American Fatalism

 
American Fatalism

The poor in India, suffering much, might say
that fate and fortune are the gods that rule
and when these make decisions and decrees,
the mortals then, who whimper, must accept.

But strangely, here, in these United States,
in New York City, I have found again,
among the teachers in the city schools,
the same acceptance, midst the murmuring.

“That’s how it is.” they say, and so accept
inequities and things so clearly wrong
for those they teach and also for themselves,
their foreheads should be tattooed with this phrase.

So each must earn the paycheck. This we know.
But so might soldiers say – and those, who brought
their prisoners to be gassed in Europe’s hells.
The same obedience – and the same excuse…

But soldiers suffer consequences worse
than teachers who, in open, disagree.
To tell their bosses, what is right and wrong,
they still decline.  The sad results, we see.

It’s more than that.  As wave on wave, sans sense,
are breaking down the fragments that remain
of reason and of decency, we hear
a mantra new. “That’s how it’s going to be.”

So snake-oils, by the priests of Mammon blessed,
by merchants marketed, are now purveyed.
And teachers make their students swallow it.
For we are workers, doing as we’re told...

Indeed, the factories that pass for schools,
that look like jails, in which we do our years,
as students do, were never built to be
the places where we learned to reason free.

But since they’re all that still is left of that
which humans had, when most had villages –
it’s time perhaps, to set the prisoners free –
so schools admit the light and hope again.

A simple thing – to say, to bosses, “No.
this isn't right.” – to say it softly, then
to say it loudly, once again – and yes,
not just alone – but in that chorus free…

There’s still a choice – to walk upon the path
on which we’re set, avoiding present pain –
or else to pause and choose the path that’s right,
before we enter more in hell again.

So do not say, “That’s how it is.” But say,
“That’s how it shouldn't be.” And do not say,
“That’s how it’s going to be.” But firmly say,
“That’s how we’re going to make it be.” instead.

We each can work until we’re worked to death
or find the many ways to seem to work,
while cutting corners. Or we each can say,
“We’ll do the work, but only what makes sense.”

No parent should be forced to do what’s wrong
for children that they've birthed and reared. So too,
no teacher should be forced to do what’s wrong
for students they've been trusted with to teach.

And if we lack the vision, ethics, guts,
to say this loud, to see, to judge for selves,
not things that others do, but we ourselves,
and then to act, what hope – and why complain?

When asked to dig the graves in which we’ll lie,
we either can comply or not.  To say
that’s there’s a middle way is nonsense, yet
we see the teachers shrug as they obey.

Our paychecks and our pensions – surely these
are things we work for.  Let’s admit that both
depend on what we all, in tandem, do
or not.  Marauders long have breached the gates.
 
2015 March 28th, Sat., 6 am
Brooklyn, New York
   

To Fight or Live the Lie

  
To Fight or Live the Lie
  
When among the ones of narrow vision,
It’s better not to tell them all you see.
When among the insincere, your own
Sincerity should also hidden be.
   
And when you find, around you, hardened hearts,
It might be wise to shield your kindness then.
For sadly, sight and diligence and heart
Are often scorned by women and by men.
 
Among the simpler folk, less cynical,
You still will find the treasured virtues old.
But in the places where it’s dog-eat-dog,
The shameless shysters rule, with bullies bold.
  
Beware such places – and avoid these types,
If you’re the remnant kind that still is nice – 
For if you cannot play their game, what then?
I wish that I could offer you advice.
 
The world in which we live is difficult,
With separation, maiming, poverty –
With famines, floods, with ailment, age and death.
But then there’s evil – and there’s property.
 
The wars we see around the world and here,
With weapons both of armaments and words –
They all derive from human illnesses
That turn what's precious, vital, into turds.
 
We mortals can endure what Nature wreaks,
For we are born for that.  We struggle, die –
Or live to mourn – and yet, in time, to smile.
But we’re not built to fight or live the lie.
 
For you could argue, state your facts and more.
What use is it, against the lies imposed?
The more you work, the more you try, you’ll find
Yourself entrapped, when eyes and hearts are closed.
 
For circumstance can alter even those
Of disposition kinder, who reflect –
But in their office, as so many do,
To those "above" them tend to genuflect.
  
Do they believe the things that they enforce –
The ones who’ve clearly chosen to obey?
Perhaps they do.  Forgive them, if you can,
And quietly go upon your chosen way.
 
