways, week one is over. We wrote some poetry and made some collaged picture frames out of trash (not the slimy kind, just safe cardboard and fabric scraps and wood and random things like that). I learned a few things this week.
1.) I am a teacher, not a babysitter. It is not my job to do whatever they want, whenever they want it. The reality is that most of them have been in school all day before coming downtown (they come from 3:30-7:30 everyday for academic enrichment, dinner and some type of class) - so they are already tired. Technically they are supposed to come everyday, but as far as I can tell there is little way to enforce attendance. So I'm going to start from the basis that showing up counts as a victory, and everything they do after that is one more step towards another victory. There are usually at least two social workers in the room with me at all times, and it's in our agreement that discipline is their territory and art-ness is mine. We've already talked about participation, but at the end of the day - it's their choice.
2.) Teaching alone is harder than co-teaching. I think. I miss the constant give and take and the creative escalation.
3.) South African and American young people are different. This is painfully obvious. But only after an enlightening conversation with Nic. This is a different group of kids, a different context. It isn't fair to me or them to constantly compare them to people they've never met and most likely will never meet. My expectations and the way I evaluate success have to grow organically from this experience. I don't think transplanting is a good idea here.
4.) Being scared is only going to make my job harder.
Turnout was really low this week - only four of the same girls were in class both days. And yet, I'm happier than I've been in a while. I have spent all my spare time this week collecting trash, trying to find my public library branch, and thinking up art projects, as opposed to plowing through season after season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And the high points are brilliant.
On Thursday, we're all sitting around, making messes and building stuff. B.G. is trying to cut some cardboard - but she used a pair of scissors that cut in a squiggle, not a line. She throws the scissors on the table, exclaiming, very loudly: "Maaaaaaan, these scissors don't cut straight. I can't even cut straight." Diva, sitting to her left, says, without missing a beat or stopping her own decimation of a Corn Flakes box: "Girrrrrrrl, that's 'cause you ain't straight." Which led right into a highly energetic conversation of why it's OK to be gay but not bisexual. The gospel according to B.G. and Twin:
"You just gotta try it with a boy and a girl and see which one you like betta."
"Yea, that's right. You gotta choose. My momma says those bisexuals are greedy.""Mmm hmm. That's exactly right."
Right.
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