The hierarchies they climb imprison all.
There’s time for talk – and time to simply be.
Avoid the places where the falsehoods reign
And shun the ones who simply will not see.
 
But if you find yourself in such a place, what then?
Observe the ones around you. Will they fight?
If so, then work to rally them. If not,
Prepare, my friend, for serfdom – or for flight.
   
2014 December 22nd, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Madness in the Schools

    
The Madness in the Schools
 
I could write of global madness till the dread one came for me,
And those who read my ramblings still might never understand.
So let me write of local things – of what I saw and heard
And what I did or couldn’t do – and not of matters grand.
 
I ‘d read when I was young:  a madman thinks that all around
Are mad – and only he alone is sane among the crazed.
And if that truly is the case, I’m surely going mad,
For when I see what’s thought as sane, I really am amazed.

I see the school I work in, and I see the teachers smile
Or grimace at the jobs they do.  I hear the students chatter
Or murmur or be quiet and I wonder at it all –
For few or none are asking, “What we’re doing – does it matter?”

I see the bathrooms locked, except for portions of the day.
I find three thousand students sharing bathrooms four at most,
And two of them are tiny, while the other two, I note,
Are mostly locked.  And yet, about this school, we often boast.

The senior teachers told me, when I started on a subject,
“There isn’t time to teach this.  We must hurry, hurry, speed!”
I taught it for a good two years, and hurried, like they said.
But then – a period chopped, a week – and all was hell, indeed!
 
“A period less a week translates to two months less a year!
So how are we to cover what we earlier barely could?”
They shrugged and said, “That’s how it is.” It seemed they didn’t hear.
But I’ve been lost and struggling since.  Complaining did no good.

I’d found the students from abroad had less of attitudes
That irked. They tried to do their work – and treated me as human.
And so I’d asked for them again – but then I found a flood
Of those with English zero – and a task that was inhuman.

“A science is a language that is specialized and yet
Relies, for understanding, on a language that is shared.
So how am I to teach it, and how are they to learn?”
I asked the ones around me – and wondered if they cared.   
   
I hurried still but also slowed.  I annotated texts,
I simplified the language and I used an online tool
To make translations – poor, but still enough to wake the dazed.
I worked and worked – but more and more, I felt I was a fool.
  
“What matters is what ‘they’ will see, on entering your room –
The ones who matter in our world, the ones who oversee us.
They’ll judge you on their ‘rubrics’.  And there still remains the test.
So do, what all are doing.  Quit with all your useless fuss.”
 
This is what the teachers say – and even might believe in.
I’ve painted with a brush that’s wide, but painted the consensus.
And when we’re all reduced to this – or are, by nature, gifted
To teach and learn at lightning speed, then who can slow or trip us?
 
And much, much more I could describe – and only what I’ve seen
And heard and done while at the school, and only what’s of late…
The mind attempts to do the task it’s given.  It succeeds
Or not.  And some accept what comes – as destiny or fate…
 
But surely there are things that we as humans understand –
What can’t be done or can?  And surely, in a school with kids,
We try to do what’s best for them?  Expediency may rule
In other things.  Should teachers set their students on the skids?
 
I look around and see the younger teachers and the old
Alike survive – in ways I can’t.  Perhaps my brain’s been fried.
Or I perhaps am going mad, while others still are sane.
For what I’d read, when I was young, was surely true and tried…

We’re told to teach in ways that seem impossible – and yet,
Behold – the "master-teachers" teach, and gods are satisfied!
Go visit in their classrooms and you’ll see, upon their walls,
The marvels that their kids have done.  They should be deified…
 
2014 November 8th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Thugs and Crooks

  
Thugs and Crooks

You’ve been a model student, and you’ve done what was expected.
You’ve come to class on time and done your homework as required.
Your teacher and your classmates, you have humored and respected,
And while in class, you’ve done your work – and furthermore, enquired.

You’ve asked me questions, seeing that I’m older and a teacher.
And I will try to answer them, as is, indeed, my duty.
But some things, that you ask, are deep.  If only we could reach her,
The goddess, if she knew, might speak, in words of truth and beauty.

But I am just a mortal, who was born, like you and others,
To live my life – to wake and sleep, to work and then to die,
And like yourself and others here, their fathers and their mothers,
And those, whom you might bring to life, I’ll never know the “why”.

I came to my awareness on this planet that we’re on.
I do not know from where I came or why I’m here today.
I haven’t figured where I’ll go or whether I’ll return.
And yet, despite this ignorance, I still have lots to say.

On many things, I can expound, and do so endlessly.
I went to school and read in books, and even paused to think.
So I can tell you of the earth, the heavens and the sea,
And how it is that icebergs float – but ships that hit them sink.

And though I wasn’t there and so it all could just be fiction,
I still can tell you tales of times of very long ago.
I’ll even speak of what will be, when you and I are gone,
And tell you why you need, at times, to say to others, “No.”

So sit right there and listen – when you’ve finished with your notes.
And I will tell you what I know – and you can ask me more.
And I may ask you questions too, to write below those notes,
And you can tell me what you know – and question even more.

But do excuse my ignorance, on all that really matters.
They didn’t teach that at my school, it isn’t in the books.
And that is why, I cannot, truly, give you all the reasons
That schools and all the rest are often run by thugs and crooks.

2014 August 31st, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Delousing Time

      
Delousing Time

          

So Christmas comes – and brings, to some, relief.

When schools are closed, the teachers then can sleep,

And so indeed can students – quite a few,

Who stayed up nights on all the items due.

And workers, where there’s simply Christmas, might

Enjoy, perhaps, a bit more rest at night.

But sadly, Commerce rules.  As Christmas comes,

Along with carols, hark – the sound of drums!

They’re calling out to shoppers – “Come and buy!

Consume, consume – and never question why!”

And so you'll see the parents, haggard, seek

For gizmos.  Shopping’s not for those who’re weak.

Thanksgiving, once, was a holiday from jobs,

Except for those who cooked for their nabobs.

But now, we see the stores are open wide.

And at their gates – beware, the human tide!  

And so with Christmas.  As the solstice nears

And passes, we’re besieged with nibbling fears.

So Christmas too becomes a time for worry.

The ones who profit never say they’re sorry.

But still, we’re happy, those who teach at schools,

Who’re treated, through their working lives, like fools.

A week or more to rest, to clean the house,

Do catch-up work and also – to delouse…

For though our schools have long been human mills,

They test yet more our patience, souls and wills.

And infestations grow within our minds,

Whose purging now proceeds, as each unwinds.

So Christmas is delousing time for us,

When teachers breathe – and in their instincts trust.

And then, till June, we’ll labor.  Lice will breed –

And on our souls, till summer, bite and feed.

Whoever engineered this servitude,

Should now be blessed with true beatitude.

Let Bloombergs grow yet richer, every day.

“We’ll work yet harder!” grateful workers say.

We labor for our students, yet we ask,
Who profits most from every thankless task?
Our students – or the ones who want them herded?
I'll whisper now...  So tell me, if you heard it.

;-)

2013 December 20^th, Friday

Brooklyn, New York

 Comments are welcome.  Please see below.

 

Departure

 
Departure

She came at the end of the class and the day, and handed me the book I’d given her soon after the start of the term, almost seven months ago.

“But why?” I asked.

“I'm going to New Orleans.” she said—this quiet girl, who had worked these months without complaint—or even word.

Her voice was shaking and her eyes had tears.

“How long, Lan Fang,” I asked, “have you been here?”

“Two years.” she said.

Two years: a language, barely learned; a refuge, here at school, in this far land; a friend or two, perhaps—by chance or earned through effort; and progress—halting, slow—with books like the one that she now was dutifully returning.

How many nights were spent upon that book, deciphering the blur of foreign words?  How few— yet precious—her new friends and teachers...

And now, she would lose them, as she had lost the ones before.

How could I take that book?  Yet take it, I must.

I opened the book and saw another's name, whose visage floated up—a student gone and yet remembered, as a teacher does...

I shook my head and sighed.

 “Your parents too?” I asked.  She nodded yes.

“That’s good.” I said.  “I too will be with you.”

She stood quietly.

“Will you be here on Monday?”

 “No.” she said, and now more tears welled up.  Her voice was faint.

I searched and gave her tissues.  She took one, returned the other, bowed her head and left.

I strode towards the door and called, “Do write!  And let me know.  I will write, for you, a recommendation, when you’re needing one.”
 
She looked at me and slowly walked away.
 
Babui / Arjun
2012  March 23rd, Friday
(changed to prose form on 2015 Dec. 14th, Mon.)
Brooklyn
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Please see also:  Departure-II